by Ian G Moore
‘The executive, legal and financial,’ he repeated, then took a sip of Muscat himself. ‘Then we come to the, shall we call it, the creative element of your team? The ideas man. Singleterry. It was he who first suggested an, at best, tenuous link to Joan of Arc, wasn’t it? You were probably kicking around ideas to put Saint-Genèse on the map at the start of the summer, Joan of Arc fits the area nicely and – luckily – Professor Charles Galopin is at hand to give the project weight, gravitas, authenticity.’
‘It’s the shot in the arm the town needed.’ Marquand couldn’t control himself. ‘There’s no grand conspiracy here. Some reclaimed dormant land, sometimes some wine bought for a fête that’s under the radar of the taxman. So what? Singleterry was a new pair of eyes, and all of us here had reason to be grateful for that. Whatever you’re suggesting is certainly no excuse for two murders!’
‘And possibly a third.’ Lombard was utterly calm, cold even and waiting to gauge their reactions. They were all silent. Galopin looked on the verge of tears.
‘Who now?’ Clotilde asked angrily.
‘Mark Blanchard.’ Aubret filled the gaps. ‘He was attacked this afternoon, at his apartment in Tours. We don’t yet know if he’ll live. We’ll need to know your movements, all of you, for this afternoon.’
‘We had a council meeting, then I had surgery from three,’ Clotilde offered definitely, looking at the other two.
‘You have no objections to us checking your appointments book, Madame?’ Aubret said, making a note in his own book. Clotilde, not used to being doubted or questioned, shot him an angry look.
‘I would say it’s your duty to do so,’ was her defiant reply.
‘I had a meeting in Tours.’ Marquand said. ‘I’ll give you the names and numbers of those present. Then I picked the kids up from school.’ His face changed from certainty to misery in the space of seconds as he added, ‘My wife wasn’t up to it.’
‘And you Monsieur Galopin, where were you?’ Lombard toyed with his small glass.
‘I went to see my brother after our meeting finished early.’ Galopin was now sweating profusely.
‘What time was your council meeting?’ Lombard had so far deliberately not asked them for timings.
‘It was scheduled from one ’til two,’ Marquand, ever the businessman, said. ‘Sometimes lunch is the only time we’re all free. But Ludovic got a call from his brother at about one-thirty, so we wound up early.’
‘Your brother had a problem Monsieur?’
There was silence around the table.
‘Look,’ Marquand was being defensive on Galopin’s behalf, Lombard noticed. ‘It’s not easy for Ludovic to say. His brother, the professor, is unwell.’ He looked around the table. ‘He has a brain tumour.’
‘It’s terminal, Monsieur. It’s a case of managing it now rather than cure.’ Galopin was wringing his hands as he spoke, and clearly distressed. ‘He tries to live as he always has, but occasionally just…’
‘Brain tumours, primary frontal lobe brain tumours can lead to blackouts, a change in behaviour. Our poor professor… sometimes he just kind of “wakes up”, not sure of where he is.’ Or what he’s done, thought Lombard. ‘Ludovic must drop everything to help him, to go and find him too sometimes,’ Clotilde said, offering her medical view.
‘He was in Amboise,’ Lombard said this in the most matter-of-fact-way, like he was answering a quiz question, and the effect was immediate as everyone turned to look at him.
‘He was on a train back to Tours from Amboise Monsieur. That’s when he called me.’
‘You met him from the station?’ Again Galopin said nothing.
‘Where is he now?’ asked Aubret, there was a hint of menace in his voice.
‘I don’t know. I’m sorry.’
‘How come you don’t know if he needs care so much?’
Galopin slumped in his chair. ‘I carry a suitcase for him in my car, I just never know when it’ll be needed. It was his idea.’ He was trying to control his emotions and though Lombard felt for him a little, this was no time to interrupt. ‘I put him on a train to Paris. He was to stay with a cousin for a few days.’
‘And?’ asked Lombard softly.
