Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  ‘Bonjour!’ Mallery called, waving at the men. ‘Je suis Inspecteur Mallery.’

  The oldest of the group rose and pointed towards the expansive and well-tended garden. ‘Monsieur Vidal est là-bas.’

  Hobbs followed his boss down a path of neat yellow paving stones flanking low hedges at the rear of the property, to where Hubert Vidal was leaning against a fence, looking skywards. He seemed to be oblivious to the approaching officers.

  ‘Monsieur Vidal,’ Max called, ‘je suis désolé.’

  Hubert reacted to the voice and turned his red-rimmed eyes towards them.

  ‘Ah, the Inspector and the Englishman. Bonjour.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss and I’m also sorry to have to do this today, under the circumstances,’ Mallery told him, ‘but the quicker we gather information, the faster we will catch the person responsible for Madam Vidal’s murder.’

  The winemaker nodded. ‘I don’t know what I can tell you really. Cecile hadn’t left the house since you came here on Monday. Yesterday was her first trip to Bordeaux in a few weeks. I just can’t believe anyone would want to hurt her.’

  ‘Was she planning to meet anyone?’ Jack pressed, flipping his notebook to a clean page. ‘Or did she have any appointments that you know of?’

  ‘I did ask what she had planned,’ Hubert shrugged, ‘but she just tapped her nose. It’s my birthday next week, you see, so I presumed that Cecile was going into town to buy something special for me.’

  ‘How did she get to the train station? Did she walk?’ Max asked, figuring that it would take a fit person no more than ten minutes to reach the village.

  ‘No, no. I was driving down to check on the vines in the lower part of the estate fields, so naturally I offered to give her a lift.’

  A thought popped into Jack’s head and he poised his pen over the paper, thinking. ‘Your wife caught the eight o’clock train to Bordeaux, Monsieur Vidal. Isn’t that rather early, considering that the shops don’t open until nine?’

  Hubert feigned a laugh. ‘No, not at all. She would occasionally meet up with friends for breakfast before shopping, a habit of most French women.’

  Hobbs wrote down the information, thinking about his own wife Angélique and how, in the three years of their marriage, cultural differences between them had often caused some minor arguments, occasionally all-out war.

  ‘It’s a difficult question to ask under the circumstances,’ Mallery began, looking out across the fields, ‘but can anyone corroborate your whereabouts yesterday morning, Monsieur Vidal? I mean, after you dropped your wife off?’

  Hubert sniffed and pointed over to the men who were still milling about by the parked cars. ‘I was with the workers all morning. We were taking samples and clipping back the top vines. We finished around midday, then came back to the barn to have some lunch. Madam Paradis had prepared it, and that’s when two of your officers arrived and broke the news. Ask any of my men, Inspector.’

  Max wished he’d been the one to speak to Hubert the previous day and he hoped that the uniformed officers tasked with the difficult job of telling the man about his wife’s murder had been considerate. Pain was etched all over the winemaker’s face. His cheeks were sallow as he looked at the officers directly, resigned to the fact that it was their duty to ask such personal questions. He took a deep breath and blinked back tears before looking away.

  ‘We’ll leave you now,’ Max decided suddenly, seeing the sheer exhaustion on the recently widowed man’s face. ‘But should you think of anything, or perhaps anyone you saw near the station yesterday morning, please…’

  He took out a rectangular card with his name and mobile phone number printed in blue ink, which Vidal accepted with shaking hands.

  ‘Inspector,’ Hubert Vidal called out, as the detectives began retracing their steps towards the car, ‘I did see someone who may have been on the same train. It was Maurice’s new bakery assistant, or so Cecile pointed out to me.’

  ‘Are you certain, Monsieur?’

  ‘Yes… well, my wife seemed sure it was her. You see, I haven’t met the woman myself, but Cecile said she’d seen her arriving on Saturday. When we pulled up at the station, I suppose it was about five to eight as we were running late, she was getting out of a battered old Volkswagen Beetle and heading towards the ticket office.’

  ‘Thank you, Monsieur, you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘Miss Gilyard wasn’t amongst the passengers that we interviewed,’ Jack pointed out, flicking his notepad.

