Anglo-Francáis

by Phil Dumas

company, Constable? I thought you were ill?’

  ‘Yes. I mean, no.’ He nervously laughed. ‘No I haven't got company, and yes I am ill. Anyway, I’m sorry, sir, I won’t be coming in.’ He coughed as he began to close the door. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow—’

  ‘Put the kettle on,’ said Slave, inviting himself in. ‘If you’re not going to work, at least let’s have a cup of tea together.’

  With his best tea-cups rinsed and filled, Wells paced the kitchen like a caged panther whilst Slave took his time sipping his brew at the breakfast bar:

  ‘When was the last time you won anything, Wells?’

  ‘I won a tenner on the lotto about a month ago ... Why?’

  ‘Am I the only National Lottery loser?’ harked Slave, totally out of character. ‘Everyone I’ve met has had a win!’

  ‘You must have won something?’

  ‘Nope. Never won a thing,’ he claimed. ‘I’ve got friends with premium bonds, inheritance, you name it.’ His delivery was more of a question than a statement. ‘You got any of them, Wells? Sold an endowment policy, perhaps?’

  ‘Why are you asking these questions?’

  ‘A bit edgy, aren’t we? We’re only talking about the lotto.’

  A ball of nervous perspiration rolled from Wells’ forehead.

  Slave did not attempt to conceal his observation. ‘It’s a cold day. Are you hot?’

  ‘I’ve told you, I’m ill.’

  Slave waved the square piece of paper in the air then laid it on the bar. ‘You dropped your mini-statement in the car. It must have been from when you withdrew cash from the hole-in-the-wall, on the night of McDenn’s murder.’

  ‘Did you read it?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought it was one of mine. I almost had a heart attack when I saw it! Four noughts on a mini-statement lights up like a traffic cop in a florescent!’

  ‘It was a present from a long lost Aunt.’

  ‘Come on, Wells, that’s what idiots say to us. Thirty thousand quid? You must have been one hell of a nephew.’

  ‘Look, I don’t want to appear rude, sir, but I really must go back to bed.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Slave, drinking-up. ‘I’ll just use your toilet.’ He trotted off up the stairs before Wells had the chance to say—

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘Blind spots,’ yelled Slave from the bathroom.

  ‘I think one refers to them as Blackheads, sir,’ replied Wells.

  ‘No ... Places, streets. Areas where CCTV doesn’t cover.’

  ‘Who needs that sort of info?’

  ‘Sorry, Wells?’ said Slave appearing at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I don’t recall asking if anybody needed the info ... but whilst we are on the subject, Monsieur Athos de Winter had to know the blind spots, didn’t he? I mean, how else could he be so elusive?’

  ‘Athos de Minter … Never heard of him, sir. What is he, Belgian?’

  ‘You took his statement! What happened? Did your heart get the better of you? Or was it for the right price? Four noughts, perhaps?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir?’

  ‘There’s sand in your washing basket.’

  ‘So? I live in Torquay.’

  ‘You told me you hated the beach? Did you know that de Winter swam the channel in 1982?’

  ‘No.’

  Slave walked to the bottom of the stairs and yelled: ‘Would you come downstairs please, Monsieur de Winter?’

  After a minute, the Frenchman appeared, also wearing a silk gown.

  ‘We found strands of hair, much the same as your own, Monsieur, in McDenn’s pubic hair. It’s good to see you’re still keeping-up the swimming after all these years. And I, if anyone, am grateful that you called a Paramedic when that young woman was attacked by one of your wife’s rape suspects.’

  ‘Did she live?’ cried the Frenchman.

  Slave lowered his head. ‘Unfortunately not.’

  ‘Arrest moi!’ spoke de Winter in true French fashion. ‘I av no regrets about the people I’ve killed, if you can call them people. Anyway, it wasn’t Monsieur Wells’ idea.’

  Slave dialled his phone. Wells and de Winter knew the game was up; de Winter facing Life imprisonment and Wells not far behind. ‘47 Hatchfield Terrace,’ informed Slave. ‘Make it quick. Yes, it’s a matter of urgency.’

  ‘Av I time for a cigarette, Inspector?’ asked the fallen Frenchman.

  ‘No, a taxi will be here shortly, to take you to Exeter airport. Best start packing.’

  ‘But, why do you do this?’

  ‘For the victims of your victims.’ Slave looked towards Wells. ‘I have never done anything like this … ever. But it feels good. A friend of mine owes me a favour: It was a desk job you wanted, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you, sir, but I am told that France is beautiful this time of year.’

  ‘Then I bid you both, Adieu,’ said Slave.

