‘What kind of meeting? And where in Essex?’
‘It was a private meeting, in a house in Chelmsford. I can’t remember the street name.’
‘So you met him at a private meeting, in a house somewhere in Chelmsford. Not much for us to go on, is it, Mr Evremond?’
‘It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.’
‘Then let me tell you what we know. The man we have downstairs, whose fingerprints were taken when he arrived in our morgue, is one Eric Ackerman, and he held dual British and German citizenship.’
‘And,’ said Andy Gillespie, the film buff, ‘Kevin Lomax just happens to be the name of the character, played by Keanu Reeves, in the film The Devil’s Advocate. I think Mr Ackerman was having a laugh at your expense.’
‘So it would seem, Sergeant Gillespie,’ James Evremond said, as cool as a cucumber. ‘But you can hardly hold that against me.’
‘And I think that the so-called meeting that you went to in Chelmsford was nothing of the kind. I think it was a séance,’ Chief Inspector Scott said.
‘Alright, alright, damn you! It was a séance. And I’d gone there in hope of contacting my beloved, dead wife. So now you can sneer at me for being a stupid, gullible fool, if that’s what you want.’
‘No one will sneer at you, Mr Evremond. Grief does strange things to people, and each one travels their own path as they try to come to terms with their loss. I promise you that no one under this roof feels anything other than very great sympathy for you.’
‘But I have been stupid, and now Patrick will have to pay the price.’
‘What price? He acted in self-defence. I have absolutely no doubt that he was in a situation where he must either kill or be killed. And not only him, but Genevieve too. Do you realise that the only thing standing between her and The Recruiter was Patrick? Your son’s a hero, Mr Evremond, and I’m confident that no charges will be brought against him. If it was up to me he’d be given a medal!’
‘I had no idea. Thank God he was there.’
‘Indeed. Now tell me this. Why did you pass the two dud £20 notes at the bakery in Dulwich?’
‘Oh, is that how you got on to me? I don’t know why I did it. Debbie in the bakery knows me well. She must have realised that I gave her the forgeries. It was stupid,’ he said, shaking his head in disbelief as he remembered the incident. ‘And I regret having robbed a good woman like her.’
‘Or, alternatively, it was a cry for help?’
‘Yes, maybe so.’
‘So why did you give the £100,000 donation to the new Dulwich Gallery? Was that another cry for help?’
‘No. He told me to do it.’
‘The Recruiter, or rather, Eric Ackerman, suggested you do it?’
‘No. He didn’t suggest, he told me I must do it.’
‘And if you did, Genevieve’s life would be saved?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did he say that you must murder Serge Vachon, for the same reason?’
‘Who?’
‘The Frenchman, Serge Vachon.’
‘I don’t know this person. I’ve never even heard the name.’
‘Then where did you get the counterfeit money?’
‘Ackerman gave it to me.’
‘And the boxes of lethal sparklers that you had in your basement – did he also give them to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. So now you’re free to go. I’ll arrange for a car to take you home: you’re to give your passport to the officer who accompanies you in the car, is that understood.’
‘Yes, thank you Chief Inspector Scott.’
After James Evremond had left, Clive Scott said, ‘Has Chief Inspector Maigret arrived here yet, Andy.’
‘Yes, guv, he’s waiting downstairs.’
‘Good. Then get Slippery Sid up from the cells and into this interview room. Is his solicitor here?’
‘Not this time, guv. Slippery says he doesn’t want his solicitor present.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what he said, boss.’
‘Get him to sign something before he’s brought up. I don’t want this coming back to bite us on the bum if he changes his mind and disputes this later.’
‘Okay, sir.’
But Slippery Sid Ellis didn’t change his mind. He said, in front of witnesses, that he didn’t want his solicitor present during the interview, and he also signed the statement confirming that fact.
‘Why should I pay him another cent, Mr Scott?’ he asked. ‘The man’s a shyster, and he’s never done me no damn good no how.’
‘I thought your solicitor’s bills were paid by legal aid, Slippery.’
‘Well yes, that’s very true, Mr Scott. But it’s the principle, that counts, isn’t it?’
