by Ian G Moore
‘Listen,’ Mark had said as he helped her down from the minibus, ‘I need to go up and get my guitar, but I’ve got an hour before I hit my patch. You want to come up for a coffee, or something?’
Was it her, or was the ‘or something’ loaded? From her experience ‘or somethings’ were always loaded and she’d hesitated. Mark, spotting her hesitation, had quickly said, ‘You can wait here if you like, I won’t be long, the place gets real warm anyway, it’ll be cooler here in the shade.’ Again, she’d been divided, grateful that he’d avoided making her feel awkward but irked that he’d practically decided for her. ‘I promise I won’t be long,’ he’d added with a warm smile, ‘five minutes, ten tops. I might grab a quick shower…’ And he’d run across the busy road and into the apartment block.
That was twenty minutes ago. He’s probably sneaked out of the back door, she thought miserably. Her ex had always said she was boring; maybe he was right. Her mobile phone trilled an alert, telling her that she’d received a text message and she dug about in her tiny, floral-patterned bag to find the thing. She felt herself getting excited at the prospect that Mark had texted her to explain his delay, and then she remembered she hadn’t even given him her number. She made a mental note to actually give him her number as soon as, or if he ever, turned up. She tapped in the code to unlock the phone. It was a text from Lucy.
Made it home ok. Andrew here n were
Sitting on terrasse with cold rose(ay).
Let me know when u want picking up
from stn. IF UR COMING HOME?!?!?!
It was typical Lucy. The grammar, or lack of it, was done deliberately to annoy Jane. But more so the obvious statement that she was just fine on her own without her thank you very much, and the little dig about ‘coming home’, knowing that that was never, ever in doubt. She turned the phone off put it back in her rucksack without replying. Life always seemed so much simpler for Lucy, straightforward even. Jane had convinced herself that being here in Tours ‘with’ Mark, she was aware that at the moment she very much wasn’t with Mark, somehow made her freer, that she had broken down some of her barriers and was being – though she hated to admit it to herself – more like Lucy. And yet, there was Lucy being uber-Lucy. Jane slammed her bag down on the bench next to her in frustration and looked back down the boulevard to see if the girl and the dog were still visible in the distance. They were, just about, and had stopped to ask someone else for a light near an old-fashioned merry-go-round. It had brightly painted horses on it, rising and falling as it slowly rotated. It was too far away to see if it was busy or not and also to hear the music, but it still evoked memories for her; memories of an earlier visit to the area.
Her father had brought both the girls here when they were very young and they had ridden on a merry-go-round exactly like that. Was it the same one, she wondered? Possibly, though she couldn’t be sure it was even in Tours itself. But the memory of the merry-go-round, what was the French word for merry-go-round? Manège that was it, and again she gave herself a pat on the back. The memory of the manège was less peaceful. They were too small to ride the thing alone so their father had stood between two horses, an arm around each little girl. He made a joke about it being a ‘manège á trois’ which had tickled him greatly, but which neither child had understood. She remembered it spinning too fast, and also suspecting that her father was holding her half-sister far more tightly than he was holding her. She slipped sideways and as the ride came slowly to a stop she was in tears and felt she was clinging on to the reins for dear life. She remembered that both her father and her sister showed great concern at first, then, in perfect unison as if it was rehearsed, burst out laughing. She never got on another merry-go-round again.
Jane sighed heavily and looked away from the fairground ride. Honestly, what the bloody hell did she think she was doing? She was a hair’s breadth away from using that memory as an excuse for social timidity and she wasn’t going to allow that! Not this time. It was ridiculous! She looked at the manège again and made a decision.
