by Ian G Moore
Lombard was a little taken aback. She was a strong woman, that wasn’t in doubt, but she didn’t strike him necessarily as the team-playing, municipal committee type. This was more about provocation, he felt, and was therefore a dangerous game to be playing. If her husband’s death was indeed meant as a warning to the English locals, she could literally be playing with fire. ‘And how did they take this?’ he asked, not giving anything away.
‘Nicolas offered me his full support. I expected that.’
‘And the mayor?’
‘Clotilde said “Good Luck” in a way that meant anything but!’ She laughed again, though there was no joy in her laugh at all.
‘I see. And Monsieur Marquand offered his support while the mayor was still there?’
‘Yes. He likes upsetting Clotilde, but he means it too. Graham talked about becoming mayor, you know? Nicolas was willing to back him, he said.’
His phone started to ring in his pocket and at first he ignored it, but Helen Singleterry had heard it too. It was a signal that their interview, the intimacy of it anyway, was done. He pulled the phone out, it was Aubret. Aubret only ever rang with something important.
‘Yes?’ he snapped. His phone manner was appalling and he knew it. He turned his back on Helen and walked back down the riverbank so that he couldn’t be overheard.
‘We’ve found the car,’ Aubret said bluntly.
‘Where?’
‘At the airport. Where else? Burnt out.’ Aubret sounded annoyed that they hadn’t found it earlier. Where else indeed? thought Lombard. The car park at Tours Airport was free and unwatched, there would be a couple of hundred cars left there at any one time and some had quite obviously been there for years. There was talk of sharpening up the security, especially as it was at an airport and especially as it was partly a military airport too, and moves were being made to make it a paying car park. But inevitably there was an argument over who would pay for the changes and therefore, who would reap the substantial fees. Security is important definitely, but there’s money to be made from fear too.
‘Burnt out?’ He was thinking aloud. ‘Yes, that figures. An English car or French car?’
‘That’s the thing.’ The line started to break up and he couldn’t hear what Aubret said next.
‘You’re cracking up Guy, what’s the thing?’
‘It’s a left hand drive!’ Aubret shouted, ‘But with English plates.’
‘And you’ve traced the plates?’
‘A Mr Hamish Power.’ The line crackled again.
‘What?!’ shouted Lombard. He could hear Aubret sigh heavily at the other end cursing the line, but it wasn’t the line that made Lombard want Aubret to repeat the name.
‘HAMISH POWER!’
‘Hamish Power?!’ Lombard repeated angrily. ‘This is bloody stupid now.’
‘What is?’ Aubret shouted again. ‘
I’m on my way.’ Lombard said and put the phone back in his pocket. He turned round to say goodbye to Helen Singleterry, but she’d already gone and was half up the towpath. She didn’t look back.
Chapter 22
The taxi had dropped him off at the airport within an hour. It was actually less than a ten minute ride, but finding a taxi in rural France, especially within sight of lunchtime, is like asking for the vegetarian option in a small town brasserie. The driver, and presumably owner, of the one-man-band taxi service, made a great show of cancelling other work for the ‘esteemed juge’. Lombard seriously doubted whether there was any cancelling to be done at all, but was happy to play along knowing that sometimes you got more out of people by letting them feel more important than they actually are.
He was now sat in the well-lit bar area at the airport, waiting for Aubret to finish with the forensics team in the car park. He’d taken a brief look at the car in the far corner of the car park but knew it was beyond his expertise so had discreetly retired back to the crowded airport terminal, and the even more crowded bar.
The London flight was expected to land in the next half an hour, so it was full of people excited about reunions, eagerly checking watches and looking at the one small screen. The last call for the turnaround flight had been made and a few reluctant stragglers were making their way to security and what Lombard called the ‘holding pen’. The chattering in the arrivals hall was infectious background noise, like birds on a tree, and it wasn’t just anticipation for the incoming plane. The presence of armed police was to be expected, but there were more than usual and most people couldn’t help notice the activity of Aubret’s team and various other agencies in the car park. Rumour was rife, ably filling in the waiting time.