‘He didn’t arrive. I rang my cousin, who was due to meet Charles at the station, but Charles never arrived. I tried his mobile phone but…’ His voice tailed off and his hand-wringing continued. Clotilde put an arm around his shoulder in comfort.
Aubret stood up. ‘I’m sorry Monsieur but we’ll need an up to date photograph please and his number. Also the address and number of your cousin in Paris.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Galopin almost whispered.
‘And Monsieur,’ said Aubret, again not without menace, ‘we’d like them now.’
Lombard stayed silent and sitting down. The fast train to Paris Montparnasse, he wondered, or the slower train to Austerlitz. The slow stopping service that takes in more Loire Valley towns than even Saint Joan of Arc herself.
Chapter 29
Lombard stared at his meagre plate of food. It was actually a full plate of food, but its blandness made it look meagre. It had his mother’s imprint all over, a vegan salad with various leaves and pulses that no doubt passed the ethical test but failed to register either visually or gastronomically. It wouldn’t have fed a small child. In fact, any small child worth their salt would have quite rightly thrown a tantrum and then the plate of food. Fortunately, he never visited his mother for a hearty feast, usually grabbing something pre-visit so he could then pick his way through whatever worthy ‘gruel’ was served up. Charlotte Lombard stood at the sink washing up her own plates. She’d eaten earlier, even though she knew he was on his way round, and she now had her back to him.
‘I haven’t heard from you for days,’ she said without looking round. The way she said it wasn’t designed to make him feel guilty, though it did have that effect, but just as a statement. I don’t need you, it said, but what have you been up to?
‘No,’ he replied, glad of the distraction from his food. ‘Sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be.’ She was always so unnecessarily defiant. She herself had been abandoned as a small child and if the memory of that actually hurt her, he had never seen it show. Her response was more of the ‘it didn’t do me any harm’ variety. But Lombard was sensitive to these things, and he knew that deep down she wasn’t a very happy person either. And also, deep down, she loved him, she just didn’t know how to let that show.
‘Have you been busy? You look tired. Properly tired, not this moping around tired you’ve been doing.’
‘Yes. I’m on a case.’ As usual, he ignored her inability to internalise any of her thoughts. ‘I’m back at the magistrature.’
‘Good.’ She was uncharacteristically enthusiastic. ‘That’s a good thing. They need a good apple in amongst their rotten ones.’
It’s ironic, he thought, she was utterly convinced, always had been, of his squeaky-clean honesty. His perceived inability to play the game, to be political. She admired it too, up to a point. Principles are all well and good, but you need to be malleable too, be available. He wasn’t sure how she’d react if he told her that he’d been effectively blackmailed into work on the assumption that he was corrupt and wouldn’t want others to know it. A reputation he was quietly enjoying, he had to admit.
‘And outside of work?’ He knew what she was hinting at in her uncharacteristically subtle way, and wanted to nip it in the bud straight away. He ignored the question. ‘Pity.’ She turned back to the sink. ‘It would do you good.’ He took a mouthful of food and tried to mould it into something more palatable, but it was like having a mouth full of sand. ‘You don’t have to eat that, you know. I know it’s not your thing!’ She turned round to him and smiled. ‘You need a woman in your life, someone who’ll feed you up properly.’ It was a dig at his own marriage. She’d never understood that about him and Madeleine. She was a conflicting mix of modern feminist independence and old-fashioned ‘him and her
’ values, and the fact that he had done almost all the cooking at home had been a constant source of irritation for her. A black mark against Madeleine, another one. The truth was that he was the better cook and enjoyed it too. Evenings spent in the kitchen, he preparing something and Madeleine sitting at the table talking away, may have looked terribly boring on the outside, almost complacent. They had meant the world though, even more so now. ‘You’re very quiet.’ He hadn’t noticed that she’d joined him at the table.
‘Just tired, like you say. I think I’m a bit out of practice, that’s all.’ He leant back and stretched out his arms in clichéd ‘I’m tired’ fashion and she looked at him as though she was about to say something. Whatever it was, she decided against it, and shook her head as if to clear the thought from her head.