She picked her bag up and strode across the road to the front door of Mark’s apartment block. To be honest she didn’t really know what she was going to do, but she certainly wasn’t prepared to sit around waiting any longer. Unadventurous, quiet, even boring if you like, but she was nobody’s mug either. She stared at the door and the array of bells. The top bell had a handwritten sticker underneath it which said ‘Blanchard’ and she pressed it for a longer time than was necessary to show her annoyance. There was no response. She tried again, with the same result. She turned away from the big blue door in annoyance and then it swung open behind her and a man rushed out, almost pushing her out of the way. To her surprise, she put her arm out to stop the door slamming shut. And then she looked around. No-one was watching and whoever the man was, he was obviously in a hurry and had already disappeared around the corner. She stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind her, she didn’t know why, and looked upwards through the banister of the spiral staircase.
The lift, to the right of the stairs, an old-fashioned metal grill type had a printed notice on the door which read EN PANNE. She started to climb the steps, slowly at first and holding onto the highly polished wooden banister which was laid on top of an ornate, navy blue painted iron balustrade. The steps were marble, narrow to the right, where the banister was, and wide to the left where there was a rope banister instead of the sturdier wooden-metal one. She began to climb more quickly, taking the wider side. She really had no idea why she was there or what she was going to do when she got to the top. For once, however, she was enjoying the ride. She even felt quite free, despite not being at all sure what she was getting into, or with whom. Bravery can take many forms, but the personal kind, stepping away from your own comfort zone, your own character, takes a special kind of leap and she was finding it thrilling. Nothing might happen of course, Mark really may have absconded. It could even have been him who went past her at the door, she had paid no attention at all. But if he was there, she was going to tell him to get a move on, tell him she was sick of bloody waiting.
She reached the last small landing before the final flight of stairs and took a moment to get her breath back, and to calm down. Then, as if responding to an internal cheerleader, stomped up the last twenty or so steps. Mark’s front door was the only one on the top landing, it must be quite a place, she said under her breath, and although there was a doorbell she decided to knock instead. One final deep breath, and she banged heavily on the door. It gave way slightly and opened ajar. She pushed on it harder and put her head in nervously, her eagerness had left her though, her fear had returned.
‘Mark?’ She said quietly and got no response. ‘Mark?’ She was louder this time and, giving the short name a second syllable to try and sound jaunty and hide her anxiety. ‘Mark?’ She barked his name now and pushed the door wide open. She stood in a narrow hallway that judging by the light led into the main living room and the sunny balcony. The light in the place almost blinded her and it took a moment for eyes to adjust. When they had the first thing she saw was Mark lying on the floor. His head pointed towards the light and it had a dark shaped halo around it, a halo that was slowly growing in size. And then, for the second time in four days she dropped everything and screamed.
Chapter 27
Lombard’s phone had vibrated itself off the mahogany bureau and right into the cat’s antique eating bowl. The cat, startled, had rapidly disappeared upstairs and the bowl, shattered, had lost at least 90 percent of its value. He’d picked up the phone, quickly read the message from Aubret and had run out the door towards the Boulevard Heurteloup. He now saw the flashing lights of the pompiers and unmarked police vehicles outside a smart looking building. Above the door, gold writing inlaid in grey, funereal marble was the name, Residences Tunney. Ironic, and surely no accident, he mused, that the American Blanchard lived in an apartment block named after the former American heavyweight world champion, Gene Tunney, who’d been station
ed nearby in the First World War. Maybe it was a source of comfort miles from home.
He approached the police cordon and a uniformed officer nodded to him and lifted the yellow police tape so that Lombard could pass under. There were forensics on the stairs and in the vestibule so Lombard was urged to cover his shoes in the blue crepe socks and wear rubber gloves before he ascended the stairs. He reached the top floor quickly and felt dizzy having done so, something not missed by a waiting Texeira.
‘Feeling your age juge?’ There was a mocking grin on his face.
‘I didn’t stop for a cigarette half way up like you Texeira.’ Lombard was in no mood for banter, and waved his hand in front of his own mouth to indicate Texeira’s odorous breath. ‘What have we got? Any neighbours in?’
‘No. No-one is.’ Texeira looked slightly hurt by the suggestion of bad breath. ‘Everyone’s out at work probably.’
