by Ian G Moore
‘Is it because of tourists?’ shouted a Japanese man excitedly, before laughing at what he’d said and looking around for approval.
‘Ha ha!’ laughed Blanchard theatrically, buying himself a second of time. ‘It’s always great to have the same people come back, Mr Kinoshita. This is twice in a week.’
‘What the hell is going on now?’ Aubret’s English was being stretched to the limit, as was his patience.
‘He clearly has regulars and they’re pre-empting his jokes,’ said Lombard, interested in the guide’s response.’ Nothing seems to faze him though. He’s very slick.’
‘I was playing with you before Mr Kinoshita, I didn’t want to upset our hosts…’ continued the guide, speaking slowly and thinking on his feet. Lombard whispered a translation quietly to Aubret, who visibly tensed. ‘The real reason is that there was a strike on.’
‘I understood that.’ Aubret said, again tensing, like a tough guy in a bar who feels slighted.
The group, an essentially disparate one made up of mainly Americans and British but with a smattering of Italians, Germans, Japanese and a few Antipodeans applauded.
‘Yes,’ the seamless Blanchard continued. ‘The French Farriers, that’s blacksmith or Schmied,’ he made a point of staring at the still embarrassed German tourist while lingering unnecessarily, cruelly almost, on the German word. ‘The French Farrier Union was on strike, so in order to rest their horses, they stopped at every village and town, farmhouse, gatepost and tree along the way; the result was that Joan of Arc practically invented tourism here.’ There was another smattering of laughter.
Lombard had been expecting better. It was a rather flat ending in his opinion. Surely there was a wealth of better material than that, without the need to push the obvious buttons. It was the speed of the response that mattered presumably. He’d seen that in law often enough, sometimes all you have to do is show the ability to think quickly on your feet to win an argument, what you actually say matters less.
‘You can see how he might make enemies for himself though,’ Aubret said quietly.
‘I suppose so.’ Lombard could see the point but had little sympathy with it. He’d never believed in anything strongly enough or felt part of anything deeply enough to take offence, neither religion or nationality. He was always slightly bemused when others did so.
‘OK, ladies and gentlemen, Mesdames et Messieurs, meine Damen und Herren, signore e signori, dames en heren, tadaima shokun, we will…’ Blanchard was showing off now.
‘And in Danish?’ Said another very tall man, laughing to his group.
‘Damoer og here,’ said the guide quickly, this time garnering some applause. ‘Take a walk around the market here, and we will meet again in thirty minutes, dreizehn minute, in front of the church. Okay? Enjoy! Tanoshimu, godere.’ Most of the group drifted off into the market, except for the British and the Australians, who moved towards the bar.
Lombard and Aubret approached Blanchard, trying not to look official as they did so, but inevitably failing. The American was kneeling down repacking his worn black rucksack.
‘Monsieur Blanchard?’ asked Aubret with a slight menace. Two words, as usual, being all he needed to show what he thought of a person.
Blanchard looked up. ‘Ah, my new customers! I saw you standing at the back.’ If he’d detected any dislike in Aubret’s voice, he didn’t let it show. ‘Come to pay for the remainder of the tour, or are you just sticking with the one free performance?’ His reply, in less than perfect French, didn’t lack confidence and came via a disarming smile.
‘We’d like to talk to you, Monsieur.’ Lombard, deciding to step in before they annoyed each other too much, spoke in English. ‘If you can spare us a few minutes.’
‘Sure. No problem. You’re cops, right?’ Blanchard, standing up and putting his rucksack on his back, made no reference to Lombard’s switch to his own language. ‘Mark Blanchard.’ He held out his hand and the introductions were made.
It was clear to Lombard why his tours were popular. The young man had a warmth and an easy-going charm that relaxed people. An open, almost innocent face and typically, a toothy smile. Whether his ‘Hey, have a nice day’ manner was sincere or not didn’t matter, it worked. Even Aubret, he noticed, had let his hackles go down a bit.
