Exit Stage Left (19 page)

C
ommandant Henri Deshayes was scratching his head through his thinning hair as he wondered at which of the nearby cafes he would have his lunch when the door of his office burst open.

‘What is it, Lieppe?’ asked Deshayes, irritated at the unheralded entry of one of his lieutenants. Here, at
le
trente-six
his mood was entirely different from that which he had displayed when in the company of Kate Ebdon, the charming young London detective, or when he was talking to his friend Harry Brock. Deshayes was renowned at headquarters for the shortness of his temper and the sharpness of his tongue. ‘Don’t you ever knock, damn you?’

‘I think we have Anderson,
Patron
,’ said Marcel Lieppe, ignoring his chief’s reproof. A brash, blond young detective, Lieppe regarded Deshayes and the commandant’s contemporaries as dinosaurs. His attire was far too modern to be in keeping with what his superiors at
le trente-six
thought was suitable for an officer of the esteemed
Police Judiciare
. ‘The uniformed police have shot a man in the place des Victoires,
Patron
. Apparently, Lucien Josse was sitting in a cafe in the avenue des Champs-Elysées enjoying a pastis and thought the man at the next table was Anderson. He said he recognized him from the E-fit likeness.’

‘Josse was always a good detective,’ said Deshayes, his irritability lessening slightly.

‘He alerted the police and they gave chase,’ continued Lieppe, ‘but when the suspect was forced to stop in the place des Victoires he opened fire. It is unfortunate that one officer was killed and two wounded.’

‘But is the
suspect
badly wounded?’ demanded Deshayes, dismissing the death of the policeman as one of the misfortunes of the war against crime. ‘And do up your tie properly, Lieppe! As a matter of passing interest, do you happen to have discovered the man’s name?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘He had an American passport in the name of Geoffrey Crawford.’

‘Scotland Yard suggested that Anderson might be using another name. Have you spoken to him yet?’

‘Unfortunately, he is dead,
Patron
.’

‘It would have been useful had you told me that in the first place, Lieppe.’

‘My apologies,
Patron
. But if it is Anderson, I don’t understand why he was in a cafe and talking in English on his mobile phone. He must’ve known that all the Paris police were hunting for him. At the time of the murder there was enough about it in the papers, and his image was published everywhere, including on the television. And there was a “wanted” notice on the board outside this headquarters.’

‘There is an English expression that seems to cover it, Lieppe,’ said Deshayes. ‘They call it “hiding in plain sight”. You see,’ he continued, ‘contrary to what you may think, all the Paris police were
not
looking for him. They thought that a man who had committed a murder in the city would be absolutely mad to stay here. But that is what makes a clever criminal; one who does what the police are not expecting him to do. You would do well to study the criminal mind instead of worrying about what colour shirt you were going to wear. But if it is Anderson, his death will save the Republic the cost of a trial and the expense of keeping him in La Santé for the rest of his life.’

‘But surely,
Patron
, he would have been sent to Clairvaux prison, not La Santé?’

Deshayes waved an impatient hand of dismissal. ‘If it is Anderson who has been shot to death, the question won’t arise, Lieppe. Where have they taken the body?’

‘To the Georges-Pompidou Hospital.’

‘Why did they take him there?’

Lieppe shrugged. ‘I don’t know,
Patron
.’

‘Well, you should know,’ snapped Deshayes. ‘We shall go and take a look at him,’ he added, putting on his jacket.

‘I don’t know him, Lieppe.’ In the mortuary at the Georges-Pompidou Hospital in rue Leblanc, Deshayes stared down at the body of the man who had killed a Paris policeman and wounded two others. ‘But I admit he looks like the image the staff at the hotel manufactured. I will telephone my good friend Chief Inspector Brock. Maybe he will know him. I shall ask him to come and take a look.’

I was sitting in my office, struggling to compose a report for the Crown Prosecution Service, when Henri’s call came through. He described all that had happened that morning in the heart of the French capital and sounded very excited at the possibility that he may, at last, have found Debra Foley’s killer. Already, the French police had compared the dead man’s fingerprints with those found in the hotel room where Debra Foley had been killed, and they matched. Henri did seem a little disappointed though that the suspect was dead. I got the impression that he would’ve liked to obtain a confession from him, just to tie up the loose ends of the case.

