Playing the Martyr

by Ian G Moore

  Galopin took a long sip of his water, while Marquand finally removed his hands from his pockets and sat back down. ‘Well said, Madame le Maire.’ He looked at her directly, letting her know he was right behind her. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Good. Well first we have to decide what to do about Émile’s place, your place, Nicolas. It needs to be open.’ Nicolas looked almost amused, as if he wasn’t aware of how his business would work. ‘Sandrine cannot be expected to cope at the moment,’ Clotilde carried on undaunted, ‘and we have the June 8th brocante coming up…’

  ‘We’re going ahead with that?’ asked Galopin in surprise. ‘It seems somehow disrespectful.’

  ‘I don’t see what choice we have.’ Clotilde’s reply was sharp. ‘The emplacements have been paid for, we can’t simply hand the money back. And,’ she stared hard at the two men, ‘I don’t think we should be hiding, either.’

  ‘It’s good for business,’ Marquand offered, though Clotilde was unsure if he was being serious or flippant. ‘The brocante, I mean.’

  ‘It attracts the wrong kind of people in my opinion.’ Galopin’s response was pure snobbery and the other two both knew it. They went through the same argument every year.

  ‘Oh really, Ludovic!’ Nicolas was being more formal with the Notaire. ‘If we used your criteria to attract people to the town, the only residents we’d have were those who could prove four generations of residency!’ Galopin put his head on one side as if to suggest that that wasn’t such a bad idea.

  ‘We’re well aware of your feelings about gypsies Ludovic, but Nicolas is right, the brocante is good for the town. Good publicity too, which we badly need.’

  ‘Even now? The town is full, and probably will be for most of the summer.’ He knew he couldn’t win. ‘With what’s happened,’ he added needlessly.

  ‘Really? And prurient vultures are more acceptable to you than the Roma community? Perhaps we could arrange for an annual set of murders, if that’s your preference. We could get your brother to validate them for us.’ Nicolas wasn’t hiding his contempt, but obviously felt bad all the same. ’Sorry. That was unnecessary,’

  Galopin didn’t respond and Clotilde lowered her head to hide her slight smirk. Why Nicolas hadn’t gone into politics at a higher level still amazed her, it may even have helped poor Marie to get away from Saint-Genèse. ‘Roma’ indeed! Only real politicians, she thought, used politically correct terms behind closed doors.

  ‘We’re not cancelling, Ludovic,’ she said flatly. ‘It’s too late in the day. We just have to be ready and that means having Émile’s open and running properly. Even if Nicolas and I have to don our aprons again.’ She looked at Marquand for a friendly response but he avoided eye contact instead.

  ‘I may have a solution there, certainly in the short term,’ he said enigmatically. The others both looked at him expectantly. ‘Andrew Hervé,’ he said simply and looked from one to the other, if not in triumph, then certainly with satisfaction.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Galopin at a loss.

  ‘Brigitte Hervé’s son. I thought you would know that.’ Marquand looked slightly amused.

  ‘Of course. They were together at the market yesterday,’ said Clotilde, speaking her thoughts in a matter-of-fact way. ‘He looks very young.’

  ‘Ah yes!’ Galopin suddenly remembered. ‘She mentioned him the other day. She seemed very pleased he was coming.’ His face darkened. ‘The Allardyce sisters less so.’

  ‘Half-sisters.’ Marquand clarified unnecessarily. ‘As Clotilde’s friend never tired of telling us.’

  ‘She’s a mother, Ludovic.’ Clotilde stiffly ignored Marquand’s bait. ‘She’s probably not seen him in a while.’ Galopin snorted.

  ‘Naturally. Though I don’t think that’s necessarily why she was so happy.’ His almost petulant response was left hanging while the other two looked at each other in bafflement.

  ‘Are you going to explain that, Ludovic? Or do we have to guess?’ Clotilde was running short of patience.

  ‘She’s a stirrer, that one,’ he replied. ‘A perfect partner for her late employer.’ He emphasised the word partner leaving the other two in doubt as to what he meant.

  ‘Oh, that’s old news!’ snorted Marquand.

  ‘A son isn’t, though.’ Clotilde said almost lasciviously, gossip being a vice and a hobby to her, as well as a useful political tool. There was also no hint of jealousy.