‘Well in that case, do you mind if I do some work?’ She delved into a bag at her feet and got out her tablet, propping it up on its foldable cover. He couldn’t help smiling, she was more tech savvy than he was.
‘What are you doing?’
‘There’s a demo at the Peugeot factory tomorrow and I want to make sure I know where I’m going.’
‘Please don’t get into trouble, maman. I may not be around tomorrow to bail you out.’ She looked offended by the suggestion and said nothing. ‘What’s the protest about anyway?’
‘You don’t know?’ She looked incredulous at his ignorance. ‘Do you live in a bubble at the magistrature?’ He shrugged. ‘They’re laying workers off, economising they call it. Even though profits are up!’ She treated the word profits like it was a fly in her mouth. ‘Here, look.’
He took the tablet, feigning interest, and half read the article. It didn’t interest him in the slightest. Business, industrial relations, cars all three added up to a very decent sleeping powder. ‘Is this the Nouvelle République website?’ he asked innocently.
‘Yes. The best of a bad bunch, that lot.’
He touched the screen and went to the main page. He wasn’t disappointed. Following his revealing apéritif in Saint-Genèse, Aubret had begun the search for the missing professor. He had informed Llhermanault that they had a suspect and had been unsurprised to hear a touch of disappointment in the other man’s voice. He clearly had it all planned out to publicly sack not only a corrupt official but an incompetent one as well. There had been a moment’s silence which Lombard had ended with, ‘If it does turn out to be the professor, then it could be wrapped up quickly. You could launch your campaign off the back of it.’ Again, there was a time when he would have kept that kind of thought to himself, maybe it was his mother’s genes finally revealing themselves. Or maybe he just didn’t give a toss anymore.
‘What are you talking about?’ was Llhermanault’s surprised response and Lombard had ended the call right there. Next he phoned the journalist Maichin.
‘Obviously don’t mention me by name, but we have a suspect and I may need your help,’ he’d said, a little guiltily and not entirely sure of what he was doing. A dozen words in, he’d thought, and already I’m out of my depth.
‘How so? Has he gone on the run?’ was the energetic response.
‘He may have. He may not even know he’s being looked for yet.’ He gave Maichin the details of Charles Galopin, stressing that he was just being sought for his own protection at this stage. His illness was a concern and so on, he might even be in danger.
‘Is he a suspect or a victim?’ the journalist had asked cynically.
‘Can you hedge your bets at this stage?’ Lombard had suggested. ‘I’m giving you this before the nationals get it tomorrow and a full scale manhunt begins.’
‘Hmm, well, I guess so.’ Maichin wasn’t convinced, and Lombard could tell he was disappointed. Tough, he thought, it was better than nothing.
‘Also,’ Lombard said airily, innocently approaching the real reason for getting the press involved, ‘this is a big feather in the cap of Procureur Llhermanault…’
‘Really?’ Maichin seemed doubtful. ‘Do you mean that?’
‘Definitely. He gave us and the police a pep talk this afternoon, focussed our minds on the task in hand.’ He paused, his own words making him feel slightly nauseous. ‘And so on.’ He added for no reason.
‘Are you saying that Llhermanault should take credit?’ Lombard liked the man’s scepticism.
‘Undoubtedly. I think one day, the magistrature’s loss will be the nation’s gain.’ It was clumsy and Maichin knew it. But he also knew a decent source when he had one, he’d been around long enough for that. The piece may well be short on definites, but the Procureur would welcome the positive attention.
Lombard had fed the cat, having found a new, less expensive bowl. He’d then checked in with Aubret, who had no news on Galopin, but who had asked for Lombard to issue a search warrant for the missing man’s apartment and then gone to his mother’s house, turning his phone off for the evening. Only Aubret had the number of his mother’s place, and only Aubret would know where to look if he was needed. There was only Aubret who would likely be looking too.
