‘Any crime scene details?’ Hobbs enquired, glancing across to where Max was fiddling with the car door.
‘Not much, just that somebody broke into the safe, according to uniform. Now, where the hell is the button to open the window?’
Jack smiled. ‘You have to wind the handle, sir, this is an old model.’
If ever there was an ideal place on earth to spend a Monday morning, it had to be the village of Saint Margaux. Surrounded by lush green countryside and picture-perfect houses, it was a thriving hub of activity, not only with locals but with regular visitors, too. Keen walkers hiked the rolling hills, those who enjoyed fishing tried their luck in the clear water of the gushing river and those in search of a tranquil place to escape the hubbub of city life rented the gîtes that stood waiting for their hard-earned Euros.
As Jack’s Ford turned right onto a narrow lane, a signpost pointed to the village and Max gestured for him to continue along the route.
‘About half a mile down here, you will see a sign for the vineyard.’
The Inspector was right. Announcing the entrance very grandly were a row of tall cypress trees swaying gently in the morning breeze, their tips reaching up towards the sky like guards standing to attention in a parade. The words on the sign read simply, Vineyard de Saint Margaux, in black lettering against a gold plaque.
‘Main house or winemaker’s building?’ Hobbs asked, continuing down a long gravel drive, tyres crunching as they slowed down.
‘I would think that an affluent gentleman would keep his safe in the house, don’t you think?’ Mallery winked sarcastically. ‘Pull up over there in the shade, it’s going to be a hot day.’
Hubert Vidal was tall, tanned and the epitome of a French wine producer, dressed in red chinos that mirrored his rosy cheeks and a crisp white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. A gold Rolex watch signalled wealth, yet he walked with an easy gait, arms open in a welcoming gesture.
‘Bonjour,’ he said with a nod, striding over to the car. ‘Je suis Monsieur Vidal.’
Mallery shook the man’s hand, matching his height and smart casual attire, causing Jack to feel inadequately out of place in his navy trousers and checked shirt. No wonder Angélique had been nagging him to go clothes shopping.
There followed a rapid succession of quick-fire questions and responses in French that Hobbs struggled to follow, but he was soon welcomed into the Vidal’s house and spoken to in English. It seemed that Max Mallery had already explained about his new English ‘sidekick’.
‘So, you’re an Englishman.’ The winemaker grinned, his accent only tinged slightly with his native tongue. ‘Not a Cambridge boy are you, by any chance? I was there in the late nineties, a bit before your time though, I suppose?’
Jack shook his head. ‘No, sir. Hendon Police Training College.’
Hubert Vidal seemed unfazed by the response and continued to lead the detectives into a vast study, in the centre of which stood a grand oak desk covered in paperwork. Jack stood taking in the lavish décor. Heavy woven tapestries depicting ancient battles hung on two of the walls and an oriental vase delicately painted with cranes stood on the sideboard. The Vidals were certainly worth a bob or two, he reckoned.
Mallery tugged on Jack’s jacket, lowering his voice. ‘Get your notebook ready.’
‘We haven’t touched anything,’ Monsieur Vidal was saying, stopping at the edge of a Persian rug and surveying the room as though for the first time. ‘As you can see, the safe was open when I came in this morning and the patio doors have been forced from the outside.’
Max Mallery strode over to the window and examined the lock. There were no visible prints on the glass or door handle, but the wooden frame was scratched as though a metal object had prised them open. There was nothing of note on the glass and no footprints on the patio tiles outside.
‘Who else lives in the house, Monsieur Vidal?’
‘My wife Cecile, of course, and our housekeeper, Madam Paradis. Our children are presently away at university. Ah, here is Cecile now, Inspector.’
Squeaky loafers on the highly polished hall floor signalled the arrival of Madam Vidal, an attractive, petite woman with soft blonde curls and an enigmatic smile. She wore a simple shift dress in a bright shade of coral and wore no jewellery except for a smaller, feminine version of her husband’s timepiece and a leaf-shaped gold brooch.
‘Bonjour,’ she said solemnly, looking over at the gaping safe. ‘C’est terrible.’