  ‘Of course I’m not saying that he definitely is,’ the experienced Notaire quickly distancing himself from any of the obvious conclusions. ‘His son, that is. But he had an expensive education paid for by the late Monsieur Allardyce. Very expensive.’

  ‘Well it was money wasted, then.’ Marquand said smartly, sitting back in his chair. ‘The boy dropped out of university in his first year and didn’t tell his mother. She still thinks he’ll be a doctor one day. Allardyce knew though, encouraged it even.’ He pointedly looked at Galopin. ‘He’s been running a pub-restaurant in Paris for the last two years. He’s a smart lad.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Galopin asked, impressed.

  ‘I asked him.’ Marquand said, smiling. ‘It’s often the best way.’

  ‘And can he claim part of the inheritance?’ Clotilde, on the evidence given, had made her mind up about Andrew Hervé. ‘Allardyce was a wealthy man but that would cause a problem with his daughters certainly.’ She was seeing trouble on the horizon and she’d had enough of that already. ‘As if they haven’t had enough problems since they arrived!’ she added, and in doing so suggested that they were almost the cause of their own distress.

  ‘He can’t,’ Galopin said almost dismissively.

  ‘And he knows it too,’ added Marquand. ‘He’s an impressive young man.’

  Galopin looked undermined by Marquand’s knowledge. Business didn’t have to play by the formal rules that the law must. Nicolas also had the sharper mind and Clotilde enjoyed watching him use it. ‘Monsieur Allardyce had non-residential status here in France and bought the property, La Terre Noire, through a French-based holding company,’ Galopin said grandly. ‘He simply transferred those “shares” if you will, to his daughters. All I had to do was adjust the ownership papers. Monsieur Hervé has no legal claim.’ He looked from one to the other. ‘His mother, I fear, is not aware of this.’

  ‘He is though.’ Marquand sounded almost bored, underlining the point.

  ‘You asked him that too?’ Galopin sounded shocked.

  ‘In a way. It’s best to have these things out in the open and I like to know everything about who I do business with.’

  ‘I’ll say this, Nicolas,’ Clotilde laughed, ‘You’re a thorough interviewer! Sounds like it was bordering on interrogation.’ Galopin laughed too and Marquand joined in eventually.

  ‘Just protecting my interests!’ he said immodestly. ‘Our interests, that is. Anyway, he needs the money, we need a patron. It works.’

  Ludovic Galopin’s phone rang, interrupting the now more relaxed meeting.

  ‘Excuse me.’ He said apologetically, picking up his large mobile phone which still looked tiny in his huge, chubby hands. He made his way over to the corner of the room for privacy.

  ‘Do you think Brigitte really knows that there’s no inheritance.’ Clotilde asked quietly.

  ‘Brigitte?’ Marquand gave a hollow laugh, ‘Whether she knows or not isn’t the issue, it’s whether she’ll accept it. I wonder if her son has even told her?’

  They were interrupted by Galopin. ‘That was my brother.’ He looked shaken. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to go.’

  ‘Oh Ludovic, of course.’ Clotilde’s compassion was genuine and she stood up to hug the big man. ‘We understand.’ She looked at Marquand who clearly didn’t know what he was supposed to understand.

  ‘Charles is dying, Marquand.’ It was delivered like a press statement, and also a rebuke to Marquand’s earlier formality. ‘He has a tumour.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ludovic.’ He stood up
too and held the man’s arm, showing a warmth, Clotilde noted, that she couldn’t remember him ever having shown Ludovic before. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  The Notaire was unsure how to take the offer, ‘He’s in Amboise now. He sometimes loses track, becomes disorientated, like a sleepwalker.’

  ‘It’s one of the symptoms, unfortunately.’ The doctor was giving her professional backing.

  ‘And is he OK?’

  ‘He’s had an argument. A silly argument with that American boy. He’s quite distressed I’m afraid.’

  ‘Then you must find him.’ His voice was full of sympathy. ‘Your family always comes first, Ludovic. Can we help?’ He added.

  ‘Thank you. I will let you know, but that’s very kind. I’m going to meet him from the train in Tours.’ And with that, and clearly distressed, he bustled out.

