Chapter 13: In durance vile

Why did Mal commit suicide?

I recalled his last words ‘what I’ve got is as bad as dementia’. But he didn’t have dementia and apart from looking older and wearier due to his carnal interaction with Elaine he was fine, at least he looked fine physically. I suppose it could be said that Mal did have some mental problem as he died with water on the brain!

Whatever disease he had or thought he had it had driven him to suicide and I wondered if Mal really believed that I would shoot him or had he intended going the way he did from the start. I was still clutching the double barrelled shotgun he had thrown me and I broke the gun. There were two cartridges nestled snuggly in the in the breech so Mal obviously thought I would blast him with both barrels. I wasn’t sure if I was pleased or disappointed by his character assessment of me. There was no sense in searching for his body. Mal had been wearing a heavy pea jacket weighted down with a 2 kilo lump of lead in one pocket and half a bottle of brandy in the other – the other half was in Mal’s gut – and he had gone down quicker than the Mary Rose.

What should I do? Carrying out a search would be a waste of time so it seemed a swift return to Port Vendres and report the loss of Mal would be --then it hit me why Mal gave me all that information before he went over the side. He had made sure I knew roughly our position and that the radio was tuned to the emergency frequency. I supposed the transponder thingy he had mentioned was some sort of navigation aid. It would appear that any life ending event at sea must be reported to some shore based emergency organisation; not immediately reporting a man overboard would probably raise flags. ‘A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse’ as Alfie Hinds would say, not that I had the faintest idea what it meant.

I switched on the radio. ‘M’aidez! M’aidez! This is the fishing boat Gaviota out of Port Vendres. Man over board, and there is no sighting of him. Over’.

There was a few seconds of white noise before the reply. ‘Hello Gaviota, this is Maritime Overwatch Control. Was the man wearing a life jacket? Over.’

“No, he was wearing a pea jacket. Over.’

“What is your position? Over.”

“I’m about thirty kilometres south east of Cap Bear. O ver.”

“Operate your transponder. Over.’

I pressed the red button but nothing appeared to happen but then the radio squawked. “Yes, we see you, Gaviota. You are in Spanish waters so we will contact Barcelona to set up a search although it is unlikely the body will surface for some time yet. Return to Port Vendres and report to the Gendarmerie. Over.”

“Wilco. Over.”

“Maritime Overwatch Control out.’”

I restarted the engine, spun the wheel onto the bearing 286 and opened the throttle. As the Gaviota butted her way towards her home port it dawned on me why Mal had wanted me aboard on his last voyage. Had he set out alone Gaviota would have been abandoned when he took his leave of life, left wandering the Mediterranean Sea adrift and deserted like the Mary Celeste.

About 15 minutes later Cap Bear appeared on the horizon and I adjusted my course and made my way into the harbour of Port Vendres. I cut the engine and made a rather bumpy docking at the harbour side in view t of a reception committee consisting of a gaggle of gawkers, a trio of fishermen vocally unimpressed by my docking technique, and a brace of gendarmes. The two gendarmes came aboard; one stayed (Scene of Crime Officer?) and the other escorted me to the local Gendarme Post where I was interviewed by a bored looking sergeant.

“What happened to Malachi Vivas?” he asked.

“He fell overboard.”

“Was he drunk?”

“He had drunk at least a half bottle of brandy.”

“So he was his usual self. Was it rough out at sea?”

“Not particularly.” I noticed the sergeant wasn’t taking notes and had opened his mouth in a yawn nearly as often as he opened it to ask questions.

“Did he trip over a lobster line or something?” he asked after another prodigious yawn.

“I don’t know. I was at the wheel and heard Mal cry out and then a splash. I looked around and Mal wasn’t on deck. I cut the engine and went to the side but there was no sign of him. I scanned three sixty degrees then restarted the engine and slowly cruised around the immediate areal but had no sighting of him either waving or drowning. Mal wasn’t wearing a life jacket and must have sunk like a stone.” I supressed a grin as I realised a ‘stone’ was also an English measurement of weight of about 6 kilos.

“Write an account of what happened and what you did and then sign it,” the sergeant said. “You can then leave the Gendarme Post but you might be called back if our investigation turns up anything that does not correspond with your account of what happened to Malachi Vivas.”

I wrote out more or less what I told the sergeant, signed it, and then bid him goodbye. He didn’t respond as he was in mid yawn.

I first called into the Barn and told Elaine of Mal’s demise. She was shocked by the news s but not broken hearted. I then made my way to the Vermillion Coast Hotel where I collapsed on my bed and slept the sleep of the innocent.

Two days later

I finished my night shift and then spent an hour in the gym before collapsing into bed. An insistent banging on my door dragged me from a pornographic dream involving Caterine Bonhomme and a litre of whipped cream. Bleary eyed I peered at my watch, 1500 hours; I wasn’t due on shift for another six hours. I stumbled to the door as it seemed the knocking would not cease until I responded.

“Get dressed and come with me.” A heavy set gendarme said when I opened the door.

“What for?”

“Questions need to be answered so less lip else I’ll cuff you and drag you down to the post in your underwear.”