‘I will send you an email with all the details, ’Arry. And perhaps you will come over and take a look.’

‘Thanks, Henri, I’ll certainly do that, but may I ask a favour?’

‘Anything, ’Arry, just name it.’

‘Would you avoid mentioning in your email that the man is dead? Perhaps you would just say that you need my assistance in identifying him. Otherwise my boss will kick up a fuss about the cost of my going to Paris again.’

Deshayes emitted a bellow of laughter. ‘OK, ’Arry, I know what you mean. I once had a boss like that. Expense claims were always a problem, and he would count the francs as if they were his own.’ He paused. ‘That’s when we had francs, of course,’ he added, a note of regret in his voice.

It was just after two o’clock when the email came through. I took a copy into the commander’s office.

‘I’d like permission for Sergeant Poole and I to go to Paris, sir. The
Police Judiciaire
has a man in custody who Commandant Deshayes believes is the killer of Debra Foley.’

‘But why should that concern the Metropolitan Police?’ The commander looked up sharply. ‘I can’t really see that it’s necessary for you to go over there again. Surely you did everything that was required the last time you were there back in February.’

‘I think that in the interests of international cooperation it’s vital, sir. It’s also possible that the man has already confessed to the murders of Lancelot Foley and Robert Miles. The evidence certainly seems to indicate that he’s the murderer.’ I laid the email on the commander’s desk, but didn’t mention that the suspect was dead. Nor did I mention that fingerprint comparison made the identification almost certain. ‘That would clear up a crime that’s been on our books for far too long.’

‘We shall see.’ The commander took some time to read the email, and then he read it again. ‘Yes, I think you must go, Mr Brock,’ he said, making a rare decision without referring to the DAC. ‘When were you thinking of going?’

‘Today, sir.’

It was about half-past six French time when we touched down at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Henri Deshayes was waiting to meet us.

‘You have not brought the charming Kate with you, ’Arry.’ The tone of Deshayes’ voice managed a combination of disappointment and censure, all at once.

‘She is very busy, Henri, but she sends you her love.’ I wasn’t going to bring Kate Ebdon with me; not after the last time.

With the usual blue light and two-tones, Henri’s car carved its way through the evening traffic without delay.

Once at the Georges-Pompidou Hospital, Henri waved aside the receptionist’s objections about the lateness of the hour and made straight for the mortuary.

‘Ah,
M’sieur le Commandant
.’ The mortuary attendant, an effeminate middle-aged man, almost bowed when Deshayes appeared. ‘You wish to see the body again?’

‘Yes,’ said Deshayes. ‘I want my friend from Scotland Yard to examine it.’

‘Examine it?’ The attendant sounded surprised at Deshayes’ request. ‘But already the post-mortem has been conducted,
M’sieur
.’

‘I know that,’ said Deshayes sharply. ‘I mean that he merely wishes to see the man’s face.’

‘Oh, I see.’ With a flourish born of years of practice, the attendant flicked aside the shroud sufficient for me to see the face of the deceased gunman who had killed a French policeman and wounded two others before being killed himself.

‘Do you know this man, ’Arry?’

I looked closely at the face, noting the cleft chin and the two-inch scar on the right-hand side. ‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ I said, recognizing the man instantly, and turned to Dave Poole. ‘D’you know him, Dave?’

‘Well, of all the crafty conniving double-dealing deceiving bastards,’ said Dave, shaking his head.

Deshayes looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face.

‘I think Dave means that he recognizes him, Henri,’ I said.

Dave and I had stayed overnight in Paris. That evening, Henri took us to dinner at a small restaurant patronized by the detectives of the
Police Judiciaire
. We swapped stories about various cases, and Henri regaled us with tales of how hard a life it was to be a detective in Paris. Dave had pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.

Before we left Charles de Gaulle airport the next day, Henri had given me a copy of the fingerprints taken from the dead man. When we arrived at Belgravia police station, I immediately sent them to Linda Mitchell by hand.

