Playing the Martyr

by Ian G Moore

  ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur le juge.’ Lombard spun round and was confronted by the large figure of Charles Galopin, a shot gun in his hands pointing, if not directly at Lombard then certainly in his general direction. ‘Cliché dictates that I tell you I’ve been expecting you. But to be honest I haven’t, and I’m somewhat surprised. And impressed I suppose. Can I offer you a drink?’ He waved his gun in the direction of the cabin

  ‘Yes,’ said Lombard, not taking his eyes off the gun. ‘I could do with a drink.’

  Chapter 32

  The irony of his position wasn’t lost on Aubret. In fact, he could say with almost complete certainty that of all the OPJ Commissaires across France currently involved in the investigation of serious crime, he would be the only one trying to find his juge d’instruction, rather than actively avoiding any contact whatsoever. The set of keys found at Galopin’s apartment contained a small key to a town centre lockup, directly behind the Lion d’Or. It was registered to the Galopin brothers and was obviously, even on first inspection, where Singleterry was first kept. There was an electric stove; a massive wardrobe, sealed and converted to use as a meat smoker but which looked also like a small S&M chamber, with a small stool, straps and handcuffs. Even more damningly, if that were possible, were locks of Singleterry’s hair on the floor. Galopin, it appears, wasn’t one for hiding his tracks.

  He had spent an hour questioning Ludovic Galopin who swore he knew nothing about the lockup’s use, and was clearly distraught to hear about it. He acted as if he’d been betrayed somehow, co-operating fully but with great sadness and a certain amount of disbelief. Aubret had asked Galopin for a full list of properties that he and his brother owned, but wanted the juge to issue further warrants to investigate property and, just for good measure, financial accounts.

  Aubret wasn’t exactly worried that he couldn’t find Lombard, he just had a suspicion, based on past experience, that he was up to something. He had looked in at his shop, which was locked shut, his usual bars and thinking places in Tours, but nobody had seen him. He had even gone to his office at the Palais de Justice, normally the last place he would be, but neither Dampierre, who seemed pained even at the mention of his name, nor Muriel knew where he might be. He’d even looked in at the cemetery but the state of Madeleine’s grave suggested he hadn’t been there in a long time. He’d last seen him at the Commissariat in the morning, and something about him looked… well, if Aubret didn’t know better, broken would be the word. He’d looked damaged. But that was this morning, it was now three in the afternoon.

  So now he was in the Lion d’Or and expecting him to walk in at any minute. He had ordered an espresso and was standing at the bar. The lunchtime rush, such as it was on non-market days, was over. Food service had finished, except for a selection of drying pâtisseries on the bar. Aline the waitress had gone home, so it was just Andrew waiting on tables and serving at the bar. There were a few tourists dotted about, Clotilde was reading a medical journal outside, Marquand sat at a table with a pile of paperwork in front of him. The only other customers were Jane and Lucy Allardyce still carrying on their very public dislike of each other.

  ‘Have you got him yet, inspector?’ Lucy was as tediously garrulous as always.

  ‘You have to say it in French Lucy, and he’s a Commissaire,’ Jane said, not in a schoolmarmy way, which had been her manner but in a way that said, quite clearly, she was somewhere near the end of her tether with her half-sister. Maybe Lombard was right, maybe they wouldn’t be here long.

  She translated Lucy’s question, which brought an ‘oooh’ out of Lucy and a few giggles. Aubret said that they hadn’t, but that it was a matter of time. He certainly wasn’t going to say that despite not yet finding a double-murderer who was on the loose, he had also, seemingly, lost the head of the investigation.

  That was the end of the conversation until Ludovic Galopin walked in looking, even for him, flustered and agitated. He exchanged glances with the people in the room. They all knew that the police were in the lockup behind the restaurant, and they all knew that Ludovic was part owner. They all knew that his brother was now officially on the run. And human nature means that there is guilt by association, and Ludovic knew that too. He went straight to the bar.

  ‘A cognac please.’ Andrew poured the notaire his drink in awkward silence, and Ludovic drank it in one go. ‘My car has been stolen!’ It was almost like a wail of anguish directed at no-one in particular, but just one more thing on Galopin’s list of personal torments. He asked for another cognac. ‘Murderers, thieves, my poor brother still missing… what is happening to this place?’

