Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  ‘Ah, détendre.’ Gabrielle smiled, showing perfect white teeth. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. Inspector Mallery, Max, has only been here about a month, so we haven’t really become, how to say, erm… familiar with him yet.’

  Jack was surprised. He’d got the impression that Mallery had his feet well and truly under the table, something which usually came with time.

  ‘Do you mind me asking where he was before?’

  Gabrielle opened her hands, palms up. ‘In Paris, but why he would want to give up the excitement of the capital city for here, I have no idea.’

  Jack Hobbs stored the information in his brain for later. It might, or might not, be relevant that Mallery was also new to the area, but it seemed rather a big coincidence all the same.

  ‘The boulangerie is here,’ his colleague nudged. ‘Hurry up.’

  Later that afternoon, Luc tapped on Mallery’s office door with a purring cat in his arms.

  ‘Inspecteur,’ he said, grinned broadly, ‘Claude est ici.’

  Max was on his feet in seconds. He’d taken rather a shine to the fat furry creature on the first week of his arrival and was glad that at least one mystery was solved.

  ‘Très bien,’ the officer smiled, stroking the cat’s head before turning to his team member. ‘Excellent, Luc.’

  It took a few minutes for the lanky techie to explain that it had actually been Jack Hobbs that had located and brought Claude in, causing Mallery to stride down the corridor to offer his congratulations.

  ‘It seems you’ve made a great start at cracking our most difficult case to date,’ Max joked, slapping Jack on the shoulder. ‘Put on your jacket, we’re going out.’

  Nudges and winks behind him raised suspicion that perhaps the newcomer was to be reprimanded for his early success. Perhaps Mallery thought he needed taking down a peg or two.

  Bewildered, Hobbs did as instructed, struggling with the sleeves of his jacket until Thierry offered a helping hand, and then followed his boss out to a bright red sports-style BMW.

  ‘Wow, nice motor,’ Jack commented. ‘Where are we going Sir?’

  Revving the engine before releasing the brake, Mallery checked the mirror and pulled into the street. ‘A short drive,’ he explained, ‘to show you the area of our jurisdiction. There are some truly beautiful villages in this area, and I haven’t even seen them all myself yet. So, this afternoon, we will do what you English call “see the sights”.’

  ‘Sight-seeing,’ Jack corrected, wishing immediately that he’d kept quiet. ‘Sorry, sir, just a habit.’

  ‘Mm,’ Mallery grunted, indicating into the fast lane. ‘Enjoy the ride.’

  Passing sleepy hamlets and fields of wheat, barley and wild flowers, the car turned down a side road and Max pulled into a farm gateway. Tall cypress trees stood either side of furrowed tracks, marking the territory of the local landowner. From the entrance, the men could see for miles across lush green countryside, smelling the gentle aroma of fruit and flowers. Gesturing to Jack to join him, the Inspector got out and went to stand at the gate, immediately lighting up a cigarette.

  ‘Fumer?’ he asked, offering the pack to his colleague.

  Hobbs shook his head. ‘Erm, no, I’ve given up, because of the baby.’

  Mallery tossed his head back, blowing smoke out of his nose. ‘Ah well. I suppose it is a good thing with a little one in the home. Congratulations, Jacques. Now, if you look across there, a little to the right, you can just see a church tower rising up out of the valley, yes?’

  Max spread his arm wide, indicating the dip in the rolling countryside as it curved slightly. A grey stack could be seen in the distance, with a sandy-coloured larger building shadowing it slightly from afar.

  Jack strained his eyes and nodded.

  ‘That, my friend, is the beautiful village of Saint Margaux. Beyond, you can see a majestic monastery. Then, if we turn to the left, we can see the vineyards where they make the best wine in all of France. A little further to the south are Riberon and Salbec, both also quiet and beautiful. You like French wine, oui?’

  Jack blushed, scratching the back of his head nervously. ‘I’m more of a beer drinker to be honest with you, sir.’

  ‘Ah, so do you like our Stella Artois?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I’m more of a Boddington’s man,’ he confessed.

  The Inspector frowned, having no clue as to what the other man was talking about but also lacking the inclination to follow up that particular line of questioning.

