‘That’s all I ask. It seems that your chief suspect, James Evremond… ’
‘Out of curiosity: do you actually know everything about this particular case, Mrs Lisle?’
‘Just about. Surely you realise that Philippe and I have no secrets from each other? What did you expect?’
‘Get on with it – I haven’t got all blasted day!’
‘It seems that James Evremond’s wife died three or four years ago. Could you please find out what she died from?’ ‘Why?’
‘No, Chief Inspector, that’s not how it works. I’ve just given you some information. Now it’s your turn. When you give me the answer to my question, I will tell you more.’
‘I hope Philippe Maigret knows exactly what he’s taking on with you,’ he muttered, half in exasperation, half in grudging admiration. ‘And I also hope you know that withholding information from the police is a serious criminal offence.’
‘I think he’s beginning to get an idea,’ she said, choosing to ignore the chief inspector’s second sentence as she ended the conversation.
Fifteen minutes later, he phoned with her answer.
‘Rosemary Evremond died from non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma,’ he said, without the usual pleasantries. ‘Do you know what that is?’
‘Not really, but I know it’s serious. Is it hereditary?’
‘Why would you ask that?’
‘Because it might be that James Evremond’s daughter, Genevieve, has it too.’
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other end of the phone. ‘Would you mind telling me how you came by that info?’
‘Yes, I actually would mind. You have your sources and I have mine.’ Another sharp intake of breath followed from the other end of the line.
‘It’s a cancer of the blood, it’s not supposed to be hereditary, and it usually affects more men than women,’ Chief Inspector Scott said. ‘But apparently some patients with lymphoma suspect that other family members might also have had it. And it’s true that in some cases, conditions that affect the immune system – which lymphoma does – may actually run in families, which, in turn, increases the risk of it developing within those particular families.’
‘And is it usually fatal?’ Megan asked, crossing her fingers while she waited for the answer.
‘No, not necessarily: in fact survival rates are quite good, and they seem to improve year after year. But the lymphoma that affects children – which I suppose a sixteen-year-old would still be considered – is different from the adult version. Or so I’ve been told.’
‘I see. Does James Evremond have other children?’ she asked.
‘He has a son, Patrick, who is twenty-one, and a student at Cambridge University. Any more questions?’
She knew he was being sarcastic now, but chose to ignore that fact. ‘The fingerprint you found on that scrap of paper in the car used to run down Georges Martin.’
‘What of it?’ he sighed.
‘Have you identified its owner?’
‘Might have,’ he said.
‘Care to share?’ she asked, chancing her luck.
‘Have a good day, Mrs Lisle,’ he replied. And this time it was Chief Inspector Scott who ended the call.
Meanwhile, Jacques, having extracted himself from the clutches of the smitten Debbie, and without Inky to restrict him, had decided to take a closer look at the new Dulwich Portrait Gallery which had benefitted, to the tune of £100,000, from James Evremond’s generosity.
He paid his entrance money, took a guide of the gallery layout, and began to look carefully at the exhibits. He didn’t know precisely what he was looking for, but he had every expectation of recognising it when he saw it. Looking around an art gallery was no great task for Jacques; he was an art lover from way back. Early Christian art, Etruscan art, Roman art, Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance, abstract, cubism, expressionism, impressionism, pointillism, pop art, post impressionism, realism, surrealism, and everything before, between, and after, was familiar to him. And he loved it. He loved Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Velasquez, Picasso, Marc Chagall, Kandinsky, and Salvador Dali, and all the others down through the ages. Loved them, admired them, but never tried to emulate them. He was no artist, nor had he any ambition to be one, nor could he, on his policeman’s salary, hope to own any of these treasures. But looking at them cost nothing – or next to nothing – so he had spent many happy hours in the Louvre, or the Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume, or the Musee d’Orsay, and many other Parisian galleries as well.
But what he saw, in the fourth room of that little boutique gallery in Dulwich, almost took his breath away. How could this be, he asked himself. And how can I tell these people that their shiny new gallery has, as their premier acquisition, a forgery?