  ‘Have you still not heard from your brother Monsieur?’ Aubret asked coolly, ignoring the theatrics and suspecting that the car may have disappeared the day before with another Galopin at the wheel.

  ‘Of course not! He may even be dead too.’ He turned to face the Commissaire angrily, but immediately wavered when he saw that Aubret didn’t even twitch. ‘He’s innocent.’ It was almost a plea. ‘I don’t understand any of this, he’s just a victim of circumstance, I’m sure of it.’ If he knows where his brother is, he’s a damn good actor, thought Aubret, and Ludovic Galopin didn’t look like an actor.

  ‘Have you reported it, Ludovic?’ Marquand asked from his seat at the table, ‘Your car I mean.’

  ‘To the police? Yes. Though a fat lot of good that will do me!’ He was avoiding eye contact with Aubret. ‘It’s the gypsies I tell you. It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last.’ He drank his second cognac.

  ‘Could your brother not have taken it Monsieur?’ Aubret stressed the word ‘taken’, pushing it to the limits of credibility.

  ‘My brother doesn’t drive,’ was the almost triumphant response.

  ‘He has a licence. We checked.’

  ‘Yes, he has a licence, but he doesn’t drive, hasn’t done for years. Almost since he passed his test. He hates cars.’

  ‘Yes, we passed on the same day.’ Marquand’s interruption was almost involuntary and the look on his face suggested he regretted it immediately. There was a look of apology towards the notaire. ‘Sorry Ludovic. Do you want to borrow mine for your appointments? I’ve only got meetings in town today.’

  ‘That’s very kind Nicolas. Thank you. I don’t have any, but if something comes up I may take you up on that.’ He placed his empty cognac glass on the bar and caught Aubret’s eye as he did so. ‘Obviously I won’t have any more, just in case. I can see my being caught drink-driving as the only case likely to be solved around here.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Lucy, unable to hold in her frustration any longer.

  ‘Monsieur Galopin has had his car stolen.’ Andrew translated for her.

  ‘Really?’ she exclaimed, ‘Really? This place is worse than London! Certainly glad I didn’t come here for the quiet life. I’ll have another, please.’ She waved her empty wine glass at Andrew.

  ‘Haven’t you had enough?’ It was Jane translating the look on Andrew’s face.

  ‘Nope.’ Lucy replied. ‘You could drive the bloke around, Jane, if he needs a lift anywhere.’ She said to Andrew, ‘Go on, tell him.’

  ‘No Lucy. I’m going out this afternoon.’ She knew that Lucy had plans that didn’t include her. ‘I’m not staying in here.’

  ‘Me neither. What time do you finish, Andrew?’ She winked at Andrew, who seemed embarrassed by her behaviour.

  ‘Where are you going, Jane?’ He asked, trying to avoid Lucy’s unsubtle flirting.

  ‘Well I was hoping to see Mark,’ she said almost defiantly, ‘but he’s still not awake so they’re not allowing non-family visitors. I think his dad arrives later today.’ Aubret was quietly understanding this and had forgotten about Blanchard Senior: maybe that was why Lombard had gone to ground. ‘So I might drive over to Azay-le-Rideau.’

  ‘Oh! We went there as kids with Dad, do you remember? We were going to have a picnic on the banks of the moat.’ She waved her glass at Andrew again, ‘But y
ou didn’t want to go near the water! Ha! You were a funny thing.’

  ‘I may take a picnic.’ There was defiance and bravado in her voice, and it punctured Lucy’s own brittle confidence.

  ‘Well I’m not going!’ she said, loudly over-compensating. ‘I did the chateaux years ago. You’ve seen one you’ve seen them all. Are you going to refill my glass or not?’ There was an awkward silence in the room, broken, to the relief of most people, by Galopin’s mobile phone. He waddled off to the corner of the room to have a more private conversation.

  ‘I’m going.’ Jane stood, her mind made up. ‘I’ll be back for dinner.’ And without saying goodbye to anyone, but most pointedly her sister, she left the bar.

  ‘Better follow her, inspector,’ snorted Lucy, ‘she’ll probably find another dead body for you!’