  Chapter 25

  Lombard placed the cat’s dish carefully on the floor, more carefully than usual, then stood back and watched as the thin, languid feline delicately lapped at the milk. It was nice and cool in the shade of the shop, in contrast to the heat of the afternoon sun which was heating Tours like a grill. He was briefly tempted to open up the shop simply as a respite to passing shoppers, but then dismissed the idea equally quickly not really knowing where it had come from. So far the afternoon had been frustrating. The American Blanchard wasn’t answering his phone, and was presumably on a guided tour as he wasn’t at his usual busking haunt. Charles Galopin wasn’t answering his phone either. He’d even been around to the university, but he had no lectures planned for the day and so no-one had seen him. And Muriel had texted him to tell him to avoid the office as Dampierre, having finished packing, was just hanging around looking for a Lombard-shaped argument.

  On top of all that inaction, he’d had a message from Aubret to say that Lemery’s searches had so far produced nothing. The public contracts for the town of Saint-Genèse were clean and had been put out for tender according to the law. So on the surface at least, local town hall corruption wasn’t a factor. Unless of course finding a small town that wasn’t corrupt in any way was suspicious in itself. Aubret had tried to hide his self-satisfaction with the news, still convinced that Joan of Arc was the method behind the killings and the motive too. Lombard however, was still struggling with the idea. He was yet to be persuaded that a rabid form of national identity was behind the murders. The evidence pointed that way, the nationality of the victims pointed that way too, but something nagged at him and he hadn’t nailed it down yet.

  As things stood he couldn’t see what the Englishman, or Blanchard if he was the real intended second victim, had done that was so heinous, so insulting as to elicit such violence and cruelty. If Singleterry, for instance, had done anything more serious, it was yet to show itself. Maybe Lombard’s own vague sense of identity was the obstacle. His own lack of clearly defined self was stopping him from seeing that others, in this case the killer, was prepared to commit murder on such a flimsy pretext as Singleterry having a say on local matters.

  People killed for less, obviously. Even the sanest people could react violently over the merest thing, an allegiance to a football club or even an inanimate object. He’d once convicted a murderer, a quiet, almost anonymous accountant who was wholly unrepentant of his crime, and all because his brother in law, the victim, had insulted his precious new car. The man simply wouldn’t accept the insanity of his actions. His new car was an extension of himself, how he wanted the world to see him, and if you malign that, you malign him. So he’d killed.

  ‘What are you then?’ He asked the cat. ‘What’s your story?’ The cat looked up, then dismissively turned back to its dish. Guiltily, Lombard realised he didn’t even know if the cat was male or female. Or if it had a home somewhere else where anxious owners were still hoping it might wander back someday. He’d made no effort to find out. The cat had arrived the day after Madeleine’s funeral, stayed, and had not shown the slightest inclination to leave ever since. Its background, its history didn’t bother him at all, he was just glad of some quiet, non-judgemental company. He also liked the idea that he was needed. He had got used to being relied on.

  He had never talked to Madeleine about his suspicions of her affair. She had got visibly weaker by the day and though it dominated his thoughts, he couldn’t share them with her. What would have been the point anyway? What could he do about it now? What could she do about it now either? He stopped sleeping and lived in a state of permanent fatigue. He would wait for Madeleine’s sporadic instructions, pillow plumping, medicines, appointments, a glass of water, anything that she needed. If she suspected that he was more withdrawn, though he hoped he hadn’t shown any signs, she said nothing. She had probably put any mood swings of his own down to grief or tiredness. His psyche curling itself up into a protective ball as always. His armadillo moments. Really though, he was just desperately broken-hearted, by her death and by what he’d belatedly discovered of her life. And what hurt as much as that was that any despair or fear or insecurity he had ever felt, there had only ever been one person he could open up to. But she was now the cause, not the solution.