‘If you say so, Sid. Now let me introduce you to Chief Inspector Philippe Maigret, of the Police Nationale in Paris.’
‘What’s a Frenchman doing here?’ Slippery Sid said suspiciously.
‘I asked him to sit in on the interview. He’s here at my invitation.’
‘You’re going to stitch me up, aren’t you? That’s what the pair of you will do.’
‘There’s no need for us to stitch you up, Slippery, we’ve got bucket loads of evidence against you without having to resort to that option. And you know that’s not my style anyway. Haven’t I always played a straight bat with you in the past?’
‘Yes, you have, Mr Scott.’
‘Good, now spill the beans, Sid, and I mean all of the beans. I don’t want you to leave one solitary bean un-spilled. Is that clear?’
‘Crystal clear, Mr Scott.’
During the course of the next hour, Slippery Sid Ellis told them everything they wanted to know. The Recruiter had killed Serge Vachon because he wouldn’t go along with all the Satan worship malarkey. As he saw it, his job was to bring in the counterfeit money from Belgium, and he wasn’t interested in doing anything else. And especially not any crazy devil-worship nut-job rubbish, as he put it. This comment so incensed The Recruiter that the two men had fought, and the former, knowing many more combat tricks than Serge, had given him a severe beating. Then, with his rage still not over, he’d picked up a lump of wood and hit the Frenchman twice to finish him off: one blow to the front of his head, and another whack on the back of the neck. And that was how Serge Vachon ended up brown bread in the Thames.
‘Did you help The Recruiter dispose of his body in the river?’ Chief Inspector Maigret asked.
‘No.’
‘Are you quite sure that you didn’t, Slippery?’ Andy Gillespie said.
‘Can you prove that I did, Sergeant Gillespie?’ Slippery countered.
‘Not really.’
‘Well then, end of story, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Then perhaps you’ll tell me why Serge had all that raw garlic and red wine in his stomach, because I’m curious?’
‘Oh, that? Well, if you want my opinion, Sergeant Gillespie, I think he was scared witless. The Recruiter really put the wind up him that night. Me, too, if you want the truth: he seemed well… er… like… he was totally mad. Isn’t garlic supposed to protect us from evil spirits?’
‘Vampires, Slippery; garlic is for use against vampires.’
‘Oh, well,’ Slippery Sid said, ‘I guess Serge thought it was worth a try. It didn’t work too well for the poor guy though – did it?’
‘What about all the red wine?’ Andy Gillespie persisted, intent on tidying up as many loose ends as possible.
Slippery shrugged. ‘How else could he swallow all the garlic? Or maybe, it was for Dutch courage.’11
At this point, Chief Inspector Maigret felt compelled to intervene, for the sake of his own sanity, if nothing else. ‘Were you in the car that ran down the man and the woman in Elgin Avenue, Maida Vale?’ he asked.
Slippery was about to deny this allegation too, until he remembered that the Met Police had found a scrap of paper with his fingerprint on it inside the car.
‘Migh
t have been,’ Slippery conceded. ‘But I wasn’t driving the car: and you can’t prove that I was!’
‘No, we can’t,’ agreed Chief Inspector Maigret, ‘But accessory to attempted murder still carries a long prison sentence.’
‘Yes, it does,’ agreed Clive Scott. ‘So best you come completely clean if you want me to put in a good word for you when your case comes to court, Slippery.’
‘What else do you want to know?’ Slippery said sulkily, picking at his fingernails again.
‘I want to know how you ever crossed paths with that dreadful creature we’ve got in the mortuary.’
‘Through me mum, Chief Inspector: she’s always been into that weird séance stuff. And then, of course, she owed all that money to the bookies and… well, let’s just say some very nasty people put the frighteners on her. I had no choice. I was between a rock and a hard place, you might say, especially after she took sick.’
‘Okay, Sid, I think we’ve heard enough of the sob story. Are you satisfied, Chief Inspector Maigret?’ Clive Scott asked.
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Then take Slippery downstairs again, Andy, and charge him. Conspiracy; accessory to attempted murder; aiding and abetting a criminal act, and so on, and so forth: anything and everything you can think of on the spur of the moment. We’ll sort the question of evidence out later.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But you will put in a good word for me, Mr Scott, won’t you? You promised you would.’
