ISOBEL
A MALLERY & HOBBS MURDER CASE
BY
A.J. GRIFFITHS-JONES
Copyright © 2019 A.J. Griffiths-Jones
Cover Image by Enzart
Cover Design by Emmy Ellis
Edited by Lorna Read
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
For My Sister, Jenny x
CHAPTER ONE – A NEW ARRIVAL
Isobel Gilyard leaned gently back against her ailing Volkswagen Beetle, sucking hard on a filtered cigarette and enjoyed the heat of the early May sunshine tickling her cheeks. Tossing her lighter into the opened handbag on the passenger’s seat, she surveyed the beautiful French countryside around her, a far cry from the busy Manchester streets that she’d left behind.
She knew her old car more intimately than any of her relatives and felt confident in its ability to recover swiftly from the long journey behind them. Another half hour of exposing the overheated engine to the slight breeze and she could be on her way again, of this she was certain, and Isobel closed her eyes for a moment or two.
The sound of a vehicle pulling onto the hard shoulder behind her shook Isobel from her reverie, daydreams of new beginnings and forgotten talents, causing her to turn and wait as the driver of an old Citroën van alighted.
‘Qu’est-ce qui ne va pas?’ the unshaven middle-aged man called out, as he strode closer, wiping greasy palms on creased trousers.
Isobel looked around, slightly unnerved, the rumble of passing traffic buffering the sound of the Frenchman’s voice.
‘Chaud,’ she replied, pointing to the VW’s boot which sat exposing its internal workings like a gaping mouth at the dentist. ‘It’s hot.’
‘Ou allez-vous?’ he continued, now near enough for Isobel to smell stale sweat and grime, her nostrils twitching at the repugnant stench.
Quickly translating the question, Isobel smiled as politely as her face would allow and said, ‘Bordeaux, Saint Margaux.’
The man nodded, his greasy fringe falling across one eye as he did so, satisfied that the old motor would indeed make its destination.
Isobel waited, wondering how to defer his assistance and then took a step forward before dismissing him with a simple, ‘Merci, Monsieur.’
The man didn’t move, but instead eyed her with something verging on lust, his white-tinged tongue flitting briefly across cracked lips as he appraised Isobel’s trim figure. His gaze moved to the rear window of her vehicle where a myriad of multi-coloured suitcases filled the back seat. An untidy eyebrow lifted questioningly. Of course, it was money he wanted she suddenly realised, glancing at her open handbag with its contents brimming for all to see. Could it really be that simple?
Isobel Gilyard stood her ground, trying to remember if there was anything in the Beetle that she could use to defend herself, but apart from a pair of flip-flops and a can of warm Cola, she could think of nothing. She conceded that her best bet was to run towards the busy road and wave down a passing car should the stranger come any closer. Thankfully, the moment of panic passed as hastily as it had appeared, and the Citroën driver shrugged his shoulders in mock defeat.
‘Au revoir, Mademoiselle.’
Isobel could hear her heart pounding in her ears and relief washed swiftly over her as the man turned away, spitting on the ground as he went. She watched him slowly slide back into the driver’s seat of his unwashed van. He turned the key and she kept her eyes fixed upon him until the back of the vehicle disappeared into southbound traffic, its orange indicator fading out of sight as the Frenchman sped away.
‘Jeez,’ Isobel whispered under her breath, stamping out the cigarette with the toe of her sensible loafer, ‘he made my skin crawl.’
Realising that her own armpits were now drenched in perspiration, Isobel reached through the rear door and pulled a clean t-shirt from one of the cases. Traffic was still passing at a steady pace, so she hunkered down in the footwell of the passenger’s side to avoid being seen and rapidly changed, rolling up her dirty denim shirt and pushing it into the glove-box. A quick spray of deodorant later and she felt fresher and ready to leave.
‘Right, come on, old girl,’ she told the VW, slamming the boot shut and starting up the old banger. ‘Let’s do this.’