Hubert quickly introduced the policemen and put an arm around his wife’s shoulder to comfort her. She smiled at Hubert and put a hand on top of his.
‘Detective Hobbs est Anglais,’ he murmured, bending slightly to Cecile’s ear.
Madam Vidal smiled weakly, acknowledging the young red-haired man, ‘You remind me a little of the Royal prince, Harry,” she said in English. ‘I’ll ask Madam Paradis to make us some coffee. Or would you prefer tea?’
‘Coffee would be lovely,’ Max answered, shooting a glance at his colleague, ‘if it’s no trouble.’
As the Frenchwoman retreated to the kitchen, Jack blushed. This wasn’t the first time that he’d been compared to the Queen’s grandson.
‘So…’ Mallery coughed, trying to steer matters back on track, ‘what is missing?’
‘Well, that’s the strange thing,’ Hubert replied, gesturing towards the desk, ‘As I told the uniformed officers earlier, not a single thing has been taken as far as I can see.’
‘And you say you definitely haven’t touched anything?’
‘No, not a thing,’ Hubert assured him, glancing around the study. ‘When the other officers left, I shut the door and haven’t opened it again until now.’
Mallery peered closely at the hinged door of the safe and peered inside.
‘Let’s see what could possibly be of interest to someone else then, shall we?’
Jack Hobbs scribbled quickly, noting every item and document as Monsieur Vidal relayed the information to him, and hoped that he’d be able to read his notes without difficulty later when he came to write up the report.
‘So, let me get this straight,’ Mallery was saying. ‘The alarm wasn’t set, you didn’t hear the door being forced open and whoever it was that broke in, knew the combination to the safe? On top of that, nothing was taken, oui?’
The winemaker rubbed a hand over his tired face and shrugged. ‘Yes indeed, Inspector, that sums it up completely. In all the years my family have owned this vineyard, four generations, we have never had so much as a cup stolen. The alarm works but, to be honest, we never feel the need to set it.’
Jack looked over at the papers on the desk and then back at the various letters, passports, money and folders carefully stacked up in the safe.
‘Monsieur Vidal,’ he probed, pressing the biro to his lips, ‘is there anything on the desk now that would have been in the safe last night?’
‘What are you getting at?’ Max asked, not grasping Hobbs’ line of questioning.
‘I mean, sir, that perhaps the intruder came to look at something specific.’
Enlightened, Mallery looked to the vineyard owner and raised his eyebrows, causing the red-faced winemaker to look closely at the documents on his desk.
‘Well, well,’ he said presently, just as Cecile returned with a pot of fresh coffee on a silver tray, ‘I do believe there is!’
Mallery and Hobbs leaned closer as Hubert Vidal pointed at a crisp blue folder on top of his ‘In’ tray.
‘May I ask what it is?’ Mallery prompted. ‘But please do not touch it, Monsieur.’
Cecile, who had been standing slightly back from the men, stepped forward and cleared her throat. ‘It’s an official document giving my share of my father’s house to my brother-in-law.’
Jack waited, pen poised above his notepad.
‘And who is your brother-in-law?’ Mallery pressed.
‘Maurice Fabron. He owns the boulangerie in Saint Margaux and presently lives in my father’s �
��Maison de Maitre’. Maurice and my sister Valerie moved there when my father died, it was his wish.’
‘Is Monsieur Fabron aware of your intentions?’ the Inspector asked, suspecting the case could be easily solved in its open simplicity.
‘Naturally. Maurice had lunch with us yesterday, together with our avocat… erm… lawyer, and the papers were signed afterwards. Hubert locked our copy of the document in the safe straight away, and the avocat took the original.’
‘Madam Vidal, do you perhaps have a clear plastic bag big enough for the folder?’
Cecile nodded, pushing her hair over one ear before exiting the room.
‘We will take it for finger-printing,’ Max announced. ‘Besides there being no theft, there is still a crime.’
‘Hubert Vidal furrowed his brows, pensive and morose.
‘Who on earth could possibly want to look at our private papers?’