  ‘Let’s go and see what Isobel Gilyard has to say for herself,’ Max told his junior officer, as soon as they had made themselves comfortable in the BMW.

  ‘Bit of a coincidence that she was at Saint Margaux station,’ Hobbs remarked, tugging at his seatbelt, ‘but why the hell wasn’t she there at the other end?’

  Seeing the doors of the Saint Margaux boulangerie firmly closed and the linen blinds pulled down, Max asked a passer-by where he might find the proprietor and was pointed in the direction of a grand house across the street. Maurice Fabron was sitting at the breakfast bar in his kitchen when Mallery and Hobbs arrived. A cup of coffee had been left to go cold in front of him and the daily newspaper was still folded and unread. A dark-haired stranger was at the counter, carefully laying out slices of bread, tomato and cheese on four side plates, and an elegant woman entered the room from a side door, gliding silently into the room.

  ‘Please take a seat,’ Maurice told the policemen, gesturing to the tall stools. ‘Officers, these are friends of mine, Simone and Gaston. How can I help you? Have you found the despicable person who murdered poor Cecile?’

  ‘Not yet, Monsieur Fabron,’ Max admitted, ‘but I promise you we’re working on it. Perhaps we could speak to you in private?’

  The baker stood to get a drink of water, gripping the sink with clenched fingers as he filled the glass. ‘No need. Simone is a close friend and Gaston, too. We are all affected by this. Poor Cecile. I still cannot take it all in.’

  The woman lifted a lace handkerchief to her cheeks and dabbed gently at the tears that rolled down. ‘She was my best friend.’

  ‘Monsieur Fabron… Maurice,’ Max went on, alerted to the apparent anger coursing through the shop owner’s veins, but also aware of the man and woman listening intently as he spoke. ‘We need to speak to your new assistant, Miss Gilyard. Do you know where we might find her?’

  ‘Izzy? Why yes, she has the little apartment above the boulangerie. What has she to do with my sister-in-law’s murder?’

  Simone gasped and turned to Gaston, who immediately drew her close.

  ‘It could be nothing,’ Jack jumped in, diffusing the accusation in Maurice’s voice and the obvious conclusions being settled upon by the couple, ‘but apparently she was seen at the station, so we just want to talk to her – see if she noticed anyone else hanging around when Madam Vidal boarded the train.’

  ‘But…’ Maurice queried, looking pensive. ‘Izzy told me that she drove to Bordeaux. Yes, I saw her in the car, she definitely didn’t catch the train.’

  The detectives looked at one another, confusion and intrigue on their faces. Why had Isobel Gilyard lied to her boss? Was Maurice just confused?

  ‘Perhaps we should pop over there now,’ Max ventured, tugging Jack to his feet, ‘just to clear things up. I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Monsieur Fabron narrowed his eyes as he followed the men down the cool elegant hallway. ‘Knock loudly on the back door, through the courtyard,’ he instructed. ‘She’s probably there. But I’m sure you are mistaken about Izzy being at the station.’

  Telo Fabron had heard the detectives arrive and leave. He’d spent the whole morning in his bedroom, inconsolable after hearing the news of his beloved aunt’s death, but now he shuffled to the top of the winding staircase, eager to hear what the men were telling his father.

  ‘Comme c’est interessant!’ he heard Gaston comment as soon as the front door was f
irmly closed.

  Telo peered over the polished banister to see his father’s reaction and was just in time to see a look of shock on the man’s face. ‘Oui. Beaucoup.’

  Simone Dupuis shook her head and touched Maurice on the arm, saying in French, ‘You might regret the day you let that strange Englishwoman into your life.’

  ‘So, let’s be clear on this,’ Max repeated, as he counted off the facts on his fingers one by one. ‘You did go to the train station yesterday morning, you did see Cecile Vidal arrive, but you didn’t buy a ticket as you didn’t have enough change and then you decided to drive to Bordeaux. Is that correct so far?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Isobel agreed, wide-eyed at the subtle interrogation. ‘Where are you going with this, Inspector?