  Hobbs breathed in the fresh country air, glad to be out of the office and discovering new places. He wondered whether Angélique knew these villages and if they might explore them together on his next day off. Glancing at the man next to him, Jack could see that Mallery was more relaxed out here, too. There was something about being at one with nature that brought out the best in people. He’d loved walking the Yorkshire Dales and exploring the Lake District with his parents as a youngster. It was a pity that Angélique couldn’t see the benefits of having such areas of natural outstanding beauty on their doorstep, but he understood her need to come back home, too. If their roles had been reversed, Jack would have wanted to be close to his family as well.

  There was a loud buzz, followed by the ringtone of a popular Abba song, as Max snatched the mobile phone out of his blazer pocket. Without a word, he stepped a few yards down the lane, looking furtively behind him, and answered the call.

  ‘Oui, ma chérie,’ he murmured, only just audible to an inquisitive Jack Hobbs, who recognised the endearment immediately. He bent down, pretending to busy himself with an undone shoelace as Mallery continued his conversation.

  ‘Avec qui?’ Max was asking, before listening long and hard. Seconds later, the call was finished and he returned to the car looking much more flustered than before.

  ‘Your wife, sir?’ Jack ventured, his natural cheeky charm now coming to the fore. ‘Needs you to pick up some wine for dinner by any chance?’

  ‘I am not married,’ Max replied curtly. ‘Anyway, Jacques, we’ve seen enough for today, I think it’s time we got back.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to pry,’ Hobbs explained, as soon as the car was back on the main highway to Bordeaux, weaving its way through slower vehicles. ‘I just presumed that you were married.’

  ‘It’s fine, you did not know. Anyway, for the record, Jacques, I am very, very happily single.’

  Jack sniffed at the use of the French pronunciation of his name. Mallery had done that several times already and it was only Hobbs’ first day on the team. He wanted to know more about his boss, no matter how temporary the arrangement was to be.

  ‘So why the move from Paris?’ he asked casually, trying to steer the subject onto neutral ground. ‘Seems we’re both new to the area.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve been asking questions,’ Mallery answered, tightening his grip on the steering-wheel, eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘A typical English detective.’

  ‘No. Actually, Gabriella just happened to say that you hadn’t been here long. Sorry if I spoke out of turn.’

  ‘No matter.’ Max sighed, rubbing at his temple with a free hand. ‘Yes, I’m new here too, needed a, erm, what do you call it, change of view?’

  ‘Change of scenery, sir.’

  ‘How about you?’ Mallery questioned. ‘Was it your wife’s idea to move here?’

  ‘Yes. Angélique wanted to be closer to her family now that we’ve got our son. Seemed to make sense, really. Happy wife, happy home and all that.’

  ‘Of course,’ Max nodded. ‘Family is very important to French people.’

  Jack Hobbs had to agree. Besides, his homesick wife had hated living in Leeds.

  Back in his office, Max Mallery closed the door and pressed the button revealing the last caller on his phone. He redialled, imagining the tempestuous woman on the other end smiling as his name lit up on the device’s screen. He waited patiently, eager to continue the conversation that he’d ended abruptly only an hour befo
re. Vanessa had said she was going away for a while, to visit friends in Belgium. As far as Max could recall, she’d never mentioned knowing anyone in that part of Europe. When the ringing stopped and it went to answer-phone, he pulled the swivel chair up to the desk and typed in a password.

  Scanning for new messages, Mallery sat upright, his finger hovering over the mouse, partly afraid to open the email but wildly curious, too.

  Subject: Vanessa, he read, suddenly feeling parched and sweaty.

  Mallery clicked on the contents and read the single line on his screen. It was from the Commissioner, informing Max that his wife would no longer be available for communication.

  Reading the line over and over, the Inspector sat as still as a marble statue, although the cogs in his mind were still churning with panicked thoughts.

  What has he done? Where is Vanessa?

  A dark cloud gathered outside the open window, reflecting Max’s dark thoughts. He didn’t think that the Commissioner was capable of harming his wife, but this was a proud man afraid of his spouse’s indiscretion becoming public knowledge. Who knew what lengths a spurned husband would go to? Especially one with money and power at his fingertips.

