Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Izzy raised a glass to Vivien and her family. ‘Here’s to not being like you,’ she laughed. ‘Poor sad, ridiculous, unaccomplished Viv!’

  Having finished her supper and settled in a comfortable armchair by the open window, Izzy appraised the village below, where neat wooden benches framed a central square. A few residents walked the main street with their dogs, stopping to chat as they passed one another, a sure sign that Saint Margaux was a warm and friendly community. In the distance she could see the bell-tower of the local church, grey and ominous against the early evening blue sky. The scent of wild flowers, freshly cut grass and food cooking wafted upwards, allowing Isobel to breathe in Saint Margaux one lungful at a time. She took out her lighter and lit an after-dinner cigarette, placing it between her lips in the manner of a seasoned Hollywood actress. On the opposite side of the street, a light burned brightly on the upper floor of Maurice Fabron’s house and Isobel strained her eyes out of curiosity to see who occupied the room.

  Telo Fabron sat hunched at a desk, a long slender finger following the written words in his battered French copy of Lord of the Flies. Behind him, the young man’s father nodded approvingly as he listened to his son read aloud with the concentration of a professional orator, hanging on Telo’s every word.

  The bedroom was neat, not a single item out of place, just as the sole occupant liked it, and needed it to be. Tidiness and the obsession with everything having its own unique place was an essential element of daily life for Telo Fabron. If so much as a pencil were out of place on his writing bureau, the young man would know. Hence, nobody was allowed in here, except for his beloved father, as Maurice understood how things had to be for his son. He instinctively knew the triggers that caused anxiety in Telo, the need to be in control and the love that the boy was capable of should he choose to allow you into his world.

  ‘Tres bien,’ Maurice said finally, patting his son on the shoulder. ‘Lait froid?’

  Telo nodded as the baker padded back downstairs to get him the glass of cold milk that he ritually drank before bed.

  ‘Papa,’ he ventured on his father’s return, ‘je n’aime pas Isobel.’ I don’t like Isobel. The words were as innocent, yet damning, as could be.

  Monsieur Fabron sighed, easing himself down onto the single divan as the youngster returned his book to the antique oak shelf. The baker had felt this moment looming for the past few hours but had hoped that his son’s instinctive dislike of the Englishwoman would have dissipated by now. Maurice collected his thoughts, carefully choosing words, before explaining to Telo that Izzy would be staying because he needed her help.

  ‘Mais bien sȗr.’ But of course, the young man conceded begrudgingly, acknowledging for the umpteenth time that his own skills didn’t stretch to baking, before sipping at the cold milk like a sulking child. He wished, as he did every night before turning in, that his mother was still here. She would take her son’s side, soothe his worries, tell the stranger to go away. It didn’t occur to Telo that if his mother had still been alive, Isobel would not have come.

  Maurice Fabron kissed his son’s head, ruffling the soft dark hair with the tips of his fingers, and left him alone with mixed feelings. He sincerely hoped that Isobel Gilyard would prove herself to be a fine employee, but Telo rarely took a dislike to someone so instantly, which certainly caused concern. It was usually his son’s excellent judgement of character that kept the baker alert to any insincere newcomers. Maybe, when Monday arrived, the baker mused, Telo’s negativity would be forgotten. Isobel might even win him around with one of her special bakes.

  Upstairs, Telo carefully placed the empty glass on his bedside table, a rim of milk clinging to the sides, and sauntered over to close the shutters. He counted to ten, as he always did, before reaching out to pull at the slats. Directly across the street, he could see the stranger sitting at the window, looking straight into his room, his private space. The young man eased the wooden slats to with a bang, intending to send a message to those prying foreign eyes.

  Go home, Isobel, Telo chanted over and over in his head, you don’t belong here.

  Isobel watched as Monsieur Fabron’s son shut himself away for the night and then reached for the last of the white wine. ‘I might as well finish it,’ she told herself. ‘No work tomorrow, just a lazy Sunday to explore my new surroundings.’

  Still, despite her relaxed mood and slightly intoxicated train of thought, Izzy felt unnerved by the way in which the baker’s son had glared at her that afternoon, and now, too, she was certain that there was a certain spitefulness in the violent way that Telo had closed those heavy shutters.

