Nicole Vachon was discharged from St Mary’s after one night there. She had not been badly hurt, but had a mild concussion, so had been told to rest for a few days. The day after her return home, Chief Inspector Scott from the Met Police, accompanied by Sergeant Andy Gillespie – the erstwhile “phoney vicar” – came to call. She had been expecting them.
‘What do you remember about the accident, Mrs Vachon?’ Chief Inspector Scott asked, as they sipped their coffee.
‘Nothing, really – it all happened so suddenly. Is Inspector Martin alright? He saved my life, that’s one thing I do know.’
‘It’s too early to tell, but we’re hoping he’ll be okay. Can you remember anything about immediately after the accident?’
‘No, only that my head hurt, but that was when I woke up in the ambulance. Why wasn’t Inspector Martin with me? How did he get to St Mary’s?’
‘I understand that a member of the public flagged down an ambulance travelling along Elgin Avenue soon after the accident, because it was obvious he had been badly injured.’
‘That’s right, boss,’ confirmed Andy Gillespie, ‘apparently it was already on its way to St Mary’s, but there was a patient in that ambulance already, so that’s why another one had to be sent for Mrs Vachon. I believe that one of the paramedics stayed with her until the second ambulance arrived.’ ‘I see. Thank you,’ said Nicole Vachon. ‘I’m so grateful to everyone who helped, especially Inspector Martin. It was a very brave thing he did, pushing me out of the way like that. He must have known the car would hit him. You know, he could have jumped clear if he’d done that instead of saving me, but he didn’t.’
‘I agree,’ said Chief Inspector Scott, ‘Georges Martin is a very courageous man and a fine police officer. I can assure you that Scotland Yard will see that his bravery is suitably recognised.’
‘Good. Now do you have any further questions, Chief Inspector? I’m very tired, I think I might have to lie down for a while.’
‘Just a few more, then I promise we’ll be on our way. These men who’ve been visiting Serge off and on over the past few weeks – what can you tell us about them?’ ‘Nothing, because I was never allowed to meet any of them: in fact I never even laid eyes on them.’
‘Why not?’ Inspector Gillespie asked.
‘Serge always knew when they were coming, so he told me to go out somewhere, like the cinema, or maybe shopping, otherwise I’d have to stay in our bedroom.’
‘So you didn’t even hear their voices?’
‘I did once, when I stayed home because I wasn’t well.’
‘And how many were there, do you know? And what accents did they have?’
‘I only heard one speak, but there might have been three that time. The one I heard spoke English – ordinary English, I mean.’
‘Ordinary English?’
‘Yes, you know; not posh.’
‘I see. Did he speak like us; Sergeant Gillespie, and me, perhaps?’
‘No – even more ordinary than you.’
Hmm, have we just been complimented or insulted, Andy Gillespie wondered. And ‘ordinary English’ hardly narrows down our field of suspects: most of the people we cross paths with would be in that category. But not all: we have our share of posh upmarket rascals too. ‘But some of the men who came were not English, were they?’ Chief Inspector Scott persisted.
‘How would I know? I told you I never heard any of the others speak because I was usually out.’
‘And you still haven’t heard anything from Serge?’
‘Not a word. Have you heard anything? Has his car been found yet?’
‘No, we’ve heard nothing.’ ‘And what about the car that ran us down?’
‘We’re still looking for that, too. The owner had reported it stolen the night before.’
‘There’s just one more thing, or rather two, Mrs Vachon,’ Andy Gillespie said as they were leaving.
‘Yes?’
‘That day Mrs Lisle and I came collecting books for the church fair. Why did you have wet paint on your cheek and a paint brush behind your ear… ?’
‘I’m an artist,’ she interrupted, ‘that’s how I look most days.’
‘But the painting we saw downstairs was dry.’
‘Yes, I finished it the night before. What of it?’
‘How could the paint have come from that painting?’
‘You really are an observant man, aren’t you,’ she said, ‘but did it never occur to you that I might have been working on another painting upstairs?’
‘Were you?’ Chief Inspector Scott asked quickly.
‘Yes, of course I was! I’d set up an easel on the balcony of our bedroom, at the back of the house overlooking the garden,’ she said. ‘I was painting the garden and the trees and houses beyond. ‘Still life with apple tree’ is what I’ve decided to call it. Would you like to see it?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary. But why were you so abrupt with us that day?’ Andy Gillespie asked, ‘and why did it take you so long to answer the door?’