  Mallery automatically picked up his phone and tried the familiar number again, feeling his palms become sticky under the vibration.

  The woman’s voice was hurried, raspy as though out of breath, scared of being discovered. Yes, she explained, she was fine, but her husband was threatening to ruin Max’s career if he contacted her again. This was it, she insisted, they must never speak again for both their sakes.

  ‘Wait,’ he wanted to say, realising that what had started as fun was now, for him, something much more serious, but it was too late.

  The line was dead.

  Max dropped the phone onto the desk, his stomach churning, head thumping.

  So here he was, stuck in Bordeaux with his talent for detection slipping quickly down the toilettes and to add to the insult, it appeared that Vanessa was not going to keep her promise of warming his bed every other weekend after all. He understood, quite clearly as it happened, that the socialite and role model mother didn’t want to lose the benefits of having such a lucrative marriage. If she carried on seeing Max, who, then, would provide the expensive beauty treatments and designer clothes, not to mention the trips to New York and Milan?

  They’d successfully hidden their secret lunch dates, overnight stays when the Commissioner had been out of the city on business, and lover’s trysts at every opportunity. But now, things were different. Real-life had dealt Mallery a blow and he had no choice but to take it, no matter the consequences.

  If only he could turn back the clock, pick another woman, a different wife with whom to conduct an illicit affair. It had been so much fun, wining and dining the wife of the most senior law man in the whole of Paris. He couldn’t even pinpoint the fatal lapse that had caused the Commissioner to put a tracker on his wife, to try to catch the man with whom she had become obsessed. It could have happened any time within the past six months. And now what? Stuck in this godforsaken town with less action than a senior citizen’s Christmas party and, to make matters worse, he now had to babysit an Englishman into the bargain!

  Merde!

  CHAPTER THREE – A DINNER INVITATION

  As morning sunlight probed through Isobel Gilyard’s flimsy cotton curtains the next day, a lone figure sat below the window, hunched over and on a reluctant mission. Telo Fabron wrung his hands together, palms sweating, brows furrowed. His father had asked him to deliver a message to the Englishwoman – in person, he had specified – and now the youngster must wait until the idle stranger was awake.

  As soon as Izzy pulled back the lilac drapes, she noticed the familiar young man sitting on a bench close to the boulangerie. She thought it strange and continued to look down. Suddenly, as if instinctively, like a fox sniffing out its prey, Telo was on his feet and gazing up at her with narrowed eyes and tightly buttoned lips. She waved, feigning a smile, but he simply reached into a shirt pocket and withdrew a note, which he then held aloft to show Isobel that it was intended for her.

  Wrapped in a silk robe, Isobel padded down into the bakery, the red-tiled floor cold underneath her bare toes, and bent down to pick up the paper that had been pushed underneath the door.

  DEAREST IZZY, the delicately looped handwriting read, PLEASE JOIN US FOR DINNER TONIGHT, 6PM. MAURICE.

  Isobel smiled, grateful that she wouldn’t have to seek out a restaurant for her Sunday night supper and took the invitation back up to her new apartment, grabbing a croissant from the covered remains of yesterday’s bakes to sate her breakfast hunger.

  The village was a great deal quieter than it had been the day before. Fewer people were out on the streets and the calm tranquillity of the place filled its new resident with a grateful satisfaction. The sounds flooding in through the apartment window, where Izzy now stood taking in the view whilst enjoying freshly brewed coffee, were merely natural. No buzz of cars, as would certainly have been the case back home in Manchester, no loud shouts of overexcited youths, not even a lawnmower to break the perfect peace.

  Pulling a simple yellow sundress from the closet, Isobel showered and dressed, intending to explore her new surroundings on this most glorious first full day of her new start.

