Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London Page 12

  ‘Exactly. Does your chief inspector still have people watching James Evremond?’

  ‘Yes, but he’s calling off the surveillance later today.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we can’t afford the overtime, and Evremond has never done anything remotely interesting anyway. He goes from his house to the bank, to the local shops, and then back to his house, and then later, to the gallery. Then he goes home again. The most interesting thing he’s done since we’ve been watching him is to drive up to Cambridge yesterday to see his son.’

  ‘Ah, yes – Patrick.’

  ‘The very same,’ Andy said.

  ‘So why should he visit him now?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he? There’s no law against it.’

  ‘Except that he has a daughter with a terminal illness, and the event at the London Eye is just a week away,’ Jacques said. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little more than a coincidence?’

  ‘Don’t you start with the coincidences Jacques. I get enough of that from my chief!’

  ‘Me, too,’ Jacques said. ‘But the timing is what I find curious. What if he went to Cambridge to say goodbye to his son?’

  ‘But there’s nothing wrong with Patrick, is there? It’s young Genevieve who’s ill.’

  They reached the gallery, paid their entrance fee, and went inside. The curator looked suspiciously at Jacques, but said nothing other than “bonjour, Monsieur”, completely ignoring Andy Gillespie. What am I, he thought, chopped liver!

  ‘This is the painting that James Evremond comes to sit and meditate on three or four times a week. Ask yourself, Andy, why would he do that?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, taking a stab at the subject, since he was no great devotee of the arts. ‘It’s nice enough, charming even: a beautiful woman with her arms around a pretty little girl. What’s the problem?’ ‘The problem is, my friend, that this is not just a painting of a pretty little girl with a beautiful woman. This is a painting of the artist, Louise Elizabeth Vigée-Lebrun, and her daughter, painted by a student of the artist herself! Now do you see the problem for us?’

  ‘Nup, I don’t, Jacques.’

  ‘It’s a mother and child painting! James Evremond has a very sick daughter who has precisely the same illness that caused the death of her mother. And this painting, of a woman caressing her small child, is the image which he stares at for hours each week. Now do you see what concerns me?’

  ‘Are you saying he’s… somehow… strengthening himself for something he must do – but doesn’t want to do – by focussing on the painting in the way that he does?’ ‘Voila! That’s exactly what I’m saying, although I would have used different words. I think this… this… evil creature,’ Jacques said, almost spitting out the words, ‘this hell-hound who Evremond has allowed into his home, who forces the poor sick girl to drink vile, disgusting stuff, and wear the sign of the devil, while he chants blasphemous spells over her, has promised him something for something.’

  ‘Like a life for a life?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And here’s another question for you: if Evremond was so fond of the painting, why didn’t he just buy it for himself, to hang in his sitting room, instead of donating £100,000 so that the gallery could buy it?’

  ‘He’d need a big wall,’ the practical Andy said.

  ‘Have you seen the size of his house, mon ami? Trust me he has plenty of wall space in that mansion of his! He bought it to buy influence at the gallery. Do you really think anyone is going to insist that the gallery’s most prominent benefactor has a full security check at the London Eye next week? I certainly don’t! And that, in my opinion, is exactly why he made the donation. Not only that, but I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut, that it was Evremond who suggested having this event at the Eye in the first place.’

  While Andy was still digesting all this information, his mobile rang. ‘You and Jacques Laurent are to stop messing about in SE21 and to get your blasted butts back north of the river, on the double. And I mean, the double, Andy! Jacques is under starter’s orders to return to Paris this afternoon and… ’

  ‘He knows, guv. Chief Inspector Maigret sent him a text with the details this morning.’

  ‘Yes, well – but there’s more. Grab the first cab you see, pick up Jacques’ bag at the family home and both of you get here pronto. Oh, and one more thing. By whatever means you can, make sure Mrs Lisle goes with Jacques to St Pancras this afternoon.’

  ‘Why, guv?’

  ‘I ask the questions in this relationship, Andy! And don’t you forget that.’