For it absolutely must be a forgery. For how else could one of the most famous works of Louise Elizabeth Vigée-Lebrun – that of herself and her young daughter, Jeanne-Lucie-Louise, which she had painted in 1789 – be hanging in this obscure suburban gallery, when he had seen it with his own eyes in the Louvre, in Paris? Madame Vigée-Lebrun was acknowledged as the leading female artist of the 18th century. The Louvre would never let this painting out on loan, not even to the National Gallery or the Royal Academy. It must be a fake. And Jacques, the art lover, was absolutely appalled!
As he tried to decide how to deal with this matter in a diplomatic way, the curator of the gallery, Eleanor Sinclair, approached him: she had been watching him for some time. Is he a genuine art lover, or a potential thief, she thought. When he moved closer to the painting in an attempt to read the signature, she felt she had to intervene personally, even though there was a security guard standing nearby.
‘Sir – please don’t stand too close to the painting!’ she said. ‘And don’t touch it, either.’
‘Pardon, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘It’s just that… I know this painting, and er… one doesn’t wish to give offence… but… ’
‘You think we have a forgery in our gallery,’ she interrupted, to help him, having recognised his French accent. ‘Because you’ve seen it in the Louvre, and you know that there’s no way a genuine Vigée-Lebrun painting could be part of our little Cinderella collection. Am I correct?’
‘Exactement, Mademoiselle. I have seen the painting many times.’
‘Did you see her signature on this painting, Monsieur?’
‘No.’
‘Precisely. And that’s why this painting is not a forgery. Nor is it misrepresentation. As our catalogue makes quite clear, the painting is by a student of Madame Vigée-Lebrun, probably copied as an exercise set by Madame herself, during her exile in Italy at the time of the Revolution. As you probably know, Madame was a Royalist. And in Italy she was forced to make money, by whatever means she could find, to support herself and her young daughter.’
‘It is a good likeness of the original,’ Jacques conceded. ‘Do we know the name of the student?’
‘No. The signature is just an undecipherable squiggle. But we know the painting’s provenance,3 and we can trace it from Madame’s time in Italy to the present day. It has only been in the hands of four families in all that time.’
‘Extraordinary. It must be very valuable, even if it is only a copy of a great painting.’
‘Indeed it is. It’s a piece of art history, and we would never have been able to afford to buy it, had it not been for a very generous benefactor.’
‘A benefactor named James Evremond, perhaps?’ Jacques asked, deciding to lay his cards on the table.
‘How did you know?’ she said, very surprised. ‘Oh, the recent article in the local paper, I suppose?’
‘Exactly, Miss. And what, if I may ask, does Mr Evremond get in return for his substantial gift?’
‘That’s rather an indelicate question, Monsieur, don’t you think? Mr Evremond knew of the painting, and he loves this version even though it’s only the work of a talented student, not Louise Elizabeth Vigée-Lebrun herself. He comes to just sit and look at it three or four ti
mes a week.’
‘Pardon, I meant to cause no offence. I was merely considering making a donation myself – of course not anything like the scale of Mr Evremond’s – and I wondered what… how do you say?… fringe benefits I might receive if I did,’ said Jacques, thinking fast.
‘Oh, I see,’ she replied, changing her attitude. ‘Well, even quite a modest donation would mean you’d be invited to the champagne reception before each new exhibition, and there would be other benefits too, depending on the actual amount involved.’
‘And for the most generous Mr Evremond?’
‘He gets a special gilt-edged invitation for every event we hold,’ she said, reluctantly. Damn French, she thought, as she prepared to walk away, they always want to know everything!
‘I regret, Miss, that my knowledge of the English language is limited,’ Jacques said quickly. ‘I do not know what is meant by this “gilt-edged invitation” of which you speak.’