Lombard swiped the screen to bring up the home page and the photo of Professor Charles Galopin stared at him from the tablet. The nose and chin were high, the eyes so certain. The picture wasn’t that old, he didn’t look very different to how he’d looked at the Lion d’Or just a couple of days before. But where there was a vivid, almost fierce intelligence in the photo, in real life he’d felt sadness, perhaps even disappointment.
‘Oh, you know him too do you?’ his mother asked, now at his shoulder and impatient to get her tablet back.
‘Not really. I’d like to talk him, that’s all.’ Something clicked. ‘Do you know him?’ He turned to face her.
‘I met him once. Last year. There was a protest at the University. I can’t remember what. Anyway, all the academics were inside, too frightened to talk to real people obviously. Then someone said there was a back door, a gate in the wall. So we went round there.’ Lombard shook his head, trying to hide his smile. ‘Madeleine was there too.’ The smile dropped.
‘On your protest?’
‘No. With him. What’s his name? Galopin. She was with him, sneaking out of the gate. Looked a bit shifty to me.’
‘Shifty?’ There was a disbelief in his voice. Fear too.
‘Yes. “Don’t tell Matthieu”, she said. “It’s a surprise for him.” I’d forgotten all about it. What’s he done anyway?’
Lombard felt as though he’d just been punched in the stomach and was winded. He stood up groggily, and made it unsteadily to the sink.
‘Are you ok?’ His mother’s voice seemed echoey and far away. ‘You look pale.’ He leant on the sink and started retching.
‘Galopin!’ he spluttered. ‘Galopin.’ This time in anger. G.
Chapter 30
He was still in shock when he walked into the Commissariat the next morning. He hadn’t wanted to get up, hadn’t wanted to do anything but hide. An overwhelming desolation had enveloped him and sucked all the life force from him. He’d lain there like a dead weight, with no specific thoughts, all he saw was Madeleine’s face. That warm smile that he always thought was reserved just for him. A smile that had always said I love you, I will look after you, I will be here for you. It was a smile that now seemed mocking. Had he always missed that sneering curl at the corner? The coldness in the eye? They were, and to his mind had always been, two halves of the same person but now, and not for the first time in his life, he’d lost who he was. He was adrift again. Matthieu Lombard, Matthew Spence. Neither existed anymore. Had they ever?
Up until the previous evening he had taken some small comfort in not knowing for sure about Madeleine’s infidelity. She had gone anyway, there could be no proof either way now and the lack of certainty was almost a driving force. Now though, there was no doubt, no ambiguity and it was tearing at him, leaving him breathless and utterly dejected. He had briefly gone into his office, where Muriel was conveniently in conference with Dampierre. He didn’t want to spea
k to either of them anyway, he didn’t want to speak to anyone, even his mother had been worried when he left her. The only person he had spoken to was Maichin, who was taken aback by the speed of his source’s update. At his office, all he had needed to do was pick something up from Muriel’s desk. He had hoped it would be where he’d left it, hidden in the pot plant, and it was. A zippo lighter, engraved with a flowery, sanctimonious, G.
It was now in his pocket as he crossed the threshold into Aubret’s partitioned office. The Commissaire had a face like thunder, still puce from ripping into someone presumably. In the outer office there was an uncomfortable quiet too, which no-one was willing to break, even to say ‘good morning’ to a juge. Not that Lombard’s own humour invited a warm reception.
‘Have you seen the paper?’ Aubret snapped without offering a greeting of his own.
‘Yes. That’s why I’m here. I thought I’d see if there was any real news.’ As far as Aubret was concerned, Lombard was happy for him to think his equally frosty demeanour was down to his own anger about a possible leak. Neither had heard from Llhermanault, who was probably deciding how to show outrage while hiding the conceit he felt at being shown in a good light. Maichin had done wonders: ‘Procureur Llhermanault shows the kind of leadership and plain speaking that higher levels of public office could learn from.’ He’d also said that Professor Charles Galopin was the only suspect being sought. There was no longer talk of his potential as a victim, or even ‘helping with enquiries.’