  ‘Can anyone verify your movements?’ Jack pressed, checking his notes, ‘Do you perhaps have a parking ticket from when you arrived in Bordeaux?’

  ‘No, I parked in a quiet side street.’

  ‘So, nobody can corroborate what you’ve told us?’

  ‘Well, not really, I was on my own. Oh, hang on, maybe, the man in the ticket office. He’ll probably remember.’

  ‘I’ll make a phone call,’ Mallery offered, stepping out of the bright living room where Izzy had her feet tucked underneath her on an over-stuffed sofa.

  Jack Hobbs looked around at the obvious lack of personal effects. ‘You haven’t had time to unpack yet then, Miss Gilyard?’

  ‘I’m not one for ornaments,’ she replied tersely. ‘Does that matter, Detective?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he countered, turning to read the title of a book on the sparse shelf. ‘Thought you might have a few family photos, though. It’s tough living away from home.’

  ‘Is it? Maybe for you, Detective Hobbs, but I’m perfectly content here.’

  The woman deftly unfolded her legs, flashing a glimpse of her thigh as the summer dress lifted with the movement, and padded into the kitchen to light a cigarette on the gas stove. Jack Hobbs watched closely from the doorway.

  ‘Don’t you have a lighter, Miss Gilyard?’ he asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice as pieces of the puzzle slotted themselves together in a jumbled but coincidental manner.

  ‘I seem to have misplaced it,’ Izzy snapped, blowing a circle of smoke in Jack’s face as she pushed past him on the way back into the sparse living room.

  Max Mallery announced his re-entry into the apartment with heavy footsteps on the stairs as he leapt up them two at a time, panting slightly as he reached the top. It had taken him all of three minutes to gather the information needed.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid we’re out of luck today. Jean Manon, the stationmaster, was looking after the ticket office yesterday for an hour or so but, unfortunately for us, he’s now on his way to Switzerland for two weeks.’

  Izzy threw her head back, remembering Maurice mentioning Jean’s vacation plans to her a couple of days ago. ‘Oh, yes, I’d forgotten about that.’

  ‘You knew he was taking a holiday?’

  ‘Yes. Monsieur Fabron told me about it, after Jean came in late on Saturday afternoon to buy some croissants.’

  ‘How very convenient,’ Max replied, curling his lip as a suspect profile began to form inside his head.

  ‘What do you mean, “convenient”?’ Izzy spat fiercely. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with Cecile Vidal’s death. I barely knew the woman!’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ Jack stated proudly, ready to impress Mallery with his skills of detection. ‘Could you describe your lighter, please?’

  ‘What? My lighter? What on earth for?’

  ‘A lighter was found in the victim’s possession,’ he continued, despite a confused glare from Max, ‘and I rather suspect that it didn’t belong to her.’

  ‘If you must know, it had a Union Jack on it,’ Isobel informed them proudly. ‘So, quite unique in these parts but hardly likely to be the same one.’

  Mallery indicated with a jerk of the head that Jack should head outside with him; they didn’t want to give too much away too soon.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he called as they descended the stairs. ‘Don’t go too far, Miss Gilyard.’

  Isobel rushed to the window, eager to see the detectives departing before pulling the drapes across. She could just make out Telo across the street, watching the red BMW turn full circle in the square, but he was too far away for her to read the expression on his face.

  A shiver went down Izzy’s spine. She thought she was immune to the fear that sometimes came with being questioned, but evidently not. What was all that about a lighter? Surely it was a coincidence? On reflection, Isobel wished she’d mentioned the artist to Inspector Mallery, and that strange red stain on his cuff. If Gaston had been involved with Cecile Vidal’s murder, he would have had time to wash his shirt, and the evidence, by now. There was a tight knot in Izzy’s stomach, one that felt familiar yet hadn’t presented itself for almost a decade. She ran to the bathroom just in time to hurl up the contents of her lunch into the sink.

  ‘What do you make of that?’ Max inquired, as soon as he and Hobbs had descended the apartment stairs. ‘Defensive? Definitely covering something up, and that lighter has to be hers. I’ll make sure it’s being tested for fingerprints.’