The remainder of the trip was uneventful but incredibly scenic. The little car skirted the surrounds of Bordeaux town, heading through idyllic countryside towards the smaller community of Saint Margaux. By 4 pm, Isobel could glimpse the sandstone walls of the monastery and knew that her journey would soon come to an end. Two more miles and she would reach the pretty French town that would serve as her new home.
Maurice Fabron gave a start as the pale blue Volkswagen backfired outside his traditional boulangerie. The baker smiled, pleased to see that his new employee had arrived safely and in good time, despite her very rusty and ageing mode of transport. He had been on tenterhooks all afternoon waiting for this moment. Now, as a mop of blonde hair emerged from the driver’s side, Maurice called out to his watching customers.
‘Here she is, my new baker. You will see, she is amazing.’
Three faces peered out of the shop doorway, eager to catch their first glimpse of the Englishwoman who had been able to stir such excitable emotions in Maurice Fabron. The baker was already on his feet, however, before the customers could utter a word in response.
‘Isobel!’ he called cheerily, discarding a white floury apron and rushing outside. ‘Bonjour.’
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Fabron,’ she replied, kissing the man on both cheeks in traditional French fashion before stretching her arms animatedly.
‘Is a good journey, oui?’ Maurice enquired, ushering Isobel in through the wide double doors. ‘May is such pleasant weather to travel.’
Isobel nodded, taking in her new surroundings as the baker pulled out a chair close to the window. Three perfectly coiffed women sat drinking tea at a nearby table and they immediately tilted their heads in unison as they stared inquisitively at the newcomer. Isobel raised her hand in a friendly gesture and then turned her attention back to her new employer. The women resumed their tea-drinking, whispering amongst themselves as they finished their cream pastries.
‘Some tea?’ Maurice was asking, putting a hand on Isobel’s arm. ‘And something to eat? How about a chocolate éclair? ’
She glanced at the glass cabinet display of pastries behind her, now almost empty as the day came to a close, but resisted temptation. ‘Just a black coffee please, Monsieur Fabron.’
‘Hey, hey, if we are to be working together, I insist that you call me Maurice,’ the baker grinned.
‘Then you should call me Izzy.’
Maurice nodded enthusiastically before turning to call through a half-open door, ‘Telo, Telo, deux grands cafés noirs.’
Izzy sat watching as a very handsome but sullen-faced young man appeared from the back room, his eyes mere slits as he guarded his vision from the bright sunlight reflecting through the bakery window. It took just three or four seconds to feel the man’s hostility towards her, wrapping around her like an invisible shroud, but she forced a greeting and pasted a smile on her lips. Telo Fabron was the spitting image of his father.
There was a shuffling of chairs as the three onlookers craned their necks to get a clear impression of the scene unfolding before them, unperturbed by their brazen inquisitiveness. Isobel wondered if
all the residents in Saint Margaux were so forthright.
‘Telo, Izzy,’ Maurice introduced, waving his hands between the pair before lowering his voice. ‘Telo is my son, Izzy. He is a little, how to say, simple? But I’m sure you’ll get along. He’s a good boy.’
Isobel was slightly taken aback. Monsieur Fabron’s wording was peculiar, as Telo appeared to be at least twenty years of age. At her one and only visit here some weeks previously, the baker hadn’t mentioned that he had a son, let alone that Telo was working here. She remembered Maurice saying that his wife had passed away, hence the need for assistance with the baking, a role that Izzy felt she could fulfil more than adequately, but she supposed there had been no reason for her new employer to explain about his son to a virtual stranger.
The sound of Telo clattering cups and saucers brought Izzy back into the moment, realising that the baker was bombarding her with questions.
‘Would you like Telo to take your luggage up to the apartment? Shall I ask him to park your car at the rear?’
Isobel reached into her jeans pocket and swiftly pulled out the set of keys, nodding eagerly. ‘That would be great, I’m absolutely exhausted.’
In a flurry of French, Maurice instructed his son on how to assist, his dark eyes shining excitedly as he took the keys from Izzy’s outstretched hand. He then took a small brass key from a hook near the door, which Isobel presumed would be to unlock the apartment upstairs.