Aubret arrived and ordered an espresso from the bar, without bothering to wait in line. His orange ‘Police’ armband was good enough for most people to let him through anyway, but the thunderous look on his face would have convinced any waverers not to cross him. He turned away from the bar with a small espresso cup held delicately in his hand, walked heavily to Lombard’s table, scraped the chair back noisily and sat down heavily with fatigue.
Lombard let him gather himself, and then after a few moments in which Aubret managed to spill sugar over most of the table, adding to his dark mood, he leant forward with his hands open. ‘Well?’
Aubret produced his small black notepad. ‘Renault Laguna. Three litre diesel estate. Grey. First registered in 2007. Probably stolen for the purpose, I’ll try and trace when and where.’
‘A car park is a good place to hide a car, how did you find it?’
‘I asked Brosse to keep me informed of anything involving English people. He’s a good man and put the word around. When this happened, English plates, he let me know. I sent Texeira out here, and what’s the first thing he sees?’ He produced a clear bag from inside his leather jacket, ‘Ta da!’ He threw the bag across the table.
It was another straw hat with a band across it.
‘How did it survive the fire?’ Lombard felt a bit stupid. It couldn’t have survived the fire.
‘It was pinned into the ground in front of the car. By a Cross of Lorraine.’ Lombard sighed. ’Somebody’s laying this on a bit thick now, I agree with you. But why?’
Lombard ignored the question for now. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just the ownership documents, which is how we knew who it belonged to so quickly. Oh, and a huge dent in the bonnet, which presumably has bits of Émile Lagasse on it too.’ Lombard had rarely seen the Commissaire this angry in a case before. ‘Forensics aren’t hopeful of much. Maybe something that can connect with Singleterry in the boot? They’ll find the timer or slow fuse that set it to burn, that’s my guess anyway, but not much else. Our killer dumped the car, set the fuse and was well away before it was on fire.’
‘They probably only had to be ten minutes away, and they would be home.’
‘In Saint-Genèse? Quite.’ Aubret fumbled about in his pockets, and then slumped back when he realised he’d forgotten his Gaviscon.
Lombard toyed with the evidence bag, as he had done in Émile’s place the day before. ‘Any idea how long it’s been here?’
‘No-one knows for sure. It’s been parked in the far corner for months, apparently. This car park isn’t checked at all. It’s free, no security. Asking for trouble, that. Anyway, parked here, used when needed and put back maybe? Drive up here with your own car, leave it in the same space and then swap. All done at night when no-one is around.’ He leant forward and said quietly, ‘You know for a military airbase there’s virtually no security.’
Lombard looked around. It’s true, he thought. The fighter planes would have their training sessions around lunchtime and always took priority with the runway. Lombard, on one of his visits ‘home’, had himself been kept waiting on the runway. The commercial flight playing second fiddle to the dozen or so fighters returning from their manoeuvres. But the military site itself was separated just with barbed wire and the occasional passing guard. The adjacent unlit public car park was almost begging for trou
ble.
‘So.’ Aubret slammed another evidence bag on the table, this one containing car documents. ‘Hamish Power? How come you know him?’ he asked impatiently. Lombard had the distinct impression that Aubret had had enough. They were being played. Lombard felt the same way too and had done since the first conversation with Dr Sebourg.
He said nothing and he could tell Aubret was annoyed by this. ‘Why not let me in to your investigation, juge?’ he snarled.
‘It’s more of the same, that’s all. Another layer to the onion, but essentially more of the same.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Aubret leant in again.
‘Hamish Power is quite obviously a made-up name.’
‘Obviously,’ snorted Aubret. ‘I didn’t think our murderer would be dumb enough to leave a paper trail! Who is he, though? What do you mean, layers? Just give me a straight answer.’
The truth was that Lombard was wary of giving Aubret a straight answer, and he didn’t hide it. ‘Well, I say it’s a made-up name, actually it’s a real name but I suspect…’
‘You’re talking in riddles again. Who is Hamish Power? And if it’s not a made up name, where can we find him?’
‘Is there an address on the documents? Somewhere in Scotland, I suspect.’
Aubret eyed him coldly, but there was a mixed look on his face, partly impressed, partly suspicious. ‘Yes. Edinburgh. The address doesn’t exist.’
