Chapter Ten

‘Georges, I’d be grateful if you’d accompany Nic… er Madame Vachon to her home now,’ Chief Inspector Maigret said as they were leaving the vicarage.

‘There’s no need for that, Philippe,’ Nicole said. ‘I feel better now, and I might do some shopping on the way. I’ll be fine.’

‘I’m sure you would be, but I wonder if you would let Inspector Martin have a look around your home. It’s possible he might find a clue as to where your husband is now. One of Chief Inspector Scott’s men will come later to take his description, and other details. A photo would also help if you have one.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, in that case, let him come with me. He’s welcome to look wherever he likes, if you think it will help. And yes, I have a photo of Serge. It might be a few years old, but it’s still a good likeness.’

Bon. I’m sure his time with you will be well spent.’ ‘What do you want me to do after I’ve finished, sir?’ Georges Martin asked.

‘How about you do a little reconnoitre around the area to see what you can find out? Maybe drop in to some of the local watering-holes with Serge Vachon’s photo to see if anyone knows him.’

‘Okay Chief. And after I’ve done that?’

‘I’ll call you when I’m finished at Scotland Yard. It will probably take about an hour to tie up some… er loose ends there.’

‘It’s red tape, Georges. It’s what I call Uncle Tom Cobley and all business,’ Megan whispered, ‘just in case everything goes pear-shaped and either Scotland Yard or Police Nationale ends up in the brown stuff.’

‘Comment, Megan?

Merde, Georges. In the proverbial merde!

‘In la mer, Inspector,’ Father Wainwright said helpfully, ‘isn’t that what you meant, Megan?’

‘Yes, of course, David, in la mer,’ Megan managed to say before she and Georges Martin began laughing.

Georges continued chuckling to himself as he and Nicole walked down the side street leading to Elgin Avenue. And he was still smiling when they reached the intersection where they would cross the dual carriage-way on the way to her mews house. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the grey car go across the roundabout at the Maida Vale tube station end of the avenue. It’s a long way off, his brain registered automatically, there’s plenty of time to get to the other side.

When they had almost reached the traffic island in the centre of the road, he realised that the car’s speed was increasing incrementally, second by second: it was now going much faster than they could walk. Then it was almost on top of them, and all he could do was to give Nicole an almighty shove to safety before the car hit him. Then there was nothingness. Fade to black.

As she fell to the asphalt, Nicole heard the sickening sound of Swedish steel colliding with French flesh. The car paused momentarily then accelerated again, and she lost consciousness.

When she regained consciousness she was strapped on a stretcher in an ambulance speeding with its siren blaring towards St Mary’s hospital.

‘Where is Inspector Martin?’ she murmured. ‘What’s happened to him? Is he alright?’

‘Ssh, lie still,’ the paramedic said, adjusting her oxygen mask.

An hour later, when Philippe Maigret called Georges Martin, the phone was answered by an unfamiliar female voice.

‘Who are you?’ the voice asked briskly.

‘Who are you?’ Philippe Maigret countered, ‘and why are you answering Inspector Martin’s phone?’

‘I’m a triage sister in Accident and Emergency at St Mary’s hospital. Are you a friend of Georges Martin, sir?’

‘Yes, I’m a friend and colleague. What’s happened to him?’

‘I regret… I regret… ’

Mon Dieu! He’s not… he’s not… ’ Philippe Maigret couldn’t bring himself to say the word.

‘I think you should come as soon as possible, sir. He’s been very seriously injured.’

‘How?’

‘Apparently it was a hit and run.’ ‘And what of the woman who was with him, Madame Vachon?’

‘I don’t know anything about her I’m afraid. I’m in the critical response unit – she might be in another part of the hospital.’

‘What’s your name, sister?’

‘I’m Lorna Rogers, sir. And you are… ?’

‘I’m Chief Inspector Philippe Maigret, of the Police Nationale in Paris. I’ll pass the phone to Sergeant Gillespie now, so you can give him all the details, while I see if arrangements can be made for a police escort to the hospital. Thank you, sister.’

Five minutes later the police car, with a motor-cycle out-rider, was speeding from Scotland Yard to the Edgware Road with sirens wailing. Philippe Maigret sat ashen-faced and grim in the back of the car holding hands with Megan, who alternated between tears and prayers. A police driver, especially trained for high-speed car chases, was driving at a terrifying speed, while Chief Inspector Scott sat next to him, holding on to the strap of his seat belt so tightly that his knuckles had already turned white.

When they arrived at St Mary’s there was a small amount of good news, but much more bad news. Georges Martin was alive, but barely, and he was still in surgery. If he survived both the surgery, and the next twelve hours, it would be by the Grace of God, not to mention the skill of the surgeons who were operating on him. And it would probably also be a miracle.

When she could bear the waiting no longer, Megan went outside into the warm afternoon sunshine on the noisy Edgware Road. She was amazed at how completely normal everything seemed. Don’t you know that inside this hospital a good, courageous man is fighting for his life, she screamed silently at the people passing by. Some stared curiously at her tear-stained face then looked away quickly, while others barely gave her a second glance. I’ve got to do something, she thought, but what? At that moment her mobile rang. It was David Wainwright’s wife, Diane.

‘I like your French policeman, Megan,’ she said brightly, ‘he’s quite dishy and the two of you seem so happy together. I wondered if you might like to bring him to dinner at the vicarage one night before he returns to Paris.’

‘Oh, Diane,’ was all Megan could say before her tears started again.

‘What’s wrong, Meg? What’s happened?’

‘It’s Georges Martin, he’s been run down by a car and he’s in St Mary’s in a very bad way.’

‘What can we do? Should David come to the hospital?’

‘Is he home?’

‘Yes, I saw him go into the church by the side door about fifteen minutes ago.’

‘Ask him to light every candle in the church, and then to pray as hard as he can. And you pray too.’

‘We will. I promise you, we both will.’

For the next four days Georges Martin hovered between life and death. His spleen had to be removed, he had substantial internal injuries, and he was in a coma. Sometimes Death seemed to gain the upper hand and they all despaired, then the pendulum swung again and Life clawed back a little ground. Philippe and Megan stayed at the hospital while one long day followed another, and still Georges did not regain consciousness. From the first night Philippe had insisted on sleeping in a small fold-up bed in Georges’ room, while Megan slept fitfully alone in her apartment.

The children, Celia, Max and Timmy, brought armfuls of fresh flowers and hand-drawn cards to him. Timmy even brought his beloved new cricket bat that he usually took to bed with him, and left it reverently next to Georges’ bed as though it was some holy relic with miraculous powers to heal. Then they all kissed his pallid cheek, shed more tears for him, and stole silently away when it was time to leave. Even Nathaniel, Megan’s third grandson, who lived in Norfolk, and hadn’t met any of the French policemen, sent letters and poems and cards with elaborate drawings about how the body could function quite well without a spleen.

But worse was to come.