Read Online Folly Du Jour by Barbara Cleverly - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Cleverly
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the pause following this pronouncement to search his mental records. ‘Sorry, sir. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of the man.’
‘No. I don’t wonder.’ There was no warmth in the reply. ‘He did spend most of his time travelling abroad after all. And kept well out of our sphere of activities.’
‘Have you been asked to send out any members of the family to confirm identity, sir? I’d gladly be on hand to receive them and guide them through the process – it’s all rather different over here. The Paris morgue is not a particularly . . . well . . . you shouldn’t think of sending in someone of a nervous disposition. Perhaps someone at the Embassy could –’
‘Stop rattling on, Sandilands! We’re sending over his wife. Lady Catherine has been informed and is packing as we speak. She’ll be on the noon flight arriving at teatime – you know the score – and I want you to arrange to see her when she fetches up at police HQ. No need to go to Le Bourget to meet her – the Embassy are taking care of all that. You can do the hand-holding business in the morgue.’
Joe was encouraged by a lightening in the tone to reply: ‘Right-o, sir. I’ll parade with smelling salts and handkerchief at a time to be arranged. Um . . . have they told us whom they have arrested for this crime?’
‘They have indeed.’ The Assistant Commissioner was once again deadly serious. ‘And this is where you come in, Joe. You will want to be involved in whatever capacity you can contrive for yourself when I tell you that the suspect they’ve arrested is George. George Jardine. Friend of yours, I understand? When we heard, someone said straight away, “Get Sandilands out there.”’
Joe mastered his astonishment and disbelief to reply firmly: ‘Terrible news. But not the disaster you suggest, surely, sir? It must be a misunderstanding . . . a mix-up with the language . . . failure to communicate one way or another at any rate – Sir George is a diplomat. And a top one at that! He has immunity. He might have shot dead the whole front row of the chorus and he could be lounging at ease with a reviving cup of tea in the shelter of the British Embassy out of reach of the Law. Why is he in a police cell? This is outrageous!’
‘Ah, you don’t know . . . you hadn’t heard?’ Agusty sigh down the telephone and then: ‘George no longer has diplomatic status, I’m afraid. He resigned his post a couple of months ago. He’s retired. Hasn’t quite severed his links – talks of returning – but, officially (and that’s all that counts with the French), he’s a free agent, no longer employed by HM Government and no longer under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity. Unlisted. A huge loss. One might have expected them to show some respect for his past position and let the matter drop. But the chap I spoke to who seems to be handling the case is one of those heel-clicking martinets you trip across sometimes over the Channel. Brittle. Self-important. You know the type. We’re not short of a few over here . . . Anyway, I see from your file, Sandilands, which I have before me, that you have experience in dealing with this style of Gallic intractability . . . interpreter during the war, weren’t you? We must have a drink when you’ve sorted all this out – I’d like to hear your slant on old Joffre. Anyway. Mustn’t keep you. Get on down there, will you? Let me see . . . their HQ is at . . . now where did I . . .?’
‘36, Quai des Orfèvres, sir,’ said Joe. ‘Staircase A. I’ve visited before. Makes our HQ look like Aladdin’s palace. I’ll do what I can and report back, er, this evening.’
‘Very well. Oh, and, Sandilands – feel free to reverse the charges, will you? No expense to be spared on this one. Better take down my home number. Got a pen?’
Joe replaced the hand-set and stayed on in the booth for a moment or two, deep in thought. He went to the reception desk where the manager was still hovering
‘No. I don’t wonder.’ There was no warmth in the reply. ‘He did spend most of his time travelling abroad after all. And kept well out of our sphere of activities.’
‘Have you been asked to send out any members of the family to confirm identity, sir? I’d gladly be on hand to receive them and guide them through the process – it’s all rather different over here. The Paris morgue is not a particularly . . . well . . . you shouldn’t think of sending in someone of a nervous disposition. Perhaps someone at the Embassy could –’
‘Stop rattling on, Sandilands! We’re sending over his wife. Lady Catherine has been informed and is packing as we speak. She’ll be on the noon flight arriving at teatime – you know the score – and I want you to arrange to see her when she fetches up at police HQ. No need to go to Le Bourget to meet her – the Embassy are taking care of all that. You can do the hand-holding business in the morgue.’
Joe was encouraged by a lightening in the tone to reply: ‘Right-o, sir. I’ll parade with smelling salts and handkerchief at a time to be arranged. Um . . . have they told us whom they have arrested for this crime?’
‘They have indeed.’ The Assistant Commissioner was once again deadly serious. ‘And this is where you come in, Joe. You will want to be involved in whatever capacity you can contrive for yourself when I tell you that the suspect they’ve arrested is George. George Jardine. Friend of yours, I understand? When we heard, someone said straight away, “Get Sandilands out there.”’
Joe mastered his astonishment and disbelief to reply firmly: ‘Terrible news. But not the disaster you suggest, surely, sir? It must be a misunderstanding . . . a mix-up with the language . . . failure to communicate one way or another at any rate – Sir George is a diplomat. And a top one at that! He has immunity. He might have shot dead the whole front row of the chorus and he could be lounging at ease with a reviving cup of tea in the shelter of the British Embassy out of reach of the Law. Why is he in a police cell? This is outrageous!’
‘Ah, you don’t know . . . you hadn’t heard?’ Agusty sigh down the telephone and then: ‘George no longer has diplomatic status, I’m afraid. He resigned his post a couple of months ago. He’s retired. Hasn’t quite severed his links – talks of returning – but, officially (and that’s all that counts with the French), he’s a free agent, no longer employed by HM Government and no longer under the umbrella of diplomatic immunity. Unlisted. A huge loss. One might have expected them to show some respect for his past position and let the matter drop. But the chap I spoke to who seems to be handling the case is one of those heel-clicking martinets you trip across sometimes over the Channel. Brittle. Self-important. You know the type. We’re not short of a few over here . . . Anyway, I see from your file, Sandilands, which I have before me, that you have experience in dealing with this style of Gallic intractability . . . interpreter during the war, weren’t you? We must have a drink when you’ve sorted all this out – I’d like to hear your slant on old Joffre. Anyway. Mustn’t keep you. Get on down there, will you? Let me see . . . their HQ is at . . . now where did I . . .?’
‘36, Quai des Orfèvres, sir,’ said Joe. ‘Staircase A. I’ve visited before. Makes our HQ look like Aladdin’s palace. I’ll do what I can and report back, er, this evening.’
‘Very well. Oh, and, Sandilands – feel free to reverse the charges, will you? No expense to be spared on this one. Better take down my home number. Got a pen?’
Joe replaced the hand-set and stayed on in the booth for a moment or two, deep in thought. He went to the reception desk where the manager was still hovering
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