  Her thoughts returned inexplicably to the Frenchman in the Citroën van, his uncouth manner and roving eye somehow in unison with Telo Fabron’s hostility. Perhaps she was becoming too sensitive as she hurtled towards forty, she told herself; a prerequisite to menopausal angst, no doubt. No, Telo was just a bit slow, Maurice had explained that himself, therefore she must allow them both a while to become properly acquainted. Time will conquer all, Isobel smiled, and time is something that I have in abundance.

  Before retiring to bed, Isobel reached to the back of the closet and felt for the battered shoebox that had become a fixed part of her material world. Rubbing her hand across the sagging cardboard, she felt the familiar ridges, knowing them better than any line on her own face. She didn’t need to take out the contents, nor lift the flimsy lid, but simply yearned for the reassurance that it was still there, where she’d left it earlier. The box, containing everything that Izzy needed to recollect her past life, had travelled here wedged under the driver’s seat of her beloved Volkswagen, away from prying eyes, safe from those who had no right to enquire as to its contents.

  CHAPTER TWO – A SECOND STRANGER

  Inspector Maxime Mallery swung from left to right in his office chair, causing the underside of the seat to squeak, his feet up on the desk in a relaxed posture, as if to test its durability. The police officer paused for a second to inspect a miniscule blob of fluff on the tip of his brown Oxford brogues and then, satisfied that it was merely dust from the unkempt office, resumed his monotonous motion. Seconds later, a manicured finger hovered over Max’s mobile phone, sorely tempted to redial the number that had called him three times this morning already. Best not, he admitted to himself, not yet.

  Having moved to Bordeaux the previous month, Mallery was already bored with the lack of excitement. Save for a few overdue parking fines, some teenage graffiti and a missing cat, the extent of his caseload was nothing compared to that of his former position in Paris where serious crime was on the rise daily. It wasn’t as though he’d had any choice in the matter; if he were honest, it was all self-inflicted, but he wouldn’t have changed the circumstances leading up to his relocation for the world.

  Mallery peered gloomily into the empty mug on his desk and then landed both feet on the floor with a thud, intending to refill the receptacle with a beverage from his state-of-the-art coffee machine. Hovering between vanilla latte and macchiato pods, he was interrupted by a knock, followed by a slight cough in the doorway.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ the young female policier smiled, her French polite and well enunciated,‘there’s an Englishman here to see you.’

  A dim light went on inside Mallery’s head as he probed his brain to recall why there might be a foreigner asking for his attention. The recollection flickered, turned warm and then pressed an alarm bell in his memory.

  ‘Oui, un moment,’ the Inspector nodded, appraising the woman’s shapely legs and tightly fitted pencil skirt as she retreated. ‘Merci.’

  Abandoning the coffee, Max Mallery turned to the pile of papers on his desk, rifling through them impatiently before pulling out a memo from the Commissioner.

  ‘Merde!’ he cursed, scanning the document with fervent eyes, the memo had lain forgotten for almost two weeks. He remembered pushing it to the bottom of the ‘In’ tray in the hope that it would mysteriously disappear. It clearly hadn’t.
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  The contents left no room for doubt as to the message. Inspector Mallery was to be given a new recruit on his team, one with a reputation for using his initiative and being a real team player. On the surface, the new addition seemed ideal – that was, until you took into consideration that he was from Yorkshire in England. At first Max had thought it a joke, that the Commissioner was testing his resolve after relocating Max to what he deemed to be the back of beyond. But, on delving further into the matter with a few heated phone calls and an internal profile search, it seemed that the request was legitimate, due to the Englishman’s move abroad with his French wife.

  Mallery rolled the memo into a ball and then tossed the paper expertly into the waste bin. He shrugged on a navy blazer, checking his appearance in the reflection of the glass-panelled door, always the epitome of professionalism where work matters were concerned. Satisfied that his pale pink shirt was without creases and not a hair on his head sat out of place, Max strode out of the office, stopping only to polish the brass nameplate on the outside of the door with the sleeve of his jacket.