  ‘What about the wigs and the murder weapon?’ asked Wells.

  ‘Bag them. I already have Monsieur’s head hair with trace of seawater.’ He pulled out the small, transparent bag. ‘I’ll take the wigs and weapon with me.’

  Suddenly, from behind the half-closed door, came a light thud. Slave swung it open. It was Babb, picking-up her dictation machine. They stood there, eye-to-eye, in silence.

  ‘How could you?’ she uttered, storming-off and slamming the front door behind her.

  ‘Perhaps, Mexico would be a safer option,’ sighed Slave...

  He returned to the station. Babb wasn’t at her desk but her car was parked outside. ‘Where’s Babb?’ he asked a colleague.

  ‘She’s in with the Chief Super, sir.’

  Slave waited anxiously at his desk.

  She appeared, tight-lipped and head low as she sat down at her newly acquired desk.

  ‘They turned his wife into a vegetable, Kate. You know it.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she huffed.

  ‘Athos de Winter has rid us of Devon’s most wanted.’

  ‘Murdered—’

  ‘Okay! He murdered his wife’s rapists!’

  ‘Her rapists? How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Wells is not as stupid as he looks. It was he who took the clothes and the forensic report.’

  ‘Stole.’

  ‘Whatever … Four different specimens of seman led him to four ugly mugs.’

  ‘They should have been brought to justice in the proper manner,’ she sulked.

  ‘What ... and spend a few years inside with their bum-chums? Food laid on; use of the gymnasium, X-box, and oh ... How about a bit of wood-turning or pottery classes whilst we’re at it! After they have bullied and pleasured themselves with the weak and vulnerable inside, they can come out here and carry on where they left off! Who’ll be next, Kate?’ He threw his ID on her desk. ‘You, perhaps? Or maybe your sister ... or your mother.’

  ‘How can you say those things?’ she cried.

  ‘It hurts, doesn’t it, Kate? Times that by ten and you might get a gist of what Monsieur de Winter is going through … every day.’

  ‘Is there a problem here?’ It was Chief Superintendent Fleetmac. It took a lot to prise him away from his air-conditioned office.

  ‘No sir,’ replied Babb. ‘I was just saying to Detective Slave that we have uncovered a new breed of criminal.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘P.G.R.s, sir: Professional Gang Rapists. The men who raped Madame de Winter were more organised than we thought. One to look out for in the future, sir.’

  ‘Impressive, Kate,’ he smiled. ‘I’ll be sure to look-out for it. Must dash, I’m having my hair done. The BBC have asked me if I’d like to have a nice little chat with a guy called Paxman – for Newsnight.’

  ‘Jeremy will crucify him,’ said Slave as Fleetmac made his exit.

  Babb fought hard to hold back her smile.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’

  ‘I did … He’s not very happy with the murders but he’s
over the moon by the huge drop in violent, sex attacks.’ There was something else on her mind.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I cross-referenced my list of gangs with your list of violent, sex offenders. The four murdered by de Winter belonged to a gang called—’

  ‘The Torquay Taliban?’

  ‘That’s right. The only problem is … They had five members.’

  ‘Who’s the fifth?’

  ‘The leader.’ She had entered his name in her personal notebook, just in case. ‘Here we are … Mr Wayne Vane. There was no trace of his seman because he didn’t take part.’

  ‘What is he, a voyeur … what?’

  ‘He’s a homosexual, but he loves to orchestrate violence of any kind.’

  Everyone expected the murderer to strike again … everyone except Slave, Babb, and the Chief Superintendent.

  Slave asked Babb what had made her go to Wells’ house, on the day he visited: Apparently, she had found that Wells’ Eiffel cigarettes could only be bought in France.

  PARIS, FRANCE:

  ‘Got everything, Athos?’ asked Wells, standing at the door of de Winter’s bedroom.

  Inconsolable, he ignored him.

  Wells broke the silence by switching on the radio and tuning in to the BBC World Service. ‘Ah, a bit of English speaking relief.’

  ‘Mexico!’ cursed Athos, breaking down on the bed. He wept through his hands. ‘I hate Mexico! Nothing but Tequila and dust!’

  Wells sat beside him. The newsreader’s “tongue” reminded him of England’s pastures green, rose scented gardens in unpredictable weather, and the strange need to visit a cheap souvenir shop set against a breathtaking backdrop.

  ‘...Wayne Vane,’ informed the newsreader, ‘was arrested after Devon and Cornwall Police raided his Bedsit in Torquay. Newly appointed Detective Constable Babb spoke to me earlier’:

  ‘Amongst an armoury of flick-knives and knuckle-dusters, we found a twelve-inch,