Over coffee, the detectives asked further questions. It was established that Cecile Vidal’s late sister was the boulangerie owner’s wife and the two women had been bequeathed the large ‘Maison de Maitre’ in the village by their father. However, now that the Saint Margaux vineyard was flourishing and with a handsome home of their own, the Vidals had generously decided to sign over the property entirely to Maurice Fabron so that it could eventually belong to his only son, Cecile’s nephew.
‘And your sister’s son?’ Mallery probed gently, replacing his empty coffee cup on the tray. ‘Would he have any reason to…’
Madam Vidal shook her head. ‘Certainly not. Dearest Telo is….’
She turned to her husband, searching his eyes for the correct word in English.
‘Autistic,’ Hubert supplied, smiling at his wife. ‘A lovely young man, very clever in many ways but with certain difficulties in social situations.’
Max Mallery took in the information, his junior also absorbing every detail like a sponge as he continued to write, concluding the interview only when he was satisfied that there were no more details to be had.
‘One last thing,’ Mallery queried, as the Vidals escorted the officers out to the car, ‘how long have you had your housekeeper?’
‘Madam Paradis has been with us ever since we married,’ Cecile said staunchly, ‘and before that, she worked for Hubert’s parents.’
Mallery instinctively knew when his line of questioning had hit a brick wall and bid the couple good day.
‘I’ll be in touch if we have any updates,’ he promised, tugging at his shirt cuffs before opening the door of the Mondeo. ‘Au revoir.’
He noticed the couple slipping their hands into each other’s automatically as soon as they turned to re-enter the house. He missed that intimate closeness with a woman and momentarily thought of the Commissioner’s wife.
Jack Hobbs inserted the key into the ignition and started up the engine.
‘Monsieur Fabron’s bakery?’ he suggested, easing off the handbrake.
‘You’re quick!’ Mallery grinned, pushing the plastic bag containing the folder into the glovebox. ‘Turn left at the bottom of the drive.’
‘Sir, if you don’t mind me asking,’ Jack ventured, keeping his eyes on the road, ‘How come forensics haven’t been to check for fingerprints?’
Mallery shrugged, a noncommittal movement that gave nothing away. ‘We simply don’t have the resources at the moment. Besides, it’s not a burglary unless something is taken, correct?’
‘Well, in a way they did. Perhaps they took information,’ the younger man said smugly, pleased with his deduction. ‘That document could mean a lot of things to different people.’
‘I’m sure you’re going to explain…’
‘Well, sir, perhaps the Vidals’ children are unhappy about Maurice Fabron getting the house. After all, if it belonged to their maternal grandparents, surely they’re entitled to inherit a percentage?’
Max yawned, stretching his legs down into the deep footwell of the Mondeo, in his opinion the only redeeming factor of the Ford.
‘As Monsieur Vidal told us, they’re both away at university right now.’
‘It’s not unthinkable that one or both of them could have come back down on a Sunday afternoon and waited somewhere until their parents had gone to bed.’
Jack was becoming animated as he warmed to his conclusions and earned a steely glare from the wily Inspector.
‘You’re going to have to come up with something better than that Jacques. Now, do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Not in the car, if you don’t mind,’ Hobbs replied tersely. ‘The baby…’
‘Oui, oui, oui,’ Mallery sighed, putting away his cigarettes, ‘zee baby.’
Maurice Fabron was just taking a second batch of freshly baked baguettes out of the oven when the boulangerie door opened, causing the brass bell to tinkle. The smell of warm bread lingered and filled the back room with a deliciously mouth-watering aroma.
‘I’ll go,’ said his new assistant, Isobel, ‘I’ve finished icing these cupcakes.’
‘Merci.’ The baker nodded, sliding the red-hot baking tray onto a marble work counter. ‘I’ll be out in just a moment.’
Isobel wiped her hands on a damp tea towel and wandered through into the shop, expecting to test out her French on the morning’s first customers. Instead, she was greeted by two men, one of whom held out a police identity wallet. She read the name Inspector Max Mallery and a tingle ran up her spine.
‘Je voudrais parler à Monsieur Fabron,’ he said boldly, while the other man eyed the tasty bakes in the glass display cabinet, ‘s’il vous plaît.’
Izzy turned to see Maurice hurrying out from the back room on hearing his name, a sprinkling of flour still lying like fresh snow on his shirt sleeves.