  In the ground floor lobby of the Poste de Police, dressed in a black suit and white shirt, sat a ginger-haired man in his early thirties. Jack Hobbs was well aware of the fact that he was twenty minutes late arriving at the police station but hoped that his explanation of a newly born baby in the household would tug at the Inspector’s heart strings. As it was, he didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  ‘Bonjour. Inspector Maxime Mallery,’ Max introduced himself as soon as his feet touched the bottom step, before pushing back a cuff to look at his watch. ‘You are Jacques?’

  ‘Hi, erm, yes, well, Jack actually, Hobbs. Sorry I’m late, sir, new baby.’

  Max nodded, angling his head towards the upstairs offices. ‘Okay, this way.’

  Lifting a small rucksack onto his left shoulder, Jack followed the Inspector up two flights of stairs and then to the end of a long corridor with high ceilings and parquet wooden flooring. He noted the other man’s smart yet casual appearance and chided himself on having turned up looking like a funeral attendee.

  The Inspector ushered him inside the office and then kicked the door closed.

  ‘So,’ the slightly elder of the two enquired, ‘What brings you to Bordeaux.’

  Jack looked the Frenchman in the eye and said openly, ‘My wife is French, and her father is a Judicial Police Officer in Toulouse. He, erm, pulled a few strings to help my transfer from Leeds Crime Squad.’

  ‘Pulled a few strings,’ Max repeated, pressing the tips of his fingers together to form a steeple. ‘Like a puppet.’

  Jack Hobbs was confused. Was the Inspector intending to make a joke or to mimic him? He wasn’t sure of the vibes coming across the expansive desk.

  No sooner had Inspector Mallery appraised his new recruit from head to toe than he was heading for the coffee machine again.

  ‘Cappuccino? Espresso? Americano?’ he offered, holding back from offering the Englishman his own personal favourites.

  ‘A cappuccino would be great, thanks.’ Jack grinned, his cheeks flushing pink.

  Mallery breathed out slowly and inserted the capsules into his prized possession, allowing questions to silently form in his astute mind as he studied the freckled young man sitting before him.

  ‘So, tell me,’ Max began, pushing a plate of plain biscuits across the desk, which the newcomer started devouring hungrily, ‘parlez-vous Français?’

  Hobbs nodded but replied in English nevertheless. ‘A little and Angélique, my wife, is teaching me new words every day.’

  ‘So, I suppose you’re incapable of writing a report in French, or requisitioning support from other divisions, or even reading a criminal their rights?’

  Jack blushed, pulling at the collar of his shirt as he became flustered under the scrutiny of the very suave senior officer.

  ‘I’m a fast learner,’ he countered, ‘and my track record back in Leeds was exemplary. I’ve got a letter of recommendation from my commanding officer.’

  ‘Very well, may I see?’

  Unzipping the rucksack and taking out a white envelope with sticky brown edges, Jack frantically rubbed to erase the offending marks. However, before he could do so completely, Mallery had lifted the letter from his fingers and slid a paperknife under its sealed edge, wrinkling his nose as he did so.

  ‘Treacle?’ he asked, lifting an eyebrow.

  ‘No, sir, it’s Marmite. Must have come from my sandwiches, they’re in the bottom of…’

  The Inspector held up a hand as he started to read the reference, impressed with its contents, but not so much with the manner in which they had been delivered.

  ‘It seems Commissioner Chirac has left me no choice but to welcome you to the team,’ Mallery sighed, after an uncomfortable silence in which he mulled over the dilemma in his mind, ‘although I presume that this is a temporary measure until a more suitable position can be found for you elsewhere. As a detective used to investigating murders, drugs and suchlike, you will no doubt find Bordeaux a terribly boring place to work.’

  ‘I’m happy to help out in whatever way I can, Inspector Mallery. Just being here in France is change enough for now.’

  ‘In that case, welcome.’ Max shrugged.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ Hobbs replied, his gaze still lingering on the dishevelled looking envelope. ‘I won’t let you down, Inspector Mallery.’

