Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London (6 page)

During the long, dark days that followed the attempt on Georges Martin's life, Max's health began to deteriorate. At first he couldn't sleep, because of the terrifying nightmares that tormented him. Next were the bad headaches, together with a sore throat that made swallowing difficult and painful.

Then his throat closed up and refused to accept any food at all, even his favourite kind which his mother made for him. Finally, his stomach grew very hard and knotted itself into a tight ball. And he couldn't tell anyone what was wrong. How could he, when he didn't know himself? In those four days when Georges Martin's life hung in the balance, Max, who had scarcely known more than a few days illness in his life, grew so pale and listless that he had to be kept home from school. He spent his days lying on a sofa in the living room, with Inky beside him for comfort. In the end, despite all the medical advice, and the urgent discussions concerning the need for psychological intervention, it was Timmy who provided the first clue as to what was wrong with Max.

Timmy heard him muttering, over and over, every night as he lingered in some undefined space between sleep and awake.

‘Shut up, Max!' he finally shouted. ‘You're talking tosh all the time. I can't understand a thing you're saying! Shut up, and go back to sleep!'

However, on the third night Timmy heard
very clearly what Max was saying. Over and over he was repeating the cryptic words ‘crème caramel'!

‘But what does it mean?' he asked his mother the next morning.'

‘What, Timmy?' She said absent-mindedly, while she pressed a damp cloth to Max's forehead. He's very hot, she thought. Should I take him to the hospital again? Or maybe the doctor will do an emergency home visit?

‘What I just said!'

‘I'm sorry – what did you say?'

‘I said, what does ‘crème caramel' mean?'

‘What? It's a kind of dessert, Timmy, you know that. It's one of your favourites.'

Timmy sighed in exasperation. ‘I
know
it's a dessert, but what does it
mean
?'

‘It doesn't mean anything. It's just the name of a pudding.'

When his father came downstairs five minutes later Timmy tried again. ‘What does ‘crème caramel' mean, Dad?' he asked.

‘It's a dessert. It doesn't
have
to
mean
anything.'

‘Oh, forget it!' Timmy said, stomping off huffily towards the study. ‘I'll ask Granny. At least I know she
will
listen to me, even if she doesn't know the answer!'

But Granny did know because, as Timmy's dad had said many times, Granny had an elephantine memory, and you know how elephants are supposed to have phenomenal memories. And indeed she did have quite a good memory, although she often wished it worked better with French verbs than it did with useless bits of trivia.

Timmy caught Granny just as she was about to leave for St Mary's again. When he asked her the question she didn't say that it was a kind of pudding, instead she asked, ‘Why do you need to know, sweetie?'

‘Because that's what Max has been yelling all night, and I'm fed up with it!'

The cogs in Granny's brain began turning: spinning, sifting, sorting, scrutinising, selecting, through the masses of data stored there. Then, finally, the file she was looking for popped into her consciousness. Gotcha, she thought triumphantly. ‘I see. Could you take the phone to Max now please, Timmy? I need to speak to him. I'll tell you later what I think it might be about.'

‘Okay.'

‘Hello,' it was Max's voice faint and fretful.

‘Max, it's Granny.'

‘I know. I'm sick, Granny. I've never felt like this before. Not in my whole life.'

‘I know, darling. Where does it hurt?'

‘Everywhere. Everywhere hurts – even my eyes, and my teeth – everywhere, but mostly my head. And the inside of my stomach too. I'm not pretending, Granny, I really am sick.'

‘I know you are, darling, and it's because of Georges, isn't it?'

There was a long pause: a very long pause while she waited for Max to answer, but he said nothing. ‘Max, do you remember all of us being in France together a long time ago? You were only a little sprog and Timmy was just a baby, remember?'

‘I think I remember. Granddad was there too, wasn't he? And did we stay in a big house with a swimming pool, and Celia and I slept in a room together, next to Mum and Dad's room?'

‘Yes, that's it! And Nathaniel and Julie were there too. Nat was even younger than you, and he used to do a wobbly walk around the edge of the pool: Granddad always worried that he might fall in. Remember?'

‘I
think
so.'

‘Good. Then can you remember that one day it rained all day long, and everyone was miserable because we couldn't swim, or even go outside? All we could do was read and look at the rain.'

‘I don't remember that.'

‘I think you do, Max. Or at least part of your brain remembers.'

‘I'm very tired, Granny. I can't think about this any more. It makes my headache worse.'

‘Please, darling, just a few minutes more while I tell you a little story: it's
a true
story. Would that be okay?'

‘I guess so.'

‘That night, the night when it had rained all day, I gave you and Celia a bath, then you both climbed into bed and I read you a story.'

‘What story?' And Max, the avid reader, was suddenly a little more interested than he'd been before.

‘I can't remember, but that's not the important part of what I'm telling you, sweetie.'

‘Oh.'

‘When I'd finished reading the story, I said that we should each say a little prayer to God.'

‘I'm not sure I believe in God.'

‘That's alright, Max. I'm sure He
believes
in you!'

‘That Professor says that God is deluded… '

‘No, Richard Dawkins says a belief in God is a delusion. At least that's what I think he says, because I haven't read his book. If you ask me, he's the one who is deluded. He's made Science his god just like Aaron did with the golden calf. Only now they don't have to melt their jewellery to do it because they have research grants instead. Then everyone bows down and says “clever science, clever scientists, they have all the answers”, when they actually know very little, and can
prove
even less.'