I quickly pulled on jeans and a tee shirt and was then taken to a police van that screeched off and deposited me at the Port Vendres gendarme post where I was hurried into an interview room and pushed roughly in a char.

Two men in civilian clothing were seated at the table opposite me. One was a barrel shaped grey haired fellow about 50 years old with a pug nose and pale blue eyes that regarded me with suspicion. The other man was skinnier and younger; about 30 years old and I doubt he weighed more than 50 kilos (110 lbs) wringing wet. His thin face bore a long pointy nose; his hair was, dark brown, lank, and greasy. Both men glowered at me. The older of the two spoke.

“I am Detective Inspector Roland Rait and he,” a pudgy finger pointed at the younger man, “is Detective Sergeant Louis Lamar. You are suspected of shooting Malachi Vivas. What do you have to say about that?”

“Cobblers!” When under stress I sometimes revert to English slang.

Rait looked surprised. “What have shoemakers to do with the death of Malachi Vivas?”

“I had nothing to do with him falling over the side of the boat.”

“But you did have something to do with shooting him!”

“What are you talking about?”

The younger man, Lamar, then spoke. “Your finger prints are all over the shotgun we discovered on the boat. You should have chucked it over the side the same as you did with Malachi Vivas.”

Oh, oh, I’m in trouble. I better keep shtum, as Alfie Hinds would say.

“I’m not answering any more questions without my lawyer being present, and I have the right to a telephone call,” I said.

The two flics looked at each other with grins on their faces.

“He’s been in trouble with p0lice before,” Barrel belly Rait said.

“Yeah, that why we could match his fingerprints so quickly.” Pointy nose Lamar replied.

“I was in the Foreign Legion, that’s why my prints are on record.”

Rait looked a tad uneasy. “You were a legionnaire?”

“Yes and I want to call Legion HQ at Aubagne; it’s my right.”

“We know the law, Soissons,” Lamar snapped.

He escorted me to a telephone in an office and waited, fingers drumming impatiently, as I rang the operator and asked to be put through to the Legion’s Welfare Office at Aubagne. It took some ten minutes – with Lamar getting more irate by the second, but eventually I spoke to someone in the Welfare Office for Former Legionnaires.

“I’m Philippe Soissons and I have been...”

“What’s your problem, Professor?” the person on the other end of the phone asked.

“How do...?”

“It’s Ergon Westler. We served together in DILE, remember?”

“Yes of course. How are you, Ergon?” I couldn’t recall the name or the voice but I needed his help so pretended that I did.

“I’m doing fine. I’ve been a Welfare Officer here for three years; it’s a wonderful job and I get to meet up with several of my former comrades. So what’s the problem?”

“I’m in police custody suspected of murder.”

“Right, I’ll get a lawyer to you as soon as possible. Leave it with me, Professor.”

I thanked him and finished the conversation; the quicker Ergon contacted a lawyer the sooner I would be out of the Gendarme Post.

“My lawyer is on his way,” I informed the two flics.

“You will have to stay in custody until he arrives,” Pointy nosed Lamar said with a wide, snide, smile on his face.

I was put in a cell furnished with only the bare necessities but that was no problem to someone who had spent 48 hours in The Cooker at Aubagne.

It was 9 am next morning before my lawyer arrived. I had been woken at 6 am, allowed to shower and then had coffee and croissants brought over from a bistro across the road from the Gendarme Post for which I paid an exorbitant amount of money.

I recognised the man who entered the interrogation room but couldn’t place him until he put out his hand and introduced himself.

“Armand Bonhomme; we met about a year ago if you remember?”

I certainly did remember. He was the husband of Doctor Caterine Bonhomme, a female who I am harbouring lewd and licentious thoughts about.

“The police suspect that you shot Malachi Vivas on board his fishing boat Gaviota and then threw him overboard. They base their suspicion on the fact your fingerprints were found on Malachi Vivas’ shotgun,” he said.

“Bullshit! What sort of murderer would I be if I shot someone and then left the gun with my prints on it to be discovered by the police? If I had shot him the gun would have gone over the side with him.”

“Good point,” he said, and wrote something down in his notebook. “I’ve read your statement; is there anything you wish to amend or add to it?

“I want to make a new statement.”

He looked at me with concern. “Are you saying you gave a false statement?”

“Let’s just say I was slightly economical with the truth.” I then told Armand the complete and full story. Mal asking me to shoot him if he got dementia and me agreeing just to shut him up and keep him happy. Mal then inviting me to go fishing with him and his promise to give me shares in the Barn Company. When on board and out at sea Mal giving me the shotgun and asking me to shoot him, my refusal and him then picking up a lead weight and jumping over the side.

At the end of my recital there was a long silence.

“Why didn’t you give that version when first interviewed?” Armand asked, obviously perturbed by my change of story.