‘First things first, Monsieur Blanchard. Is this your hat?’ Lombard had kept the hat, albeit now squashed, tucked discretely under his arm but now held it out for Blanchard to inspect.
The American nodded and then looked them both in the eye. ‘It sure looks like it. I have dozens of them though, you can buy them anywhere. Here at the market even, but yeah, it could be mine.’ He repeated the last sentence in French, slightly patronising Aubret as he did so.
‘Is there any way to tell for sure?’ Aubret replied coldly.
‘You tell me,’ Blanchard replied quickly, this time in English and addressing Lombard ‘I haven’t had my name written on my clothes since the first grade.’ He immediately regretted the flippancy and sought quickly to make amends. ‘The truth is, it probably is my hat. I lost one here last week. I was standing on the bridge, I can’t remember what I was talking about now… anyway, it blew off. The wind just came from nowhere. I even got a round of applause! Can you believe that. Like I was adding special effects! More than that, I got extra tips, to go buy a new hat!’ He laughed to himself. Life was easy for Mark Blanchard. ‘I thought it had blown into the river, but maybe not.’ Neither Lombard nor Aubret said anything. ‘Is that where it was found, by the river?’
‘It may have been initially.’ Lombard said, not meaning to be cryptic. ‘We found it next to the body of Émile Lagasse early this morning.’ Blanchard immediately gave the hat back and gave a low whistle.
‘Shall we walk around a bit?’ Lombard suggested, breaking the ensuing silence, ‘It looks a little less formal that way, and probably more private.’ He’d always had the theory that movement sometimes helped with questioning. A stifling, windowless room had its uses, obviously, but this wasn’t an interrogation and he didn’t want them to become the focus of attention. He didn’t want it to look official. Also, you were less likely to be overheard if you were moving about in a crowd.
They began to move off, but Aubret hung back as Texeira approached and whispered something in his ear. ‘I’ll see you later,’ was his terse parting shot, though it was unclear who it was meant for.
‘OK, sure. I got some stuff to buy anyway.’ Blanchard looked a little relieved that Aubret wouldn’t be joining them. They set off, Blanchard slightly in front as they walked into the market itself.
It was by now approaching midday and although the place was still very busy some of the stallholders were starting to pack up. ‘Did you know Monsieur Lagasse?’ Lombard asked, his quiet voice still somehow easily heard over the general noise.
‘Not really.’ The American’s voice was slightly more raised as he spoke over his shoulder. He stopped at a fruit stall and felt some flat peaches. ‘I mean, I knew him obviously, I brought him business. Not that he seemed to like being busy…’ He broke off to ask for two peaches and a slice of watermelon from the stall holder.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well. Put it this way, if I owned a bar and the bar was full, that’d make me happy. But it seemed to stress the guy out.’
They carried on through the market and talked about Blanchard’s background, how long had he been in France? Why had he stayed? Was his work as a tour guide and a busker enough to live on? All of which he answered honestly and to the point, though Lombard made a mental note to check his financial story and ‘the rich old man back home’. Lombard enjoyed the young man’s company, it was easy-going and light, a bit like his life probably. It had no ties and few responsibilities. Lombard had few of either himself, but Blanchard’s seemed so uncluttered compared to his own. He thought about his own bar again, and it struck him that maybe it was too late for that anyway. The more baggage you have, the harder it is to move abou
t; the older you get, the less free you can actually be. He was jealous of Mark Blanchard, envious of his youthful possibilities.
‘Do you do many of these tours?’ he asked, trying to snap himself back into the present.
‘I do about three a week, not all here; more than three and it would feel like a job.’ He asked for a demi-baguette at a small, deliciously smelling mobile boulangerie. ‘This one pays the best though.’
‘Really? I’d have thought the bigger towns would. Surely the Thursday market in Chinon would be more lucrative?’
‘It’s certainly easier to find material in Chinon, that’s for sure! There’s more real history I can play with there.’ He laughed, handed over the fifty centimes for the bread, and didn’t wait for his change. He turned to Lombard. ‘But I make more money here.’