At two o’clock she came back with the answer I’d been hoping for. They were a match with the prints found on Lancelot Foley’s walking stick.

‘Got him,’ I said. ‘They always make at least one mistake, Dave.’

‘Careless bastard,’ said Dave. ‘He deserved to be captured.’

The young woman ushered us into the sitting room and went in search of the lady of the house. A minute or two later she joined us.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole, Mrs Tate.’

‘You’ve been here before,’ said the woman in the husky voice I’d noticed the last time we were here. ‘Have you come about my husband?’

‘Yes, Mrs Tate, I have.’ The occasion to which she referred was after businessman Charles Tate’s Mercedes had been seen outside Keycross Court. When we’d interviewed him, he’d admitted visiting Debra Foley, alias Corinne Black, for sex. However, I now had good reason to believe that he was lying about it being a sexual encounter on that occasion. In fact, as it turned out, his entire life was a lie.

‘But when you came to see him back in February I think it was, you said he had nothing to do with the enquiries you were making about …’ Elizabeth Tate paused. ‘Was it Keycross Court?’ The woman obviously had keen recall.

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Please take a seat. I suppose you’ve come about the missing person report, then.’

‘Missing person report?’ I have to admit that her question caught me on the hop. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about any such report. Where did you file it and when?’

‘At Kensington police station on Sunday the seventeenth of February.’

‘You seem very sure of the date, Mrs Tate.’ I wondered briefly why we’d not picked that up. Missing person reports are filed on the police national computer, but as we had not entered Charles Tate’s name as a person of interest to us the report hadn’t come to our notice. If only we’d been more suspicious of Tate when we’d interviewed him, we might have made an arrest much earlier and prevented the death of Debra Foley. But Tate had presented a convincingly plausible and confident character.

‘One tends to remember the date when one’s husband disappears, which was two days before that,’ she said quite firmly. ‘As a matter of interest, I also remember quite clearly the date that my first husband died.’

I was obviously wrong when, on the occasion of my last visit, I’d formed the opinion that Elizabeth Tate was a fragile and not very intelligent woman. But then I remembered the sharp way in which she’d upbraided her maid Hannah for making a mistake about the plural of “gentleman” and her failure to address her mistress correctly.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that your husband is dead, Mrs Tate.’

‘Oh! When did this happen?’ Elizabeth Tate remained dry-eyed and showed no emotion at the news.

‘Yesterday morning in Paris.’

‘In Paris? What on earth was he doing there?’

It was difficult to know where to start. I was beginning to realize that this woman knew nothing of her husband’s alter ego.

‘Did you know that your husband had been in the army, Mrs Tate?’ I said, easing my way into an explanation that wasn’t easy, no matter how I tackled it.

‘No, I didn’t. I think you must be making a mistake, Mr Brock. He would have told me, surely?’

‘His real name is William Anderson, and he was a captain in an infantry regiment, but was cashiered for striking a non-commissioned officer who was having an affair with Captain Anderson’s wife. His first wife, of course.’

‘You must have got this all wrong, Mr Brock,’ said Elizabeth, but the shocked look on her face belied that statement. ‘His name’s Charles Tate, and he told me he’d never been married before.’

‘I’ve no idea what happened to his first wife, I’m afraid,’ I said, ‘but I can assure you that he was William Anderson. We have made checks with the register of births, deaths and marriages, and his fingerprints bear out his true identity. There can be no mistake.’

Elizabeth Tate rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I think I need a drink,’ she said. ‘Can I get you gentlemen one?’

‘No, thank you,’ I said.

She crossed to a cabinet on the far side of her living room and poured herself a stiff neat whisky before sitting down again. ‘Something tells me that there’s worse to come.’

‘Your husband was a mercenary, Mrs Tate, hiring himself out to fight other people’s wars for them,’ said Dave. ‘From our enquiries, we’ve learned that he went to Africa and to the Middle East on several occasions and in one instance masterminded a coup d’état during which the then head of state was assassinated.’

‘That would account for it,’ said Elizabeth mildly.

‘Account for what?’ queried Dave.

‘His absences abroad. But he told me that he was away on business conducting some complicated deals that sometimes took several weeks.’