‘Questions, questions,’ Nicole said wearily. ‘Serge and I had just had a terrible row, if you must know.’
‘About what, Mrs Vachon?’
‘Money. And now I suppose you’ll want to know more.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘I’d taken some money from his briefcase. Only £60 but he went crazy when he discovered it. I tried to explain that I needed it to buy some meat and other things for dinner, but he kept shouting that I had no right to take it without asking him. But how could I? He was out at the time. And anyway, I couldn’t understand why he made all the fuss; it wasn’t like he didn’t have plenty left! And he’s never been a mean man – never! He’s always given me what I needed before, then a huge drama this time.’
‘This £60, Mrs Vachon, can you remember what notes were involved? How it was made up?’ Clive Scott tried to make his voice sound casual, but he was holding his breath while he waited for her to answer.
‘That’s easy! All the notes in his briefcase were £20. He must have just been to the bank because they were all clean and new-looking, in neat bundles with paper bands around them. That’s why I was surprised that he missed the three I took. And I did intend to tell him later. I’d never just take money without mentioning it later. I’m not that kind of woman.’
‘I’m sure you’re not. Do you remember where you spent the money?’
‘What’s this all about?’ she said, suddenly suspicious again.
‘Just routine enquiries, Mrs Vachon, I can assure you.’ Yes, it was a white lie, but for the greater good, he thought, so nothing to make a blasted song and dance about.
‘I spent it down at Little Venice. I remember buying some meat in the organic butcher’s shop, and then I went into Tesco’s and bought a few things there.’
‘And did you spend all of the £60?’ asked Andy Gillespie.
‘No, not all of it: I had one £20, and some change left, but Serge took the £20 off me.’
As they drove out of the mews Clive Scott said, ‘No prizes for where we’re going now, eh Andy?’
‘No, boss: as we always say “follow the money”. But where do you want to go first, the butcher’s or Tesco’s?’
‘Let’s go to the posh butcher first; it’ll be easier than blasted Tesco’s. I hate to think how much money passes through their tills on any given day!’
The organic butcher did remember a counterfeit £20 note being spent in his shop recently. He hadn’t noticed it at the time, but NatWest certainly had when he’d paid in his takings later that day. The watermark was wrong and there was something dodgy about the numerical sequence. It was the same story, eventually, in the Tesco shop, but it took much longer before they heard it, because no one seemed to know who was in charge.
‘So, matey, now there’s a definite connection established between Serge Vachon and the counterfeit £20 notes that Megan Lisle’s grandson found south of the River.’
‘So it would seem, guv.’
‘Which means the next question becomes… ’
‘Who was the intended victim of the hit and run: Nicole Vachon, or Georges Martin?’
‘My money’s on Nicole Vachon, Andy.’
‘Mine, too, boss, but who was driving the car, Serge Vachon or one of his associates?’
‘That’s the $64,000 question, my friend.’ They wouldn’t have to wait very long for the answer.
At 7 o’clock that evening the water police pulled a body out of the Thames, just beyond Barnes bridge, very near the finish of the annual Oxford Cambridge boat race. The body had been in the water for over twenty-four hours, and fish had eaten some of the flesh, but the pathologist who did the post-mortem could still determine that the cause of death was drowning. That had been easy enough. But the interesting thing for this particular pathologist was the stomach contents of the victim: red wine, garlic bread, and half-chewed fresh garlic kernels.
It was Serge Vachon.
Almost exactly twelve hours later, the grey sedan that had been used to run down Georges Martin, was found abandoned in Peckham, south London. The front of the car was damaged, clearly showing the impact with Inspector Martin’s body, and his blood was visible on the front panels. Apart from that, the car held nothing remarkable by way of evidence.
Nothing that is, apart from a small fragment of a business card that was wedged underneath the front seat. That fragment had a fingerprint on it, and the person to whom the fingerprint belonged was known to the police. In fact he was very well known: his nom de crim was Slippery Sam.
However he was not the Big Fish in this criminal conspiracy. Oh no, he was just a tiny minnow. But the man he had recently been working for belonged to a very different kettle of fish: he was a piranha!
And an extremely large, vicious piranha at that.