Telo pushed two steaming cups of coffee across the table and took the VW keys and smaller Yale key from his father’s nimble fingers, glancing down at Isobel’s furry pompom keyring but avoiding the Englishwoman’s gaze completely. There was something innocent about the young man, but it was tinged with anger, too, if she wasn’t mistaken.
‘So, welcome to Saint Margaux,’ the baker announced proudly, as much for the benefit of his curious customers as for Isobel’s, and then raised his white china cup to clink gently against hers.
‘Merci,’ Izzy giggled, already starting to feel relaxed in her new surroundings. ‘I think I’m going to be very happy here.’
Outside, Telo had started up the Beetle. As the gears crunched under his unfamiliar touch, Isobel was once again reminded of the unsavoury character that she’d met at the roadside earlier that afternoon and gave an involuntary shudder.
‘You are cold?’ Maurice asked. ‘I can shut the door.’
Isobel shook her head, but the motion went unnoticed as, at the same moment, the trio of ladies had chosen to leave. Amidst great ceremony, the baker took the proffered Euros and ushered the women out into the late afternoon sun, relishing the opportunity to explain how Izzy would now be here to provide exquisite English bakes and wonderful occasion cakes, should they find themselves requiring sweets for special events.
One of the three looked back to where Isobel was finishing her coffee and frowned, an expression that, in itself, relayed the woman’s doubts as to the capability of Maurice’s new employee. Isobel Gilyard was oblivious to the watchful eyes upon her, being preoccupied instead with the fuzzy sensation of new beginnings that was settling upon her, and sat back in her seat with a grateful sigh, as the heady aroma of fresh coffee permeated her senses.
Coming back inside and preparing to close up for the day, Maurice Fabron smiled at Izzy, who had her head thrown back in the chair, studying the ancient plasterwork that decorated the boulangerie ceiling. Light reflected off the watercolour cherubs, reminding her of a trip to Rome that she’d taken with the school many years before.
‘Those are three of our regular customers,’ the baker explained jovially, stepping behind the counter. ‘The little blonde lady is Cecile Vidal, she owns the local vineyard. Dominique Fabre runs the gift shop, she’s the one with reddish-coloured hair and has a passion for fresh cream cakes, and the woman with short black hair is Simone Dupuis. Simone has the flower shop next door. I’ll introduce you properly next time, as now it’s time to shut our doors, and the ladies are on their way home.’
‘No doubt I’ll get their names completely mixed up,’ Izzy confessed, trying to get the women’s descriptions straight in her mind. ‘They’re all so… chic.’
Maurice laughed and shrugged his shoulders as if it were natural that every French woman looked like a Vogue model.
‘Tonight, you should rest well,’ he commented, ‘and tomorrow explore the village. If you need anything at all, let me know, I am just across the street.’
Pointing to a rather grand ‘Maison du Maitre’ with pristine blue shutters and window-boxes brimming with delicate blooms, Maurice indicated his home’s close proximity to the boulangerie. It struck Isobel that Monsieur Fabron would be quite a catch, should someone happen to be looking for love.
She straightened up and yawned, running a hand through her unruly hair. ‘I will, Maurice, thank you.’
Each studied the other briefly. Isobel was a woman in her mid-thirties, short, slender and pale with cropped bleach-blonde hair like a schoolboy, while Maurice was ten years her senior, tall, handsome and tanned, slightly greying at the temples. Both were attractive in their respective ways, while not being each other’s typical ‘type’, per se. However, if any untoward thoughts had crossed either of their minds at that point, they were abruptly cut short by the arrival of a rather portly flustered gent wearing a dark blue uniform.
‘Ah, Maurice,’ he panted, ‘Vous avez des croissants?’
‘Jean, bonjour,’ the baker chuckled, ‘Oui. C’est tout?’