  ‘Just being curious, guv: it’s the mark of a good detective, as you always say. And I have another charge you can add to Slippery Sid’s sheet.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps interfering with a witness, or intimidation, or maybe even child endangerment or abuse. There might be something in the 1978 Protection of Children Act that we could use if we… ’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about, Andy,’ his boss interrupted.

  ‘Some of the boys at the school very readily identified the photograph of Slippery Sid as the man who had been asking questions about young Max.’

  ‘Well, well, well,’ his boss said thoughtfully, ‘now that’s what I call a result. Well done lads! Now both of you get back here tout-de-blasted-suite! And that’s an order!’

  Less than an hour later, both Andy and Jacques were sitting in Chief Inspector Scott’s office, bringing him up to speed with what they had discovered. Clive Scott had already given the order that Slippery Sid Ellis was to be brought up from the cells, and deposited in the same room as the one that he had been interviewed in the previous night, with, or without, his solicitor. And now he invited Jacques Laurent to sit in on the interview, together with Andy Gillespie. But first he had a question for Jacques.

  ‘Are you sure Mrs Lisle will go with you to St Pancras this afternoon, Jacques?’

  ‘Absolutely, Chief Inspector; she said she wouldn’t hear of me leaving London without someone to farewell me.’

  ‘Good, good. I think she’s in for a little surprise,’ the chief inspector said, chuckling at the thought. ‘But now, down to business: I want both of you to keep absolutely schtum while I tell Slippery what we know. Then, with a bit of luck, he’ll give us the answers we’re looking for. Only ask him a question if I look directly at you; otherwise, this is my party – got it?’

  They both nodded, and as they did, the chief inspector’s phone rang. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let Slippery and his shyster brief stew in their own blasted juice for a few minutes. We’ll be there in five.’ And so they were.

  This was the first time Jacques Laurent had witnessed the interview of a suspect by a senior British police officer, so he didn’t know what to expect. Nor did he have any direct knowledge of Chief Inspector Scott, but from the snippets he’d heard of the Met officer’s personality – his quick temper, his inability to suffer fools easily – he’d come to consider him as something of a hot-headed buffoon. But, only a few minutes after the interview began, he had completely changed his opinion: he was impressed. Very impressed indeed.

  Chief Inspector Clive Scott firstly laid out, quietly and in meticulous detail, the case against Slippery Sid Ellis as though it was a road map to a destination that he was determined Sid should reach without delay. His voice was clear, precise, and professional. Not one single “blasted” escaped his lips during the entire twenty minutes or so that he spoke. When he had finished he added – almost as though it was an afterthought, which it most certainly was not – ‘Oh, and the charge sheet against your client, Mr Hackford, will read two attempted murders, and one actual murder!’

  At that revelation, Sid Ellis, who had been picking sulkily at his fingernails (already severely bitten down) for the entire time the chief inspector had been speaking, sat bolt upright, and shouted ‘No way, guv! No way on this earth!’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, save it for the judge, Slippery,’ the chie
f inspector said calmly.

  ‘Who, pray tell, is the alleged victim in the murder charge,’ Mr Hackford said, with his usual smarmy air of self-importance, ‘the unknown person who my client is alleged to have murdered?’

  ‘Monsieur Serge Vachon, a French citizen living in Maida Vale, west London,’ the chief inspector replied. ‘Whose body was pulled out of the Thames a few days ago.’

  ‘Who’s he when he’s at home?’ Sid said angrily. ‘I don’t even know the geezer – never heard of him!’

  ‘Then let me refresh your memory,’ the chief inspector said. ‘It was his wife, also a French citizen, who you almost killed when you hit the police officer, an inspector, in Maida Vale instead. Capisce?’ Then he looked directly at Jacques, signalling that he wanted him to ask Sid a question.

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Jacques Laurent said, pleased that he could remember the local lingo, ‘what can you tell us about the man known as The Recruiter?’

  On hearing those words and to everyone’s surprise, not least of all his own, Sid Ellis slid slowly off his seat and onto the floor in a dead faint.