‘How many apartments are there?’
‘Seven. Two each on floors one to three and just the penthouse on this floor, oh and the lift here of course, which isn’t out of order at all. Probably where the attacker hid.’
‘Possibly.’ Lombard conceded. ‘How bad is he?’
‘Well he’s not dead, judge, well, not yet. Touch and go they’re saying, but he’s still there. God knows how though, hell of a mess these bouffadou make.’
‘You’re sure it’s our Joan then are you?’ He didn’t hide the surprise, and had maybe missed a slightly mocking tone in Texeira’s voice.
‘Our Joan? So you’re French on this one?’ He was trying to be pally, but knew immediately, and not for the first time, that he’d overstepped the mark.
‘As much as you, Brigadier Texeira,’ Lombard snapped aggressively. ‘Still wearing your Ronaldo pyjamas?’
‘Sorry monsieur le juge, I didn’t mean…’
Lombard ignored him, strode into the apartment and on into the main room. The pompiers were just lifting a bloodied, unconscious Blanchard onto a stretcher. He had an oxygen mask over his face and a drip in his arm. One of the pompiers, a serious-looking older man, applied the straps on the stretcher and then the two bent down ready to face the descent of the stairs.
The older medic counted to three and they both stood up together. Then, with steady, practised speed, they carried the American out.
Aubret appeared at Lombard’s shoulder, and without ceremony flipped open his notepad. Lombard could tell he was angry about something and he hoped it was the same anger as his own; that is, that this had gone far enough. ‘OK. The alarm was raised at half four. Mademoiselle Allardyce…’
‘Which one?
‘Jane. She’s having quite a week.’ Lombard nodded, hiding his surprise at Aubret’s cynical response. Aubret sighed heavily and continued. ‘Jane Allardyce found the victim and rang the police…’ Lombard was about to interrupt, so Aubret raised his voice slightly, ‘the emergency number is on the phone handset before you ask. She knew the address because she’d spent the previous half an hour on a bench outside waiting. Waiting for Blanchard to come down. She’d declined to come up with him.’ Something in his voice told Lombard that he very much approved of Jane’s values; it was almost paternal pride.
‘And her French was good enough to make the call?’ asked Lombard dubiously.
‘She made herself understood, good for her.’
Lombard looked around the apartment. The light from the large windows was almost too much, almost like being outside, he thought. He preferred shadows himself, they offered peace and respite. There was a modern kitchenette at the back of the open plan salon, and it didn’t look overused. In fact the whole place, sparsely furnished anyway, was very neat and tidy. Not what you’d expect from a young man living alone. Maybe he has a cleaner, thought Lombard. Maybe he’s just very minimalist. ‘There’s no way of knowing if anything’s missing, I suppose?’ Putting a voice to his thoughts.
‘No, not yet. If he wakes up, then… Jane Allardyce is still here, by the way. In the bedroom with one of the uniforms. She’s not as bad as you’d think. Quite lucid.’
‘She’s probably getting used to it, poor woman. OK, I’ll see her in a minute. So she raised the alarm.’ Lombard was thinking aloud. How did she get in and why did she come in at all?’
‘Why is a little unclear. I didn’t really understand her, she said something about a manège, but you’ll be able to clear that up. As for how, and this I think I got, a man came out.’ He said the last words slowly and looked at Lombard for a reaction. He got one.
‘A man came out,’ repeated Lombard slowly and raised his eyebrows. Finally, he thought, a potential opening. ‘Now there’s a man I’d like to talk to. Any description?’
‘Sort of, not really. My guess, and like I say, you’ll get more than me, is she got caught up in the moment and didn’t pay much attention.’
‘Possibly.’ Lombard suspected that she may have been dizzy from jumping off her own little high board. She’d stayed downstairs because caution is her dominant instinct, to override that must have been thrilling. It may even have made her a bit lightheaded. ‘Ok. Where did you say she was?’ Aubret nodded towards a closed door.