  ‘And Hobbs,’ he added, shaking his head at the few crumbs that remained on the china plate, ‘tomorrow, be sure to eat breakfast before you start work.’

  Jack reddened again, feeling like a child under reprimand. ‘Yes, sir, I will.’

  For the remainder of the morning, Jack Hobbs sat at an allocated desk two doors down from his new boss. He shared the room with the rest of the team and had enjoyed a pleasant welcome in response to Mallery’s introductions.

  ‘Luc takes care of IT, CCTV, and other technology-related matters,’ the Inspector had explained, ‘while Gabriella and Thierry are what I like to term as my foot soldiers. They go out on the streets of Bordeaux and keep their eyes and ears to the ground.’

  Hobbs nodded, greeting everyone in turn and desperately trying to memorise names and roles.

  ‘Our current caseload includes three unpaid fines, some rather artistic but anonymous graffiti in the rear courtyard of the tobacco shop, and the case of poor missing eight-year-old Claude.’

  ‘A missing child?’ Jack questioned, perking up at the idea of some proper investigative work.

  ‘Non,’ giggled Gabriella, tossing her sleek ponytail over one shoulder, ‘Claude is a black and white male cat.’

  Jack’s shoulders sagged. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be the opportunity of a lifetime after all.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he ventured. ‘Why are the police getting involved in the search for a cat?’

  Thierry clapped Hobbs on the back and whispered in his ear, ‘It’s the beloved station cat.’

  ‘I see…’

  Mallery turned a stern eye on the newcomer and pointed at Luc. ‘I’m sure Luc would appreciate your help in the search, oui?’

  At this point, Max Mallery returned to his office, perplexed at what else he could possibly find for Jack to do. Although, he reminded himself, Bordeaux was a large town and there would surely be some hint of criminal activity at some point, whether the young man would be there long enough to assist was another matter entirely. It was virtually unheard of, an Englishman working with the French police, and one with hardly any local language at that!

  Max lifted the Englishman’s file from the bottom drawer, where he’d absentmindedly pushed it as soon as the folder had arrived on his desk. Hobbs hadn’t been overly smug about his track record, it was all there in black and white, making interesting reading. Three years as a Constable in Leeds City Centre before being promoted to Sergeant, and then another three years before the final transfer to Detective. In the following few years, Hobbs had been involved in no
less than six murders, three armed-robbery cases and a drugs racket, all of which he’d come out of with glowing reports from his seniors.

  ‘So, Jacques,’ Mallery muttered, lighting a cigarette, ‘I’m afraid you are going to find our quiet French town very dull indeed.’

  By noon, Jack Hobbs had procured some stationery from the well-stocked cupboard and arranged everything in his desk drawers. He had then spent the next couple of hours helping Luc to search CCTV footage in the hope that the errant Claude would be spotted on his feline travels. They were just scrolling through black and white images of nearby alleyways when Mallery returned.

  ‘Jacques,’ he announced, hands on hips in a decidedly animated manner, purposely putting emphasis on the French version of his new employee’s name, ‘Le dejeuner. Lunch.’

  ‘Oh, I’m alright thank you, sir, I’ve brought my own…’

  ‘Not your lunch,’ Max interrupted, obvious distaste at the thought of Hobbs’ Marmite sandwiches written across his face. ‘Could you go to the boulangerie and get some for us?’

  ‘Yes, sure,’ Jack agreed, jumping out of his seat. ‘Where’s the nearest bakery?’

  ‘In the next street,’ Gabrielle interjected helpfully. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Thanks, that’d be great.’

  Max dug deep into the pocket of his designer jeans and pulled out a crumpled twenty Euro note. ‘Today, it’s on me. Treat yourself, too, I’m sure the local baguettes are much more tasty than what you brought with you.’

  Having quickly asked for everyone’s order, Jack followed his team mate downstairs and on to the bustling Bordeaux street.

  ‘Does he mellow after a while?’ Hobbs asked tentatively, glancing at the woman at his side. He guessed she was in her late twenties but daren’t ask.

  ‘Mellow? Sorry, I don’t understand…’

  ‘You know, does Mallery chill out, relax a bit,’ Jack prompted.