  Chief Inspector Scott leant forward, and peered over his desk at Slippery Sid lying motionless at his feet. ‘I believe I’ll rest my case now, Mr Hackford,’ he said, then settled back in his chair again with a wide grin on his face.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After Slippery Sid had been revived, firstly by having smelling salts waved under his nose, followed by the promise of a tot of brandy (for medicinal purposes only!), and a visit from the police doctor when he was returned to his cell, Chief Inspector Scott led the way back to his office.

  ‘Get straight on to the Essex Police, Andy,’ he said. ‘Find out if Slippery’s mother has had any recent medical treatment. I need to know how this Recruiter creep managed to get his hooks into a small-time villain like Sid. I’m sure the Essex lads will know where his mother lives, because Sid stays with her sometimes, and they like to keep tabs on him. I think it’s somewhere near Clacton-on-Sea.’

  As he finished speaking, his phone rang. It was Megan Lisle.

  ‘Now what do you want, Mrs Lisle? The moon and a few medium sized stars or perhaps… ’

  ‘No, Chief Inspector Scott,’ she laughed, ‘just a tiny little star, the same size as the one you promised me before.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d like you to arrange for Genevieve Evremond to be taken into care; if that’s possible.’

  ‘Well, it’s ruddy-well not,’ he exploded. ‘And even if I could, I wouldn’t! Why would anyone in their right mind want to move a terminally ill girl from the comfort of her own home and into care?’

  ‘Well, what about arresting James Evremond then. Is that a possibility?’

  ‘What charge would you recommend?’

  ‘Er… well, perhaps conspiracy to commit an act of terrorism,’ she replied, thinking fast because she knew his question was sarcastic.

  ‘And, of course, you have the evidence for such a charge, I presume?’

  ‘Well, no. But… ’

  ‘Guv, there’s still the matter of him passing the two dud £20 notes,’ Andy said, placing his neck firmly on the chopping-block.

  ‘And how long do you think we’d be able to hold him on that charge? He’d be out on bail within an hour or two at the most.’

  ‘That might be long enough, Chief Inspector,’ Megan Lisle said.

  ‘Long enough for what, exactly?’ He was suspicious now.

  ‘For me to visit Genevieve, to see if there’s any way I can help her. How do you know the stuff The Recruiter is forcing down her throat isn’t poison? Or a class A drug for that matter?’

  ‘I share your concern, Mrs Lisle, I really do, but I have some plans of my own in the pipeline. Will you allow me twenty-four hours to put them in place before you go charging in where angels fear to tread? Just twenty-four hours, that’s all I’m asking.’

  ‘And if I do, can I trust that you’ll have helped Genevieve properly by then?’

  ‘You can. I promise, on my word as a Met officer – if not a gentleman!’

  ‘Okay, then.’

  ‘Now what about Jacques Laurent and his return to Paris this afternoon? Are you in your own apartment now?’

  ‘I am. Jacques can get a taxi here any time he’s ready.’

  ‘Good. And you’re taking him to St Pancras?’

  ‘Of course, I am. How could you think otherwise?’

  ‘Good, then that’s settled. He’ll be with you immediately after lunch.’ And you, my dear, are in for quite a surprise, he thought, chuckling under his breath.

  At that moment Andy’s phone rang. It was the Essex constabulary, with the answer to his question about Slippery’s mother’s health.

  ‘I see, I see,’ he said, ‘thanks for getting back to me so quickly. I’m sure my chief inspector will find all that very interesting. Is she still in hospital? Oh, home now but chemo continuing – gotcha. Thanks a bunch. We owe you one, lads.’

  ‘What news, Andy?’

  ‘Breast cancer diagnosed three or four months ago. Partial mastectomy, touch and go for a while, but she seems to be doing okay now.’

  ‘So now we know how The Recruiter did it.’

  ‘Yep. And there’s another thing guv. It seems that Slippery’s mum ran up quite a large gambling debt and… ’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Various ways: you name it, she did it.’

  ‘How much did she owe?’

  ‘Essex lads are not sure. But somewhere in the region of £40,000, they think. Apparently someone waved a large magic wand a few times and the whole debt was wiped off.’