‘Yeah, yeah – no worries, Sid – I’ll look after you. It’s obvious that you acted under duress after The Recruiter got his claws into you, and that always goes down well with the judge and jury. You mark my words. You’ll be okay.’
But as for Cruella Di Vil, The Recruiter’s girlfriend, well, that was an entirely different story. When she was brought to the interview room, she said absolutely nothing. Not one syllable did she utter in over half an hour’s interrogation: she wouldn’t even confirm her name. She just sat there, sullen and silent, and stared at them.
‘She’s going to be a particularly hard nut to crack,’ Philippe Maigret said, after the woman had been returned to the cells.
‘Yes, that’s for sure. But I’ve got an extremely big nutcracker at my disposal which I’ll use on her next time she’s interviewed.’
‘And what might that be, Clive?’ Philippe Maigret asked curiously.
‘Oh, just a little thing called the Prevention of Terrorism Act 2005. I reckon she’ll crack alright when I threaten to turn her over to the counter-terrorism guys at MI6. They won’t pussy-foot around with her. They’ve cracked far harder nuts than her – and that’s a fact that no one can deny!’
Chapter Thirty
Genevieve Evremond died one week later.
She died on the very day of the Dulwich gallery’s London Eye gala. The event went ahead, without anything unpleasant happening, and also without James Evremond, who had decided, following his release from Scotland Yard, that it was no longer appropriate for him to attend. The evening was a huge success.
It had become increasingly obvious all that week that Genevieve’s life was quietly ebbing away, just as the sea slips away from the shore at low tide. She was not in any real pain, and slept for much of the time, but still enjoyed the visits from her friends, who came with all kinds of treats that she neither needed nor wanted. Izzy and Charlotte would come one afternoon, Celia and Granny Meg the next. And she was happy. In her own gentle, patient way, she was happy.
On that last day, she had seemed more alert. She joked with Patrick, and the nurse, as though she had not a care in the world. Charlotte and Izzy came in the morning that day because they hadn’t come the day before, while Celia and Granny came at 4 pm. Genevieve was tired by then, so Granny said they wouldn’t stay for more than a few minutes, but Genevieve had other ideas. ‘Stay with me. Please, stay with me, it won’t be very long now,’ she said.
‘What does she mean?’ Celia whispered to Granny. But Granny could not speak. Not yet. Instead she gently took hold of Genevieve’s hand and kissed it.
‘How do you know, dear child?’ she eventually said.
‘I can see the Angels. They’re gathering all around me – everywhere. And I can hear the music. It’s lovely, so lovely. I’ve never heard music as beautiful as this before.
‘Celia, get her father and Patrick. Tell them to come quickly!’ Granny cried.
By the time they came she had lifted herself up from her pillow so that she was almost sitting upright: this was something she had not been able to do for many days. She had a look of pure joy on her face, and was radiant: far beyond beautiful. She’s like an Angel herself, Celia thought: a real, genuine, Angel.
‘Oh, Mummy, you’re here,’ she said softly, ‘thanks for coming. I always thought you’d come for me.’ Then she turned towards her father and Patrick and said, ‘I’m alright now, Mummy’s here, and there’s no need for you to worry about me any more: all the pain’s gone, and everything’s wonderful.’
Then she closed her eyes, and Granny thought she had gone. But suddenly she opened them, and spoke again. ‘I love you Daddy, I love you Patrick. Mummy says we’ll never be far away from you, so be happy, and help each other. And Daddy must tell the police everything he knows now. Promise that you’ll tell them everything.’
‘I’ve told them everything already, my darling,’ her father said, although his words were muffled by his sobbing and that of Patrick. ‘I promise if I think of anything I’ve forgotten I’ll tell them immediately.’
Genevieve closed her eyes again for a few moments. When she opened them again she whispered, ‘it’s all about love, Daddy. I want you and Patrick to remember that always. It’s all about love: always and forever: love. Can you hear it? That’s the song the Angels are singing – it’s the key to everything – unending love, amazing grace.’