‘Oui? Je suis Maurice Fabron.’
Isobel wrangled with the coffee machine while the three men settled themselves at a round table. Telo was out making deliveries and therefore the Englishwoman had to work out the complex piece of equipment by herself while her employer sat looking deeply perplexed as the men introduced themselves.
‘Would it be alright if we speak in English?’ Inspector Mallery asked politely. ‘For the benefit of my new colleague, Jacques?’
‘Of course,’ the baker replied, turning to point towards Isobel. ‘My new assistant is also English.’
Isobel turned on hearing her name and smiled at Maurice.
Max raised both eyebrows and looked inquisitively at the young woman, quite a unique sight in a rural French village with her bleached, cropped hair and multiple ear piercings. He noticed she was dressed in three-quarter length jeans and a gingham shirt under a white apron. Very 1950s, he thought, before turning back to Maurice.
‘I’m afraid to tell you that the Vidals’ vineyard had an intruder last night,’ Mallery explained, as Izzy set espressos out for the group. ‘Nothing was taken, fortunately, but the patio door was damaged and it seems that a certain document was taken out of the safe.’
‘Oh, that is terrible news!’ Monsieur Fabron exclaimed. ‘But you say nothing was stolen?’
‘No,’ Max continued, leaning back in the chair and stretching out his long legs, ‘nothing was taken, but it seems the safe was opened and the document looked at.’
‘Poor Cecile and Hubert! But I don’t see how this has anything to do with me.’
‘You dined with the Vidals yesterday, correct?’ Max pressed. ‘And the document you signed was the very same one that was taken out of the safe.’
Maurice nodded and then frowned, putting the pieces of the puzzle together in his mind before answering.
‘Yes, that’s right. I had lunch there and we signed an agreement about the house. What is it you’re asking of me, Inspector?’
‘Well, to be honest with you, it’s still a mystery as to why someone would want to read the document… unless, perhaps, the information disclosed in it benefitted them in some way.’
Maurice rubbed his temples. ‘But only myself and my son, Telo…’
/> ‘The Vidals’ children?’ Jack interjected. ‘Your nephew and niece?’
The baker shook his head. ‘They’re both at university and haven’t been home for weeks. Besides, they were well aware of Cecile’s intentions and had no problem with their mother’s decision.’
‘Perhaps you could get us another coffee while I go over the fundamentals of French Inheritance Law with Monsieur Fabron,’ Max asked Hobbs. ‘Easier done in our local language.’
‘Sure, no problem,’ Jack smiled, heading towards the blonde Englishwoman, relinquishing the fact that his boss’s conversation would most probably go right over his head anyway. He leaned on the glass counter, eyeing a chocolate cake.
‘So, how long have you been in Saint Margaux?’ Hobbs casually asked Isobel, as she pressed numerous buttons on the coffee machine once more.
‘Erm… all of two days!’ Izzy laughed, rolling her eyes in mock embarrassment.
‘I’ve not been here much longer,’ Jack confessed. ‘Jack Hobbs, from Leeds.’
He put out a hand and shook the young woman’s as she told him, ‘Isobel Gilyard, also from up north. Manchester.’
‘So, what brings you to this little backwater?’ the police officer pressed, noticing the absence of a wedding ring on the woman’s left hand as she held up a cup to catch the dribbling beverage.
He could have sworn that Izzy’s eyes narrowed as she digested the question, perhaps conjuring up a way to avoid a direct response. When she finally answered, Hobbs’ gut instinct told him that he was right.
‘I could ask you the same question, detective.’
Isobel picked up the fresh coffee cups and marched briskly over to the table where Max was concluding his questioning. She collected the empties and then stacked them noisily in the dishwasher.
Jack watched with interest. There was something odd about Isobel Gilyard; a lack of sincerity in her actions, the need to avoid eye contact, her accent tinged with something other than that of her hometown. He immediately thought of a phrase that his father would have used – ‘Never trust a skinny cook’. And Isobel Gilyard didn’t exactly look as though she ate a great deal of the sumptuous cakes that she baked, Jack mused. Monsieur Fabron, on the other hand, looked like an open book.
Isobel Page 5