‘What?' ‘Oh, I was thinking about the story of the golden calf. It's in the Old Testament. I'll tell you another day.'

‘A calf made out of gold? That's impossible,' Max was incredulous. But he was also interested.

‘Well, of course it wasn't a real calf, but it was made from real
gold.'

‘Oh. How?'

‘All the people gave Aaron, the priest, their gold jewellery, and he melted it down to make the golden calf. And I can tell you that nothing
good came from that little episode – nothing good at all! But the whole story's for another time; it's not important now.'

‘Is that it? Is that what you wanted to tell me?'

‘No, of course not silly, I haven't finished yet, because I got side-tracked when you mentioned wretched Professor Dawkins! But to return to my original
story
;
we all said an evening prayer to God. I can't remember who went first, nor can I remember what Celia said, or what I said. But I can remember very clearly what you said, Max. Shall I tell you?'

‘I suppose.' ‘You said,
‘Dear God, please remember our needs and give us a fine day tomorrow: crème caramel'.
'

‘What? But that doesn't make sense! Why would I say that, instead of Amen? That's what we do in Assembly after we've said the Lord's Prayer.'

‘No one knows why you said it, you just did. And you
were
very fond of crème caramel at the time!'

‘I still am,' he said weakly.

‘I know you are. But I think that how we end our prayers doesn't matter much to God. It must be what's in our hearts that's important. Guess what happened the next day?'

‘What?'

‘It was the best, the sunniest, the most wonderfully perfect day of the whole two weeks that we were in France. Now what do you think about that?'

‘I don't know. My head hurts too much to think.'

‘And after that perfect day, when I told the rest of the family what you'd said the night before, we all laughed and said “so that's how to make sure our prayers are answered: forget the Amen and always end by saying crème caramel”!'

Then suddenly Granny was serious again. ‘Timmy says that you've been saying crème caramel at night. You've even been shouting it sometimes. Why would you do that, do you think?'

There was silence for a long time, so Granny decided to fill the void. ‘Darling, is there any chance you might be blaming yourself for what has happened to Inspector Martin?'

More silence.

‘Do you think that the bad thing happened to Georges because you said he was a rubbish bowler?'

There was a different sound now on the other end of the line: it could have been soft tears falling. But then big boys of almost eleven don't cry, do they?

‘Max, listen to me. What happened to Georges happened because someone deliberately tried to kill him. It was a criminal act, not the result of you telling him he couldn't bowl! How could words cause what happened? Haven't you called me a rubbish bowler sometimes? And have I ever been run down by a car after you did? No, of course I haven't!'

There was a loud sob mixed with a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the line.

‘You don't think I put a… a… kind of…
curse
on him, Granny?'

‘No I do not! For a start only truly evil people put curses on other people. And when they do, they come to nothing because the Lord God Almighty over-rides them!'

‘What?'

‘He presses the cosmic delete button to make the curse disappear!'

‘Are you sure? How do you know that's an actual verifiable
truth?'

‘I just
do
. The same way that I know the sun will come up tomorrow morning. Now will you do something for me, sweetie?'

‘Like what?'

‘Will you have a nice long shower then get dressed, and I'll ask Mum to take a taxi to the hospital, so that you and I can see Georges together. And then we could say a crème caramel prayer. Would you like that, Max?'

‘Yes. But first can I have something to eat? I'm totally starving! I'd like some scrambled eggs and bacon, and lots of toast with honey!'

Max's mother said later that he ate as if all the food was about to vanish from the planet.

‘I thought he'd throw up with the amount he ate, after so long without food,' she laughed, ‘but he didn't, and I don't think he's stopped eating since!'

Later that morning, Alison brought Max to the hospital. Then Megan asked both Philippe and her to leave the room. ‘You do it, Max. I think it would work better coming from you,' she said. ‘You sit on the other side of Georges, and take hold of his hand, while I do the same on this side.'

‘Okay.' He cleared his throat dramatically, and then said,
‘
Dear God, please make Georges well again. He's not really a rubbish bowler – he just hasn't had the practice. If he had a few sessions in the nets I'm sure he'd show a huge
improvement. And you must admit he's a good batsman, even if he is French.'
Then he paused and said, in a clear, strong voice, ‘crème caramel.'

‘Crème caramel,' repeated his Granny, with tears in her eyes.

‘Crème caramel,' said Philippe, standing in the doorway.

‘Crème caramel,' Max said again.

Whether it was the crème caramel prayer, or Father Wainwright's many prayers and candles, or the skill of the surgeons, or the mystery of how the human body knows how to repair itself – given a little strategic help – or a combination of all those positive forces, no one knew for sure, but later that day Georges began to emerge from his coma. And within the week he would be well enough to be flown back to Paris by air ambulance. However, Granny knew what she believed, and she was not alone: there were others with similar thoughts. ‘It must have been a miracle,' an immensely impressed Timmy whispered to Max after their mother had turned off their light that night.

‘Yep,' replied Max from the upper bunk, ‘there's no doubt about it. It was a genuine, one hundred percent crème caramel miracle!'

‘Do you think God likes crème caramel too, Max?'

‘Of course – what's not to like?'

Then they both fell asleep and slept soundly for the next nine hours.

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.