Lombard knocked lightly on the bedroom door, ‘Mademoiselle Allardyce? Juge Lombard.’ He stepped into the much darker room. The shutters were only partially open and he could make out a female officer sitting with her back to the window, her silhouette framed by the thin shaft of light. He could also just make out the form of Jane Allardyce lying on the bed. ‘I’m afraid I have to disturb you.’
‘Of course,’ replied Jane immediately, her voice much stronger than Lombard would have expected under the circumstances. She sat up and he asked that the shutters be opened.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked in English, closing the door behind him.
‘Great!’ said Jane sarcastically and then as if to prove that sarcasm wasn’t her thing, burst into tears. Lombard didn’t respond and let her cry for a little bit. ‘Sorry.’ She was angry with herself, he could tell. ‘I’m a bit numb. I think. I don’t really know. Will he be alright?’ she added hurriedly, as if guilty for not asking earlier.
Lombard moved further into the room looking for a chair, but he couldn’t find another one. He was tempted to sit on the end of the bed, but it didn’t feel right to him somehow. ‘It’s too early to tell, I’m afraid. I suspect he’s quite strong, but he’s obviously taken quite a beating.’ He had made the decision not to pull any punches, deciding that while Jane was here in the apartment he was more likely to get something from her before the reality, the shock, properly took over.
‘I don’t understand any of this. Why?’ She looked up at Lombard, her eyes searching for some solution or explanation, and betraying her real question which was ‘Why me?’
‘I don’t honestly know at the moment,’ was his inadequate reply, and to which she looked crestfallen. ‘The Commissaire tells me you went to Amboise today…’
‘Yes. It seems ages ago now, though.’ She sounded wistful. ‘Lucy and I both went.’
‘But your sister…?’
‘Left early, got the train back.’ She pulled her knees up to her chest and put her arms around them, hugging them closer.
‘Oh?’ Lombard was trying to encourage her to open up, while still awkwardly looking for somewhere to sit down.
‘Yes. She said she had a headache, but I don’t think she was enjoying herself.’ Again, he detected a touch of guilt.
‘And you were?’ He said positively, not wanting her to withdraw.
‘Yes.’ She smiled and sniffed at the same time. ‘I was.’
‘Which is why you came back to Tours with Monsieur Blanchard?’ He smiled warmly at her and noticed a slight blushing in her cheeks at the question. ‘Why not?’ He continued quickly. ‘You’ve had quite a week. It’s good to be impulsive once in a while.’ He remembered Aubret’s oblique reference to a manège and added, ‘Do something different. A change can be quite liberating.’
‘Yes,’ was her
quiet, doubting reply. She lifted her head up for the first time and looked out of the window at nothing in particular. ‘Has that manège, the one down the road, has it always been here?’
‘Usually. At busy times, the summer and Christmas.’ She’s a very sad person, he thought as he watched her. ‘I remember one just like it when I was young here. Of course, it may not be the same one.’
‘I think I went on it once. With my father, and with Lucy. Ages ago.’ She looked down again. ‘I didn’t like it.’
‘Is that why you changed your mind and came into the apartments? You wanted to put old fears aside? I admire that.’ He voice was smooth and hopefully he was convincing her that he was genuine and spoke from experience. ‘We all need to do something brave from time to time.’ She smiled at him nervously.
‘I regret it now.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper.
‘Don’t.’ His own voice was firm. ‘If for nothing else, should Mark live it will be because you got to him when you did. Your bravery may have saved his life, Jane.’ She searched his face as if looking for doubt or an untruth. ‘And,’ he continued, no longer hesitating, ‘my colleague tells me you saw a man come out.’
‘Yes.’ She spoke with purpose and as if she was only just remembering it herself. ‘He came out of the door just as I was wondering what to do. I’d rung the bell and there was no answer. I didn’t know the entry code obviously and I was just wondering what I could do, then the door opened and a man hurried out.’