The men chattered in French for a few minutes whilst Maurice wrapped the last of the day’s croissants in paper, adding a complimentary pain au chocolat for good measure. Shortly afterwards, the animated character left, giving Maurice’s new assistant just a slight nod before bustling down the street as fast as his short legs would carry him, leaving Izzy to look on in bewilderment.
‘That was Jean,’ Maurice explained, ‘he works at the local railway station. He’s a funny man. Instead of coming first thing in the morning when the croissants are fresh from the oven, he comes after work, preferring to eat them with supper!’
‘Does he come in every afternoon?’ Izzy asked, amused at the comical interruption.
‘Oh yes,’ Maurice countered, ‘Although he’ll be going on holiday to Switzerland soon. No doubt croissant sales will fall rapidly while he’s away.’
The baker pulled a face, pretending to pout at the thought of lost business.
Isobel stifled a giggle, trying to be polite, but Maurice had already started chuckling and before long the pair were in fits of laughter as they watched poor Jean hurry home with his cold pastries.
‘I think working here is going to be fun,’ Isobel commented, helping the baker to lock up for the night. ‘Thank you for having faith in me, Maurice.’
That evening, feasting hungrily upon freshly baked bread, soft melted Camembert cheese and delicate slithers of ham, Izzy reflected upon her decision to move to France. This was probably the most life-changing point of her thirty-five years, but she truly believed that you had to grasp opportunity with both hands if you wanted to make a successful path.
‘Why France?’ her younger and more sensible sister, Vivien, had pressed. ‘Your French isn’t even up to scratch, and you’re not a qualified baker.’
Isobel had flinched at the harsh words, feeling the insult as sharply as if it had been a slap across the face. Still, she had risen above her sibling’s jealousy, for that’s what it was, and had continued with her plans to relocate.
‘It’s a fresh start,’ she’d replied smugly, continuing to fold bright dresses and pastel-coloured cardigans into a large suitcase as Vivien looked on, ‘a brand new adventure and I might not even come back!’
Her parents had been no more encouraging, their lack of enthusiasm grating on Izzy’s nerves like nails scraping a chalkboard.
‘So where will you be?’ her mother had fussed at the last minute, realising that to argue with Isobel would be futile. ‘You haven’t given us your new address or
phone number. What if there’s an emergency? Suppose your dad was taken ill, God forbid. Izzy, please, we’re just worried about you.’
‘I’ll let you know once I’m settled,’ she’d said flippantly, secretly having no intention at all to stay in touch with any of them. ‘I’ll write.’
Isobel Gilyard had driven away with the determination to succeed, telling herself that it was quite ironic how those closest to her were now showing their concern for her well-being. It hadn’t always been that way. Vivien had been deemed the brighter of the two, completing her exams without stress, never causing so much as a stir as they battled teenage hormones and conflicting interests.
‘Why can’t you be more like our Viv?’ their father had raged, after another of Izzy’s outbursts. ‘You could do well to take a leaf out of her book.’
At the time, it had seemed faintly amusing. Isobel Gilyard had no intention of being like her sister, then or now. Vivien had a sensible job, the same stagnant position in the local bank that she’d joined on leaving school, and a sensible husband who earned just enough as a salesman to drive a middle of the range car. They lived in a nondescript house with magnolia-coloured walls, on an estate where net curtains twitched but nothing notable ever occurred. The couple’s one, very diligent and polite, child was doted on by her grandparents and life for Viv was altogether very agreeable.
Isobel poured another glass of local Chenin Blanc as she chuckled to herself. The thought of her sister, in her tidy box of a lifestyle, could bring not one iota of envy. She wouldn’t trade places with Viv if her life depended upon it. Admittedly, the past decade would have been simpler had she been in her sister’s shoes, but it also would have been uneventful and stifling. She wondered what Viv was up to right at that moment; no doubt she was spending her Saturday night catching up on the latest episodes of her favourite soap while dutifully ironing her husband’s shirts. She imagined Vivien’s husband sprawled across the sofa, snoring his head off after an afternoon of football and beer.
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