‘Oh, sorry, Monsieur, my fault entirely; your English is really very good. ‘Gilt-edged means he receives a special level of… er… hospitality at all of our events. In other words, he has more… er… freedom to go where he pleases within the gallery… ’
‘He has an access all areas pass? Is that what you mean, Miss?’ At his use of this phrase he saw the look on her face change from friendly to wary in an instant. ‘I see that you are surprised that I use these words. Forgive me – I was showing off a little – I have a nephew who does the lighting at many pop concerts in Paris. He has sometimes taken me back stage afterwards, and I have needed just such a pass myself on those occasions,’ he added, then watched her relax again. Phew, he thought, that was a close shave.
‘Oh, I see – lucky you!’
‘Indeed. One more question, Mademoiselle, before I go,’ Jacques said. ‘Your next special event – when is it?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid you’re too late for our next extravaganza, because it is just over a week away! And it’s fully subscribed, even though the tickets cost £150 each. It’s what we’d expected, of course, given that we’re taking over the entire London Eye for our champagne supper party.’
‘Ah, yes: the famous London Eye. I have not been on it myself, but I must before I return to Paris. Out of curiosity, do you know how many people can be on the London Eye at any one time?’
‘Well, officially, eight hundred. But because we want everyone to be comfortable, and since there’s the catering to be considered, we’ve limited the numbers to 500. It will be a marvellous, spectacular evening: definitely one for the history books!’
Yes, and that’s exactly why I’m now terrified, Jacques thought, as he took his leave of Eleanor Sinclair. And I have no doubt that all of Scotland Yard will be too!
Chapter Eighteen
At around 5.30 pm that day, a significant breakthrough arrived for Chief Inspector Clive Scott, in the shape of Sergeant Andy Gillespie, who burst into the chief’s office, clearly excited.
‘We’ve got him, boss,’ he puffed, still out of breath, ‘some of the uniformed lads have just nabbed him in one of his south London haunts.’
‘Get him here – and pronto. I don’t want any cops south of the river thinking they can take the credit. Make sure they know Scotland Yard has jurisdiction in this matter.’
‘It’s done already, guv: he’s on his way here as we speak.’
‘Good man. As soon as he arrives I want to interview him, under caution. Understand?’
‘Of course, boss, it’s what I expected you’d say. Everything’s under control.’
Less than an hour later, the suspect was sitting, as comfortably as could be expected given the circumstances, in a Scotland Yard interview room, drinking a cup of strong tea while munching on chocolate digestive biscuits.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Chief Inspector Scott, as he entered the room. ‘Slippery Sid Ellis, as I live and breathe: long time no see, me old China.’4
‘Just so, Chief Inspector, indeed it is. That’s because I’ve been a good lad, keeping my nose clean and not getting into any more trouble.’
‘I’ll believe that when I see a farm full of pigs flying overhead and the Tooth Fairy knocks on my door to ask if she can move in with me!’
‘It’s true, guv,’ Slippery Sid, protested. ‘I swear it is – on my mother’s grave.’ ‘That’s all very well, Sid, but I happen to know your dear old mum’s still alive, and living the life of Riley in that big house in Essex you bought her with the proceeds of your crimes.’
‘I love my old mum,’ Slippery said, as if that explained everything. ‘Yeah, yeah – don’t we all? Save it for your blasted lawyer.’
‘She’s been very good to me, my mum. And that’s a fact.’
‘Shut it, Slippery, I’ve heard it a thousand times before.’
‘I’m not really a wrong-un, Mr Scott. I only do what I have to do to get by. As you’d know, things have got so bad these days that it’s dog eat cat out there,’ he said, gesturing towards the door.
‘Yeah, yeah – and it’s villains like you that made it that way. But I must say I never thought you’d stoop to murder, Sid: that’s come as a very nasty surprise to me.’
‘What me – murder? No way, guv, no way on God’s green earth would I kill someone. I just… ’
‘Give it up, Slippery,’ Andy Gillespie interrupted, ‘we’ve got your fingerprint in the car that was used to run down the man in Maida Vale.’
‘Maida-blooming-Vale? Not likely, and not guilty, Sergeant Gillespie. You know me; I’m strictly a south London lad. Always have been, always will be.’
‘It’s a very nice, very clear fingerprint that we have, Slippery. And it’s obviously yours.’