Lombard sensed he was building up to something, almost playing him like he was one of his crowds of tourists. ‘How come?’ He asked, taking the hint.
Blanchard raised his eyebrows to show the twinkle in his eyes and an almost greedy grin. ‘Because here Monsieur…’ he theatrically took a bite out of one of his peaches, ‘…the mairie pay me a very nice little retainer.’ He wiped the juice from his chin. ‘Sweet eh?’
Chapter 18
The fishmonger threw his tray of leftover ice towards the central drain as he always did. Only when it was too late did he notice Lombard sitting on the bench, enjoying the shade of the Lime tree. The ice and fishy water just splashed over the front of his brown leather shoes.
‘I’m so sorry Monsieur. I didn’t see you there.’ The fishmonger was aghast, but Lombard waved the apology away and just smiled gently back. He was watching the market being noisily dismantled, like scaffolding taken down from a restoration project. He always marvelled at the speed and efficiency of things like this. He had no aptitude for mechanics himself, nor was good with his hands in any way. Madeleine had often joked that if opposable thumbs were a sign of man’s advantage over less evolved creatures, Lombard was the missing link. When they’d first bought the shop he had offered to put some shelves up for the smaller trinkets and Madeleine had reluctantly agreed, admiring his willingness to get involved but, quite vocally, dreading the inevitable outcome.
‘They’re not straight, chou,’ she’d said, wary of hurting his feelings but unable to hold back anyway.
‘No,’ he’d explained confidently, placing a spirit level on the top shelf. ‘The walls are uneven.’ The bracket holding the shelf had immediately come away from its shallow moorings until it rested precariously on the shelf below, which was of course also now showing signs of distress.
He had no skill in that department and so, almost innocently, admired those that did. Yesterday evening this had been a car park, a tree lined car park the like of which you’d find in almost every small French town, then the ‘No Parking’ signs would go up. Following that, just before dawn, the stallholders had arrived quietly to build their market. Within an hour a temporary village had sprung up, ready for the early shoppers.
‘Markets aren’t what they were,’ was the almost daily complaint heard in the markets themselves now, and Lombard got their point, ‘They’re not what they used to be.’ He wasn’t against change, but the markets were one of the things he held dear about France, partly because they weren’t that different to the markets he’d been used to as a lad in Dorset. They connected his two lives.
They were changing, though. Once this would have been almost entirely about food and produce: dozens of competing charcuteries, mobile boulangers and fruit and vegetable stalls. There would be a few fresh fish stalls too, local cheese producers and the inevitable vignerons, all of them offering a free taster. He admired the spirit of the ‘market’ community, they all knew each other and would build and deconstruct their temporary structures almost every day of the week in different towns in the area. The commercial competition would be fierce but friendly, a draining profession and a cruel one in the icy, almost deserted winter months. Vital though to the personality of the area.
The numbers were thinned now, not just today but over the years. The life was too hard, too economically fragile. The usual players of any French market were still just about there, providing a weekly fixed point for an ageing local population. Old men in their ‘uniform’ of blue working trousers, many of them hunchbacked. The women, with their traditional wicker baskets, expertly felt the fruit for freshness and coquettishly giggled at the ribaldry of the coarse market stallholders. But the traditional stallholders were slowly disappearing, replaced by cheap clothes sellers and their garish leisurewear. Or salesmen trying to sell conservatories, jewellery stalls whose wares lost their lustre even before the market finished.
There was a party atmosphere now though, as people finished work for the day. It might only be midday, the church bells had just chimed, but some of them, the fishmongers, the bakers and the fresh produce sellers had already been at it since the very early hours. There was an air of contentment as they worked, a familiar routine under sunny skies; nobody shouting instructions or orders, everybody knowing exactly what they needed to do; the same thing they did yesterday, the same thing they would do tomorrow. Lombard was fascinated by it, even jealous of it, the mundanity seemed oddly comforting. I’m jealous of that too now, am I? He thought, chiding himself. I’m jealous of youthful freedom and day-to-day routine at the same time. What do I want? He rubbed his hands vigorously through his hair, hoping that would clear his thoughts.