  ‘And no prizes for guessing who that might have been, Andy.’

  ‘Someone with the devil’s own luck, perhaps?’

  ‘You said, matey,’ his boss replied. ‘You blasted-well said it!’

  At 12.30 pm they took Jacques Laurent for a farewell lunch at a small French restaurant close to Scotland Yard, then despatched him by taxi to Regent’s Park. They watched until the taxi had disappeared, then Chief Inspector glanced at his watch. ‘Right, Andy – nearly show-time,’ he said.

  ‘Show-time, guv?’

  ‘Time to go up on the roof now.’

  ‘What, sir?’

  ‘This morning I scheduled a helicopter for 3.30pm so we’ll make it with time to spare,’ he replied, looking very pleased with both himself, and the way the case was progressing.

  ‘And where are you… ?’

  ‘You, too, Andy, you’re coming for the ride. We’re off to Cambridge to see Patrick Evremond.’

  ‘Talk about the French keeping their cards close to their chests, looks like you’ve got some Gallic blood too.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it, old chum. Pure, unadulterated 100% prime English beef – that’s me.’

  ‘Well, there was, of course, the small matter of the Norman Conquest which might just have contaminated… ’

  ‘We won’t go into that right now, though – will we?’

  ‘Is Patrick Evremond expecting us, boss?’

  ‘Yes, and he seemed happy to be interviewed, although naturally I was very sketchy about the subject matter. He’s even invited us to something called ‘High Tea’ at his college.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘Yes, so mind your manners, and let me take the lead; we don’t want to spook him or he’ll clam up.’

  ‘What’s his college?’

  ‘King’s, of course: where else for the son of an officer and a gentleman?’

  The Bell 206 JetRanger helicopter (cruise speed 100 knots, or 115 miles per hour), arrived as scheduled, and took 53 minutes to cover the 102 miles to Cambridge.

  Their arrival caused barely a ripple at the University. Sons of European royalty – even minor royalty – arrived and left that way all the time. So did Middle Eastern monarchs, keen to donate large wads of cash in hope of securing a place for their sons (and sometimes even their daughters!) to study within those hallowed hall
s. Prime Ministers came and went that way too, but not so often.

  When they eventually met Patrick Evremond, they were surprised. Yes, he was handsome, but not in the classic “tall, dark” way: he had been cast in the Prince Harry mould. His hair was a sandy red colour, he had a few freckles across his cheekbones, and his figure was enviably athletic. But there were no airs and graces about him: his was an easy, natural charm, although his accent bordered on posh. This is a young man who will go places, Chief Inspector Scott thought, as he ran his professional eye over him. And thank God we’re still turning out people like him. ‘So,’ Patrick Evremond said affably, while they waited for the tea, ‘are you Special Branch, or MI5? Or is it MI6? I never can remember which is which.’

  ‘What would make you think that?’ Chief Inspector Scott said, playing the old lawyers’ trick of answering a question with a question, which gave time to collect one’s thoughts. ‘We’re exactly what it says on the tin; or, in our case, on our warrant cards. We’re Scotland Yard, plain and simple.’

  ‘Hmm, plain and simple Scotland Yard seems like an oxymoron to me, Chief Inspector. In my experience Scotland Yard detectives don’t swan around in helicopters.’

  Has he just thrown down the gauntlet, or is he genuinely suspicious, Clive Scott wondered. Or too damned clever by half? He decided to answer the question by playing a straight bat.

  ‘We don’t make a habit of travelling this way, but we sometimes do when time is short and… ’

  ‘And it is now?’

  ‘Yes, very short.’

  ‘Then fire away with your questions, Chief Inspector,’ Patrick said cheerfully, ‘while I play mother with the tea.’

  Andy Gillespie, who was watching the young man carefully, saw the fleeting shadow pass over his face when he said the word mother. Poor lad, he thought, the pain’s still very raw, and now his little sister has the same thing.

  ‘Would you mind telling us the reason for your father’s visit a day or so ago?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t mind. But why do you want to know? Are you sure you’re not MI5 disguised as plain and simple Scotland Yard?’