‘That’s hardly a surprise.’ Lombard avoided eye contact, which gave the impression of diffidence, which it wasn’t. It was shyness. He was about to show off again. ‘His last known address would be here in Tours. But he won’t be there now.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because Monsieur Power has been dead nearly six hundred years.’
Aubret slumped back in his chair, and did so so heavily that it looked like the curved, wooden back might break. He was close to snapping point himself but he chose to close his eyes slowly, and take a deep breath.
‘Come on then,’ he said slowly, ‘let’s hear it.’
Lombard looked down at the table. ‘I had an ensign of a field in which lilies were growing. God was there holding the world with two angels by his sides. It was of white cloth… on it was written Jhesus Maria.’
‘Joan of Arc?’
‘Joan of Arc.’
‘Of course it is.’ Aubret rubbed his eyes, then looked directly at Lombard, challenging him ‘So she was involved in Lagasse’s death then?’
‘It’s yet more superficial Joan of Arc evidence,’ he said sullenly, ‘But yes.’
‘And Hamish Power?’
Lombard took a deep breath. ‘Her standard, her banner, that she carried into battle was made here, in Tours, at a cost of 25 Tournois pounds. Hamish Power was apparently a Scottish painter, living here and known locally, after translation, as Hauves Poulnoir. He painted Joan’s standard, from her own design. The king of Heaven sat on a rainbow on a field of golden lilies. In one hand he holds a globe,’ Lombard picked up the bowl of condiments. ‘And the other was raised in Benediction. Before him Michael and Gabriel are kneeling, each presenting God with a fleur de lys. ‘Jhesus-Maria’ written in gold letters.’
Aubret just looked at him.
‘On the other side, an escutcheon, a field of azure, a silver dove holding a streamer in its beak showing the words, ‘Du par le Roi di ciel’.’
‘Impressive.’ Aubret was trying to be sarcastic, but Lombard knew he was impressed, and felt embarrassed by it.
‘He also made her pennant and banner.’ He couldn’t help himself.
‘Busy man.’ Aubret sensed a dead end, and couldn’t hide his annoyance. ‘And did he own a Renault Laguna?’
‘Doubtful.’
‘Someone’s playing games with us, aren’t they?’
‘Yes.’ Lombard went silent. ‘Look, I’m not doubting all the Joan of Arc stuff is important, of course it is. We’re not being allowed to think otherwise. I’m not dismissive of it, as you seem to think, it’s just I’m not sure it’s the motive. It’s all laid on so thick, like you said.’
‘You’re still convinced it’s hiding something else.’
‘I’m almost, almost sure of it.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes and a curly-haired blonde waitress came to clear their table. The bar was busier now as the London flight’s arrival was minutes away.
‘Could I get another coffee please?’ Asked Aubret, ‘And…?’ Lombard was staring out of the large window. A Ryanair jet was just landing on the tarmac. ‘A small rosé for my colleague. Thank you.’
‘Leaving another hat with the car. Again, it’s so heavy-handed. But somebody wants us in no doubt Blanchard was the target the other night, not Lagasse.’
‘I’ve got Leveque trying to locate him, but he must be out on one of his tours,’ Aubret said, thanking the waitress who returned with their drinks.
‘If it’s meant to be a message,’ Lombard waited for the waitress to leave, ‘what is the message? We’re being given so many signals, and none of them are clear.’
‘Go home English People. I assume.’ Aubret shrugged.
‘Blanchard’s American.’
‘Leave Joan alone, then. Just stay off our territory.’ Lombard gave him a look which said that it was too weak for him, too flimsy.
‘I spoke with Madame Singleterry this morning. She’s thinking of standing for election on the council.’
‘Which makes her a target now too.’ Aubret rolled his eyes.
‘That’s my point, Guy. At the moment almost everyone is a target, and the same people are also suspects. The widow, the businessman with close ties to the English victim, the American who mocks history, the Mayor who’s defending her town or selling out, depending on your point of view. The Notaire who sells to the English. The English girls who knew Singleterry, and may or may not have fallen out with him. And yet all the time we’re finding evidence that points indiscriminately to Joan of Arc, superficially so. Just pointers, like collecting Joan squares on a Joan Monopoly board. There’s no structure to it.’
‘It’s not as simple as creating a divide then?’ Aubret finished his coffee.