  ‘That’s enough, Lucy.’ Andrew was quite firm with her, surprising himself and causing Lucy to sulk suddenly, like a spoilt child.

  ‘Nicolas,’ Galopin, back after his phone call, whispered quietly to Marquand, ‘could I borrow your car after all?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Marquand, packing his papers into a briefcase. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘A rather testy border dispute over in the Haute Rivage. I’d rather go there before it gets nasty.’

  ‘Shall I send one of my officers with you, Monsieur?’ Aubret had ears like a bat.

  Galopin weighed it up. ‘I hope it won’t be necessary, but they are welcome if you want to keep an eye on me.’

  ‘It’s in your best interests, I think.’ And he texted a message into his phone.

  ‘Here you go.’ Marquand stood up and gave Galopin the keys just as Jane returned to pick up the bag she’d accidentally left behind. She didn’t say a word to anyone and Lucy pointedly turned her back as she approached.

  Marquand placed his cup and saucer on the bar. ‘Good luck, Andrew. Might be a feisty evening!’ He leant in closer. ‘My sister and her kids are away now if you want to stay here.’ Hervé smiled thinly in response and Marquand shrugged. ‘Right, I’ve got a meeting. Back soon.’ Marquand left by the front door shortly after Jane.

  Aubret quietly finished his coffee. What a place, he thought, his head spinning like a man standing in the middle of a racetrack, what a place. Lombard was right, everything happens here. Lombard, he tapped his fingers on the bar top, he was still missing Lombard.

  Chapter 33

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ a weary, pained-looking Galopin asked. If he was triumphant at having captured Lombard, it certainly didn’t show. Lombard had been told to open the door to the cabin, and he now sat in a very comfortable, though slightly musty-smelling, old armchair. The professor laid his gun down carefully on a small dining table that was also doubling as a desk. ‘As you can see I’m very well stocked.’ He was trying to give the impression of relaxed control, but Lombard could tell he was jittery, like an animal on the lookout for predators.

  There was a kitchenette towards the back of the main room with boxes of food supplies, plus wine and whiskey. There was also a coffee machine, a small battered fridge, which Lombard imagined was probably full, and a small gas hob.

  ‘You must have been planning this for some time,’ he said, also trying to look relaxed, ‘and planning to be here for some time too.’ He tried to smile, but couldn’t. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Not really.’ Galopin sighed and leaned on the table as he did so. ‘I’ve been using this as my unofficial bolthole for months, but I’ve had some help more recently. Madame DeFresnes, of course, has no idea that I’ve been here, there’s an approach from the back, so there’s no risk. And I get complete peace.’

  ‘Peace from what?’

  ‘Good question. I could say peace from the world, but in truth I rather like the world. My condition, I’m assuming you’re aware by now, I get peace, if you can call it that, from my condition.’

  ‘I am aware, yes.’

  ‘Well it distracts me, causes me distraction I should say. I can’t sit still, I can’t stay in the same room for more than five minutes. Whereas here, I am calmer. There are no bright lights, you see? No students, no restaurants. I can work here. I have a book I want to finish writing before the light eventually goes out. Before it’s too late. Wine? You’re a rosé man aren’t you?’ He went to the fridge, leaving his shotgun behind him, ‘Yes. Rosé. I remember.’ It was like he was testing himself. ‘I think you’ll like this, “Ciel de Loire”, won silver at the concours de Paris in 2014.’

  Galopin looked every bit the weekend chasseur in his corduroy trousers and tweed jacket. He was wearing a white shirt too with the collar undone, and a smart pair of brogue shoes completed the image of the country gentlemen. The cabin itself had a few hunting scenes on the walls, packs of dogs chasing or tearing into wild boar and deer, armed men in the background away from the actual killing, like World War One generals. They were all men too, there were no women in the paintings, they would be waiting at home for the return of their brave hunter-gatherers.

  ‘I’m not a fan of hunting either.’ Galopin said, following Lombard’s eyes as they went round the room. ‘I’m not a fan of any pursuit which is solely for male pleasure. They attract boors in my opinion, men who are usually frightened of women. Everything in life is improved by the presence of ladies, don’t you think?’