Then she smiled, took her Mother’s outstretched hand, and went with her to Paradise.
Her funeral, eight days later, was held in the church of St Clement with St Peter in Dulwich, where Genevieve and Patrick had attended Sunday school. The church was packed to the rafters: it seemed like everyone in the whole of Dulwich was there. And everyone said the same thing: the church had never looked more beautiful, nor had they seen so many candles and sweet-smelling flowers in the one place before. Nor had the choir of that church sung as exquisitely as they sang that day. It was all for Genevieve; gentle child of love and light.
The local police were there in force. So were Chief Inspector Scott and Sergeant Andy Gillespie, representing Scotland Yard, both of whom were seen to wipe away many tears from their eyes during the service. They were not alone: there was not a single dry eye in the church that day.
After the funeral, Patrick Evremond sought out the two Met policemen. ‘Thank you both for coming,’ he said. ‘My father and I really appreciate you being here.’
‘Trust me, and I’m sure I speak for Andy as well as myself, it is an honour to be here. It was a very great privilege to meet your lovely sister. May she rest in peace, and may you and your father find consolation in the knowledge that she is beyond all pain and suffering now,’ Chief Inspector Scott said, patting Patrick on his shoulder.
‘Thank you, Chief Inspector. Actually I have some brilliant news for you. I’m not going back to Cambridge to finish my degree. What’s the point anyway? Yes, The Recruiter’s gone, but I’m sure there are many more ready to take his place. And I want to be part of the fight against them. I’m going join the Metropolitan Police as soon as possible. Now don’t you think that’s a great idea?’
‘No, not really, Patrick. How about this as an alternative plan: you return to Cambridge, gain a good degree, and then join the Met. If you come in at graduate entry level – especially from somewhere as prestigious as Cambridge – you’ll be fast-tracked through the ranks. I promise that I’ll do everything in my power to help you, and I’m sure Andy will too. And with your brains, my brawn, and Andy’s… er… er A
ndy’s… ’
‘Je ne sais quoi, guv?’12 Andy interrupted helpfully.
‘Yes, exactly right! With Andy’s er… whatnot, you’ll probably be Deputy Commissioner of the Met before I even think about drawing my pension. How’s that for an alternative plan from an experienced cop, who’s been around the block a few hundred times more than you? Is it a deal?’
Patrick hesitated for a few moments then reached out to shake Clive Scott’s hand. ‘It’s a deal, Chief Inspector, it’s a deal!’
‘Thank the Lord for that,’ Granny Meg, who had overheard the conversation, whispered to Celia.
‘Amen,’ said Philippe, ‘Clive Scott’s right: he’s a fine, brave lad, and he’ll do well. I’d like a few more of his calibre in the Police Nationale.’
‘I know he speaks very good French, Philippe,’ Celia said, ‘because I’ve heard him talking on his mobile a couple of times. I think he has a French girlfriend.’
‘Does he indeed, ma cherie? Hmm, that’s very interesting. I’ll certainly bear that in mind for the future.’
***
Granny Meg and Philippe Maigret were married, as planned, at the end of June. They were actually married three times: twice in Paris, and the final time in Fingest, Buckinghamshire. (Strictly speaking, only the first ceremony was an actual ‘wedding’, because the next two ceremonies were church blessings.) On each occasion Inspector Georges Martin, not yet fully recovered from being run down in Maida Vale, but now able to walk with the aid of a stick, was best man, while Jacques Laurent was groomsman.
Firstly, to conform to French law, they were married in a civil ceremony at the Hotel de Ville, or City Hall at 11 am. This ceremony was followed by a vin d’honneur, at Madame Louise Maigret’s Avenue Foch apartment, where family and friends were invited to drink a glass, or two, of champagne, to celebrate the marriage.
At 2 pm on the same day, there was a blessing of the marriage at St George’s Anglican Church, on the Rue Auguste Vacquerie. And then there was a magnificent Reception and dinner at the Jules Verne restaurant sitting atop (or almost!) the Eiffel Tower, which Louise Maigret had commandeered for the entire afternoon and evening.
Chief Inspector Maigret Visits London Page 17