  Having walked a few hundred metres out of the village, it soon became obvious where all the residents were hiding, as the dulcet tones of singing were now filling the air with a ghostly quality. The church in which the congregation had gathered was small and medieval, its ugly gargoyles out of place in such a rural idyll, mouths open in mock laughter as they guarded the turrets high above. The churchyard, too, was somewhat ancient in its setting, tombs green with lichen and moss, the inscriptions blurred with age. Izzy wondered if Maurice and Telo were attending the service. Perhaps she was the only one to be wandering the lanes whilst others gave thanks to God. Having never been particularly religious, Isobel didn’t dwell on these thoughts, but continued her solitary stroll, eager to gain some insight into Saint Margaux and its environs.

  Down the narrow lane, the opposite direction to the one which she had so carefully navigated the previous day, Izzy stood looking in awe at the tall monastery, its tiny windows giving the impression that the interior must be a very dark place, although perhaps that was indicative of the order of monks who resided there, she mused. Ancient sandstone walls loomed as the building perched upon a hillock, guarded from the outside world with an almost enchanted existence. Straining her ears, the Englishwoman could make out the faint tones of chanting and, in that moment, it seemed as though the whole of Saint Margaux were creating harmonious melodies without her.

  Further, just a few minutes on, the road opened up slightly, widening towards a stone bridge. A slow-running stream trickled underneath, reminding the walker that she should perhaps have brought a bottle of water with her to quench her thirst along the way. She sat for a while, soaking up the sunshine and watching a rabbit scampering across the bank, until thirst prevailed, and Isobel retraced her steps back to the boulangerie.

  Having passed the rest of the day unpacking suitcases and arranging books on shelves, Isobel Gilyard sat at the dressing-table and carefully applied pink lipstick. Her short, bleached hair had its limits, but a diamante clip added a feminine touch and Izzy appraised herself contentedly for a few moments before crossing the street to Résidence Fabron.

  There was a loud echo throughout the white-washed house as the bell announced its guest’s arrival, suggesting that the rooms were considerable and numerous, before footsteps could be heard coming down the hallway.

  ‘Izzy, bonsoir.’ Maurice grinned, kissing his guest earnestly on both cheeks, delighted to note that the young woman had made a special effort with her appearance that evening. ‘You look wonderful. Please, please, come in.’

  On crossing the threshold of the baker’s home Isobel was taken aback by the opulent grandeur of the house. A wooden parquet floor showcased
oil- paintings against brightly painted walls and a solid marble-topped table, dressed with a glass vase of fresh roses, ran along one side of the entranceway. It was the sight of the flowers that had the newcomer cursing her own negligence.

  ‘Oh, Maurice,’ she gasped, putting a hand to her mouth theatrically, ‘I’m so sorry, I should have brought wine, or at least a little something…’

  ‘Dear lady,’ Maurice grinned, ‘if you can find a shop open in Saint Margaux on a Sunday, then you are a… erm, a miracle worker.’

  The baker’s humour broke the ice and Izzy immediately relaxed, her shoulders visibly sagging as she followed the muscular figure through into a vast kitchen. Delicate smells permeated her nostrils as soon as they entered, a wonderful, heady concoction of herbs and fish wafting its way over from a large range stove.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ a woman chirped, sliding gently from a stool next to the kitchen island unit and putting out a hand. ‘Lovely to see you, Isobel?’

  Izzy recognised the perfectly presented lady as one of the women who had been at the boulangerie on her arrival.

  ‘Bonsoir,’ she smiled, shaking the delicate fingers. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think…’

  ‘Simone, Simone Dupuis,’ Maurice interjected. ‘My fault, I should have introduced you both yesterday.’

  ‘It’s fine, Maurice,’ Izzy smiled. ‘Lovely to meet you, Simone.’

  Furtive glances were exchanged between the two women as Maurice moved around the kitchen, pouring wine and expertly chopping herbs.

  Isobel felt intimidated by the older woman, whom she presumed to be in her late forties, with her perfect dark bob and manicured red fingernails. Simone wore a pale blue dress which skimmed her slender hips in a flattering manner, the neckline revealing just enough cleavage to lure an admirer’s eye. Isobel looked down at her own floral number and wished that she’d put on something newer and more refined.

  ‘Le poisson à la vapeur,’ Maurice explained, pointing to a long steel pan. ‘You call it steamed fish, I think, Izzy.’