‘No. Because I don’t see a divide on national grounds – now, you could argue that maybe I never have. There are divisions in Saint-Genèse but not English-French, French-English. There’s Battiston and Marquand. Those are the teams maybe, the division. Did you know Battiston was having an affair with Allardyce?’
‘I’d kind of guessed as much from what I’d heard.’
‘So she loses an ally, if you like. Marquand loses his ally, Singleterry. This is like a game of chess, and they’ve both lost a Bishop.’ Aubret screwed his face up, and Lombard could tell he wasn’t convinced. ‘And they may not even be the players.’
‘I’m not sure I follow.’ Aubret shook his head. ‘I’ve got a dead Englishman, killed Joan-style. And a dead Frenchman, possibly revenge? If,’ He stressed the word, ‘if he was the target. If the American was the target, then it’s the same motive as the Englishman. You can’t go speculating about small-town politics until we have something more concrete, which Lemery is working on. Remember, all of these people have known each other for decades, all their lives, the Marquands, Battiston, the Galopin brothers. Until there’s something actually concrete, you can’t just guess, because that’s a labyrinth right there and it’ll just muddy things up.’ Lombard looked up suddenly, something that Aubret had said. He played with his glass. Dammit, he should have been concentrating harder. Aubret carried on. ‘I agree, the evidence, the Joan of Arc stuff is scattergun, but there must be a message, there must be something we’re missing here. It can’t just be superficial stuff made to look clever for our benefit. I don’t buy that.’
No. Thought Lombard, realising what he’d missed. It could be the other way around. ‘Maybe we should go to the expert, then?’ He finished his drink, looking Aubret in the eye as he did so. ‘If we can’t see what the killer seems to think is
obvious, let’s get some help. Let’s go and see a specialist.’
Chapter 23
The car park was packed out as usual, with cars queuing dangerously back into the busy, tourist-clogged road. Mark Blanchard liked coming to Amboise. To him it had everything. Narrow winding streets and a chateau for good photos. It was the last resting place of Leonardo da Vinci, so it had serious history and class. And, there was always the chance, a whisper fuelled by local bar owners, shopkeepers and Mark, that local resident Mick Jagger could occasionally be seen buying top of the range macaroons on the high street.
He’d hit the season hard, and could have done with a few afternoons just busking. But this was his high season, and it would set him up nicely for the late summer when it was sometimes just too hot to bother with a rented minibus full of tourists, no matter how much they were willing to pay. He had a feeling that today would be a good one and through the lowered minibus window he handed old Thierry, the carpark attendant, a folded 10 euro bill with a wink. Thierry smiled, pulled the rope across the car park entrance to indicate it was now temporarily closed and shuffled slowly off to move the orange plastic cones away from Mark’s ‘reserved’ space. Yes, Mark thought, looking up at the cloudless sky, today would be a good one.
Of course it helped that the minibus was full. It inspired confidence in the group; the feeling that they were part of something popular made them feel that they’d made the right choice, so the anticipation was high, almost like an excitable school party. It was the usual mix of international tourists but this time with two English girls. He’d met the Allardyce sisters at the end of yesterday’s trip to Saint-Genèse, they’d got chatting at the bar while his group had a wander round and he’d invited them on this trip.
They’d looked bored, in the bar. Well, one of them had. The other just looked frightened and on edge. They’d clearly had some kind of argument too which meant they were easy prey to confident young men like Mark, and he’d taken full advantage. He shot them both a quick look as he reversed the minibus into the tight space. They had stressed, on more than one occasion, that they were ‘half-sisters’, as if firstly they wanted to distance themselves from one another but also, and this may have just been Mark’s ego at work, that where men were concerned, they were definitely not averse to competing with one another. They were still frosty with each other today, Mark noticed. Lucy, the more fun and forward one of the two, she may even have had too much to drink at lunch yesterday, was dressed in a figure hugging Breton top, an expensive-looking camera hung around her neck. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail and she looked the epitome of French chic as imagined by people perhaps trying too hard, people who’d seen old pictures of Jean Seberg and taken them to heart. She noticed Mark watching her, quickly lifted her camera to take a picture of him then lowered the lens and winked at him.