Megan immediately went downstairs, looking for Jacques. She found him, sitting alone on the patio, enjoying his glass of wine in the warm stillness of the evening.
‘You look so peaceful, Jacques, I hate to disturb you, but I’m afraid I must,’ she said, then she related her conversation with firstly, Celia, and then David Wainwright.
‘Marie Mère de Dieu,’ he said, slumping back in his chair. As soon as he could he made his excuses, said a polite “goodnight” to everyone, went upstairs to his room, phoned Chief Inspector Maigret, and told him everything.
He related the entire story again the next morning, as he and Andy Gillespie walked to the small Dulwich gallery which had profited from James Evremond’s generosity.
‘Sacre-double-bleu,’ Andy said succinctly, when Jacques had finished speaking. ‘And now this gallery is having a big shindig at the London Eye.’
‘Yes, my friend. And since I recently found a photograph of the London Eye with a large amount of real money, I think we can put two and two together and come up with four.’
‘Or a hell of a big bang of some kind,’ Andy said.
‘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 chief 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.