“I wanted to spare Mal being known as a suicide. Catalan men are extremely macho and his compatriots would have thought him less of a man if they knew he took his own life. But now the police have my prints on the shotgun I have to tell the truth and shame the Devil.” (‘And bugger Mal’s reputation’, I thought)

“You have not done yourself any favours by lying but I will do my best to get you off the charge.” As Armand finished speaking Rait and Lamar, the Gruesome Twosome, entered the interrogation room, Rait was carrying a tape recorder. He introduced himself and Lamar to Armand, adding, “We are from the Regional Serious Crime Squad based in Toulouse, sent to show the local plods how to run a murder investigation.”

“My client wishes to amend his statement,” Armand announced.

The Gruesome Twosome grinned at each other. “Does he indeed? Well, a full confession will help him when it comes to sentencing,” Rait said. He plugged in the tape recorder he was carrying and switched it on. “Start your confession, Soissons!”

When I finished giving the true version of event s there was a silence that could be cut with a chain saw and a look of incredibility writ large on the faces of the Gruesome Twosome.

It was pointy nosed Lamar who broke the silence. “We should call you Hans Christian Andersen after that fairy-tale.”

Rait was more professional in his response. “So you admit to handling a shotgun that had recently been fired. Why did you shoot Malachi Vivas?”

Pointy nosed Lamar then butted in. “You had an argument with him didn’t you, probably over that big titted barmaid at the Barn? It’s common knowledge you’ve been shagging her when Malachi is fishing out at sea. You grabbed the gun, shot Malachi and then tossed him over board...”

“And then put the shotgun back in the rack with my finger prints all over it. Why didn’t I throw that overboard as well?”

“Because you panicked and...”

I interrupted Lamar, who is probably related to Inspector Jacques Clouseau.”Were there live cartridges in the breech when you examined the shotgun?”

The two flics glanced at each other.” That is privileged information and none of your business, Soissons.” Rait said.

“But it is the business of Monsieur Soissons’s legal representative, Inspector,” Armand chimed in with his two cents worth.

Rait sighed; he knew he had to reveal any evidence. “The shotgun was loaded with two live rounds.”

“So I was so panicked after shooting Mal I didn’t think of throwing the gun over board but did think to replace the two cartridges that had been fired?” I said.

“How did you know there were live cartridges in the gun?”Rait asked.

“Because I looked. I wanted to know if Mal really thought I would have shot him, which is why my prints are on the stock and barrels but not on the lock or the trigger.”

“When you fired the shotgun you were wearing glo...” Pointy nosed Lamar then realised what a prat he was making of himself, besides confirming he was related to Inspector Clouseau, and shut up.

Armand stood up from his chair. “Your investigation is a farce and I demand you release my client from custody. You have no evidence of any criminal behaviour by him; you have no corpse and no motive. All you have is a missing person and the fingerprints of my client on parts of a shotgun you say has been recently fired. An examining magistrate would throw your case out of court and probably reprimand you two detectives,” Armand managed to make the title sound like an insult, “for wasting his time.”

The two detectives conferred their faces red with anger and/or embarrassment.

“We will allow Soissons to leave the Gendarme Post but he will have to wear an electronic tag” Rait finally said.

“That’s absurd... “Armand began, but I interrupted him.

“Leave it be, Armand. I’ll wear their tag; just let me get from this place. I’m on duty at nine this evening.”

I left the post with an electronic bracelet around my ankle. Armand was extremely reluctant for me to wear it. “It is up to a judge to decide who wears tags not a couple of detectives who need a refresher course in how to conduct criminal investigations.” He shook my hand “You have my number should you need it but I don’t think those two clowns will bother you anymore. I will see the examining magistrates tomorrow and get that damned tag removed!”

I arrived back at the Vermillion Coast Hotel and the story of my involvement in Malachi Vivas’ disappearance was spreading like the Plague. I had barely got to my room in the basement before Pierre Le Bon, the under manager, was knocking at my door. I let him in and he stood before me looking rather embarrassed.

“Err ... we have heard what happened on board the fishing boat, Soissons, and management have decided that under the circumstances, and as you are wearing an electronic tag, it would not be in the best interests of the Vermillion Coast hotel or its reputation if you continue to work at the hotel. Therefore it has been decided that you will be suspended from duty pending the removal of said electronic tag...”

“Bloody marvellous, I’ve been tried and convicted by hotel management! What happened to a man is innocent until proved guilty? Malachi Vivas jumped overboard. I have done nothing wrong. My human rights have been upended by the gendarmerie strapping this electronic tag on me without having a judge decide and now you have exacerbated the situation by giving me the sack...”

“Not the sack, merely a suspension of duty until the tag is removed. Look at it from our perspective, Philippe “(Him being good cop for a brief moment). “Our guests would be dismayed seeing a member of staff wearing equipment usually worn by criminals out on bail. They would be leaving the hotel in droves...”

“The tag is around my ankle not round my sodding head!”

“Well yes, but they might spot it when you go upstairs.”

He had a point I suppose. “Okay, I’ll move out to the Barn but I want full pay otherwise I will walk around the hotel lobby wearing shorts!”

Le Bon agreed to my demand and beat a hasty retreat before I thought of more ways to extort money from the hotel. I packed a suitcase and a holdall and made my way to the Barn.