  Madeleine had been the first person in his life, parents and grandparents included, who didn’t see him first and foremost as either English or French, but just as Matthieu Lombard. His mother had always defined him in terms of his father, the quiet, almost cold silences; the perceived lack of passion. Those were his English traits. And his father, in response to childhood tears or tantrums, had talked of his ‘foreign blood’. Madeleine hadn’t even asked about his background, not at first anyway, and he loved her for that. They met at University in Paris and they’d talked only politics at first, her obsession, and he’d tried to keep up, knowing he was out of his depth but utterly in awe of her looks certainly, but her character and energy just as much. She was as tall as him, with short, almost mannish brown hair and clear green eyes that gave off an energy and intensity so powerful they could have fired up the national grid. She had gone into journalism not to change the world, but to save it. And later, when she realised that the world didn’t want to be saved, she opened her antiques shop and spent all day every day sitting on this same fake Louis XV divan, her long legs tucked underneath her, smoking endless cigarettes, devouring book after book and not hiding her irritation when a rare customer interrupted her.

  Her fervour of course put her on a collision course with his equally fervent mother, a fact that made him love her all the more. His mother’s one concession being that ‘at least she’s French’, though Madeleine always saw herself as a citizen of the larger world first and foremost. There had been a brief battle of wills, in which his mother had absurdly defended her place as her son’s principal female influence, despite never having shown any desire in that direction before. Madeleine hadn’t even been aware that there was a battle taking place, never mind that she was the victor so his diva-ish mother spent a few weeks making a show of how she’d sacrificed her life for her ungrateful son, a martyr to parenthood cruelly abandoned before being quietly grateful that he’d been taken off her hands.

  Sacrifice and martyrdom. We’re back to Joan of Arc again, he thought, as the cat curled its way around his legs for the umpteenth time. Sacrifice and martyrdom. Of course people would kill for that, especially if that was how they saw themselves, vital pieces of their identity and make-up. What was his make-up and identity? Without Madeleine he felt he no longer had much of either. So had she been his identity then? Had she been so much a part of him, that he now no longer fully existed? Madeleine, the two of them, had been how he saw himself. How he wanted the world to see him. Nothing else had mattered. Would he have killed for that? He stroked the cat, of course he would.

  Chapter 26

  Jane sat on a shaded bench in the pedestrianised centre of the Boulevard Heurteloup. Traffic was rushing all around her, in all directions, making her feel like a roundabout, and adding to her feeling of dazed confusion. She wasn’t entirely sure of where she was
, nor, and this gnawed at her, why she was even there. But she wasn’t unhappy either.

  Mark had driven the tour group, minus Lucy, which didn’t seem to bother him at all much to Jane’s secret delight, back to the original rendezvous point outside the station. Nothing had been said between them, Jane had simply sat in the front when Mark had opened the door for her and not got out with the others when they had disembarked. A few had thrown her some strange looks as she stayed in the minibus; some – ‘ladies of a certain age’ Mark had called them – were clearly jealous. As were some of the ‘men of a certain age’ too who, without making any specific reference to Jane, congratulated him though as he’d won a trophy. At that point Jane had wanted to leave; she was nobody’s prize, she’d thought angrily. But she’d stayed where she was, staring right ahead through her large sunglasses, also quietly content that she was considered a ‘catch’.

  ‘Excusez-moi, avez-vous du feu?’ A young, scruffily dressed girl holding half a cigarette, interrupted her thoughts. She had long dreadlocked hair, Jane preferred to call it matted, an enormous, filthy rucksack and a very sad-looking dog wearing an old red handkerchief around its neck, who sat obediently at the girl’s ankles.

  ‘Sorry. Erm, don’t smoke.’ Jane stuttered in response. ‘Pas fumer.’ She said slightly more loudly, pleased that she could remember the verb. The girl didn’t reply, just shrugged slightly and trudged off down the central avenue, her laceless heavy-duty boots scuffing the ground beneath.

  Jane watched her as she drifted away. There were many things she didn’t understand about people like that, not just the clothing, the hair, smoking or even just asking a total stranger in the street for something; it was the freedom. A small part of her envied it, but mostly it quite terrified her. Her stepfather would have described the girl as having ‘a lack of parameters’ and then shaken his head in sadness to show exactly what he thought of people lacking in parameters. But sometimes parameters are stifling. She looked up through the trees to a top floor corner flat. It was Mark’s flat, he’d pointed out. It had the sun directly on it, and its bright, curved balcony and large windows looked like an open face also gazing after the disappearing girl. That’s one of the reasons she was down here and not up there, she thought, her parameters.