‘Well… just because my fingerprint’s in the blooming car doesn’t mean I was actually behind the wheel, does it?’
‘I’d call that a clear admission of some kind of guilt, wouldn’t you, Andy?’ Chief Inspector Scott said. ‘Very clear, indeed, because at the very least you’re an accessory to attempted murder.’
‘It’s… er… entrapment, that’s what it is,’ Slippery Sid protested, realising too late what he had said.
‘Did you hear any entrapment, Sergeant Gillespie? Because I’m sure I didn’t.’
‘Nor I, guv: and everything’s on the tape anyway, so it can easily be checked.’
‘Entrapment,’ Sid muttered, almost under his breath.
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah – tell it to the judge. You know how it works. You should; you’ve probably had more court appearances than I have. You might get lucky and have some chinless wonder on the bench who’ll believe your little fairy stories, but I won’t! Take him down to cells, Andy, and let him sleep on it. I’ll have some more questions for him tomorrow. And for pity’s sake, tell the duty officer to get someone to hose him down and give him a change of clothes: I’ve known three day old corpses to smell better than he does right now! No offence, Slippery.’
‘None taken, I’m sure, Mr Scott,’ the suspect replied amiably, sinking his teeth into yet another chocolate digestive.
‘Okay, guv,’ Andy Gillespie said, getting out of his chair.
‘And one more thing, Sid,’ the chief inspector said, as they were about to leave the room, ‘something for you to ponder on when you’re tucked up in your cosy little cell tonight, and which I’m sure will be of great interest to your solicitor when you see him. Tell him that I intend to charge you with two counts of attempted murder first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘What? Two counts – no way!’
‘The man you almost killed in Maida Vale is a serving police officer holding the rank of detective inspector.’
Slippery Sid almost choked at this news, and slumped back in his seat.
‘And,’ continued Chief Inspector Scott, ‘the woman who was with this officer at the time, and who would also have been seriously injured had it not been for his bravery, was the former wife of yet another serving police officer, with the rank of detective chief inspector. Now what do
you think of that little tidbit, Slippery?’
For once in his life, Slippery Sid Ellis was speechless.
‘I don’t believe that even the wettest, most lily-livered liberal that ever sat in judgement on his fellow citizens will be prepared to overlook those two pieces of information. In fact, Slippery, I think the judge will be very cross with you, when he hears that news,’ the chief inspector said, leaning back in his chair and looking very pleased. ‘And you can be sure we’ll tell him. Won’t we, Andy?’ ‘Oh, yes, guv – and I reckon that when he knows, the judge will throw the book at Slippery. Then he’ll give him a nice long holiday in one of Her Majesty’s most secure prisons.’
Slippery Sid turned a whiter shade of pale, but said nothing. As Andy prepared to escort Sid out of the room, Chief Inspector Scott had a further thought.
‘Wait a moment Andy,’ he said, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper as he spoke. ‘When he’s hosed down and all nicely dressed, ask the duty officer to take a couple of good photographs of him.’
‘He’ll have a mug-shot on file anyway, guv.’
‘Yes, I know. But I don’t want a mug-shot. Get a nice, normal photo for me. The kind of photo his mother would be pleased to have on her mantelpiece.’
Andy Gillespie looked puzzled. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Take this note, it explains everything,’ his boss said, folding the piece of paper in halves and handing it to him. ‘And it’s for your eyes only.’
‘Gotcha, guv,’ he said, closing the door behind them.
As they walked down the corridor towards the lift, Andy lifted the paper and glanced inside, taking care that the suspect didn’t see what was written, which was:
I want his photo shown around at that school in SE London where Mrs Lisle’s grandson’s a student. See if any of the kids recognise Slippery Sid as the man who was asking questions about Max after he found the dud money. You and Jacques Laurent do it together, first thing tomorrow, but be discreet. Dress casually so you don’t intimidate the kids. My instinct is telling me that Slippery is involved in this affair right up to his dirty, scrawny neck.
Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London Page 10