A shadow fell over him briefly and Aubret sat heavily next to him. ‘Here,’ he handed over a small paper bag that had grease spots on it, ‘I bought you this.’
Lombard opened it up and peered inside. It was a Gallette de Pommes de terre and he tore a corner off it gratefully, the crumbly pastry staying largely in the bag. It took skill and experience to eat one of these without making a mess.
‘I hadn’t realised how hungry I was. Thank you.’
‘Leveque said how you were more interested in feeding the cat than yourself.’ Lombard stopped chewing for a second. Leveque couldn’t have told you that, he thought, but Llhermanault could have. It wasn’t in the least surprising that he was being watched closely, but it still felt slightly humiliating. At least Aubret seemed to be softening a bit; clearly his hunch about the hat proving correct had won him bonus points.
‘I’m grateful to you both,’ Lombard managed between mouthfuls, using the break to quell his anger. He ate in silence for a few minutes. ‘What do you think of our young American?’ Lombard screwed up the now empty paper bag and tried to throw it into a nearby bin. He missed and Aubret got up to tidy it away properly.
‘Not much. I don’t like what he does, but is that enough to make him a target? Assuming the killer saw the hat and thought it was him.’
‘I agree. It’s weak. The hat might mean nothing. Lagasse might have been the target all along.’
‘Revenge for Singleterry? Another killer?’
‘Just a thought. And it needn’t be a different killer, if division is the idea. Just a thought.’ One he didn’t actually believe in, but was just shooting out theories to see how high up the investigative food chain they travelled. They fell silent again, though Lombard could feel Aubret had something to say. He was just biding his time.
‘It’s heaving in the bar.’ The Commissaire sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes. ‘That place’ll make a fortune today.’
‘Apparently Émile Lagasse would have hated that.’
‘It’s not much consolation for his wife either.’ Here it comes, thought Lombard. ‘She didn’t even want it open. Dead against it in fact. If that’s the right way of putting it.’
‘So why is it open then?’
‘She was overruled,’ he paused for effect, ‘by the owner.’
Lombard’s eyes widened. ‘Go on…’
‘The place is owned by Marquand. The Lagasses draw a wage that’s all, they even pay rent. So it’s not theirs as such, even though Madame Lagasse is Marquand�
��s sister. He also owns the cinema and the gift shop at the chateau. And a whole load of property.’
Lombard took all this in, nodding slightly as though going through a mental checklist.
‘So between them, our Doctor/Mayor and our entrepreneur, they have this town pretty much carved up then.’
‘Exactly. If they could stand each other they’d make a formidable team.’
‘Oh, she can stand him alright.’ Lombard leant back, and knocked a few crumbs off his jacket.
‘Yep. She’s not hiding her love of Monsieur Marquand, that’s for sure. He’s a cold one, mind.’
‘With her at least.’ Lombard cut himself short as the fishmonger returned with a fresh tray of ice rather than throw it from a distance.
‘Also, there’s the Notaire. He’s been buying up a load of land and houses. He and Marquand are the big local landlords now. Basically, the surviving members of the Comité des Fêtes are doing alright for themselves. They are also, give or take a couple of others, effectively the Conseil Municipal. They own this town. Literally own it. Even the doctor has a part share in the chemist.’
‘Lagasse was on the conseil too, I suppose?’
‘Yes. As is his wife. As is Marquand’s wife, would you believe?’
‘A bedridden councillor?’ Lombard raised his eyebrows. ‘This town is like a fiefdom. Singleterry too?’
‘Yes. He took French nationality because of Brexit, apparently. There was a feeling he wanted to be mayor too.’ Aubret snorted his contempt at the idea.
‘Where did you get all this?’ Lombard was impressed. Aubret may have been sneaking around behind his back, but he was a damn good policeman and one who would certainly follow his own instincts rather than slavishly attach himself to Llhermanault. Lombard knew only too well how straight Aubret could be.
‘It was bar talk mostly. But I’ll check it all out.’