  Jack wasn’t quite so eager to agree. ‘Isobel Gilyard does seem a bit odd, but she’s only been in Saint Margaux a few days. Hardly enough time to make enemies and carry out a crime, sir. I agree that it’s too much of a coincidence for her to have lost a Union Jack lighter at the same time as one is found in the victim’s bag, though.’

  ‘Are you saying you think she’s been set up in some way?’

  ‘Not exactly. She’s hiding something, but I’m not sure what. She certainly doesn’t seem the type to stab someone to death. She’s feisty, but not crazy.’

  ‘Who is? Until the right motive comes along, eh, Jacques?’ Max conceded.

  Jack bristled as his boss put emphasis on the French pronunciation of his name. It seemed the more he asked Max to call him ‘Jack’, the more he ignored the request.

  ‘There was something that I noticed, though,’ the young protégé admitted as the sports engine started up and sped out of the village, feeling smug that he’d been the one to spot the unusual item in Izzy’s living room.

  Mallery swung round, eyes glimmering like a shark spotting a bather’s bare leg. ‘Come on then, out with it.’

  ‘Well, there was a brand new book on her shelf. It still had the price sticker on the front. I’d say that, from the perfect spine, it hadn’t been read yet.’

  ‘And what about it? For goodness’ sake, what relevance does it have to us?’

  Jack Hobbs paused for effect, casually looking at his fingernails and then out through the car window at the passing countryside.

  ‘The title was The Invention of Murder, by Judith Flanders.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN – CONFRONTATION

  On Friday morning, Isobel was up early; ‘at the crack of dawn’ as her father would have commented. Having slept soundly and without the repetitive nightmares that sometimes caused her to wake drenched in a cold sweat, she had woken to the sound of a car being driven around the back of the building. She knew that the only vehicles that should have been there were the Citroën delivery van and her own Volkswagen Beetle, and the distinctive ticking of the engine gave Izzy a fair idea of which one she could hear.

  Hurrying to the bathroom window that overlooked the small courtyard, Isobel shrugged on a light dressing-gown as she went. Down below, coming out from underneath the carport, was Telo Fabron. The young man looked around sheepishly as he strode across the cobbled stones but failed to look upwards at the curious woman who was watching him. Izzy did a double-take. Had Telo been using her car without permission? How dare he? In a state of fury, she raced downstairs, catching Telo as he unlocked the back door and entered the boulangerie kitchen.

  ‘Hey!’ Izzy yelled, the colour rising in her cheeks, fingers trembling
as she pulled her flimsy gown closed. ‘What the hell do you think you’ve been doing?’

  ‘Comment?’ Telo sneered, raising his brows. ‘What?’

  ‘You,’ Isobel pointed, making driving motions with her hands, ‘mon auto.’

  Telo stared, appearing wide-eyed and confused, as though the accusation was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard and pushed past her to enter the shop, where he set about brewing coffee.

  Izzy followed, desperate to collect her rudimentary French together in order to make herself perfectly understood. She concluded that the simplest words in short sentences might be best.

  ‘Telo, où allez-vous?’ she gasped. ‘Where have you been?’

  Telo Fabron stood with his back to Isobel, clattering cups and spooning ground coffee into the machine, ignoring her question, yet his spine stiffened quite noticeably.

  ‘Don’t turn your back on me,’ Izzy growled. ‘I bloody well saw you. You’ve been out in my car.’

  ‘Who has been out in your car?’ another voice called out in clear English. ‘Izzy? Is there something I should know?’

  Isobel turned, coming face to face with her puzzled employer.

  ‘Telo has been driving my car without asking,’ she explained, her temper reducing to a mild simmer in the hope that Maurice would now take over the interrogation.

  Telo turned towards his father and asked simply, ‘Papa?’

  Isobel stood quietly as the baker put her accusation to his son in plain French, Telo answering clearly and without faltering once.

  ‘Well, that is cleared up,’ Maurice shrugged, facing Izzy now. ‘A simple explanation. It seems that when you returned on Wednesday, you parked your car behind our van so Telo had to move it this morning in order to get the Citroën out to do the deliveries. I’m not happy about him driving your car without insurance, but no harm done.’