  ‘I dislike hunting too.’ Lombard was keen to get off the subject of women at least for now. ‘But not because it’s male dominated.’ He took his glass from Galopin and sipped cautiously; Galopin raised his in return. ‘What’s the book about? You’re right, by the way, this is very good.’ He took another sip.

  ‘The book is about Tours itself. A biography rather than a history, if you see the difference.’ Galopin was wistfully looking out of the window, ‘How its history has shaped its personality, its place in the world. That’s the plan anyway.’ He tried to smile, but winced instead.

  ‘I see.’ Lombard smiled to himself. The usual, then, the usual academic thinks his spot in the world is the most important. The book would doubtless say more about Galopin than Tours.

  ‘You are wrong to dismiss it!’ shouted Galopin, his sudden anger taking Lombard by surprise, though he knew it was a symptom of his tumour. ‘The former capital of France! Repelling the Muslim hordes in the eighth century…’

  ‘732. October 10.’ Lombard’s involuntary reflex snapped into action.

  ‘Very good.’ Lombard’s knowledge seem to appease him. ‘We have a major saint, Saint Martin, we’re an important stop on the Santiago di Compostela pilgrimage. It was an American base in The Great War…’

  ‘Joan of Arc.’

  ‘Joan of Arc! Exactly. Exactly.’

  ‘And that’s why you’re here?’

  Galopin sighed heavily and sat down in another worn armchair opposite. ‘Partly, Monsieur. Only partly.’ Lombard waited for further explanation which didn’t seem to be coming.

  ‘What is the other reason then?’ He asked gently, not wanting to excite Galopin too much, and who now raised his watery eyes from the floor.

  ‘Because I’m being hunted,’ he said sadly. ‘As you know.’

  Lombard felt little sympathy. He had been in this situation before, when the arrogance of suspects, particularly murder suspects, reveals their childish sense of injustice at being hounded down. It would no doubt prick Galopin’s superiority complex to think he was, to Lombard, just another member of a clichéd group and if he wasn’t sitting nearer the gun then he would push that further and enjoy watching the hurt that knowledge would cause him. But he also knew that he had to play this carefully. Again Galopin’s eyes looked on the verge of tears, tears for himself, a self-pitying murderer. What on earth, thought Lombard, suddenly quite angry, did Madeleine ever see in him? He seemed to represent everything she didn’t like in men, entitlement and sanctimony. He could feel his own emotions beginning to unravel, Galopin might be irrational because of his illness, but Lombard’s own rationality was being threatened, shredded e
ven, by abject misery and the kick in the gut he’d taken from the knowledge of Madeleine’s infidelity.

  ‘What did you expect?’ He asked the question as condescendingly as he could. Forget the gun, he thought, what does it matter if he was another victim or not? He wasn’t going to sit here and watch the man try to elicit his sympathy. ‘You killed two people, beat another almost to death.’

  Galopin lifted his eyes again, but there was no anger, just resignation. ‘And that’s why I came here.’ His voice was so quiet, Lombard could hardly hear him.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘There are times, because of this,’ he pointed a finger at his temple indicating his tumour, ‘that I just don’t know where I am. I have blackouts, not physical fainting you understand, just periods where I cannot account for myself. I “wake up” if you like and I don’t know where I am, or how I got there.’

  ‘And you think that’s an excuse…’

  ‘Please Monsieur, hear me out. I didn’t like Singleterry much and Lagasse, too insignificant to have an opinion of. The young American, lazily offensive. But,’ He leant forward in his chair, ‘did I kill them?’ He winced again.

  ‘You tell me.’

  Galopin stood up quickly, ‘I don’t know!’ It was almost like a primordial scream, a violent anger and anguish; the professor, the hoarder of knowledge, didn’t even know the most basic thing about himself. Innocent or guilty? The pain in his head was one thing but he was being torn in two by the doubt of this fundamental question. Is he a killer? He would probably accept being guilty, if it gave him certainty. It would also, Lombard’s legal cynicism ventured, be a crafty defence.

  ‘I came here,’ Galopin was quiet again, ‘to take myself out of the equation. I can’t account for my movements. I have no alibi. It could have been me, do you see? It could have been me. I don’t know. By staying here I know I can’t get to anyone else, I can’t kill. I’m trying to rule myself out of your investigation, Monsieur.’