Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  ‘But…’ Isobel faltered, ‘how did he get the key?’

  ‘Où est la clé?’ Maurice asked.

  Telo responded by shrugging his shoulders and opening his palms to show that he had nothing to hide. ‘Dans l’auto.’

  ‘Could it be possible that you left the keys in the car when you came back after your shopping trip?’ the baker enquired, his demeanour giving no clues as to whether he was annoyed or completely calm.

  Izzy thought quickly, retracing her steps. She’d parked up and carried her shopping bags and… ‘Oh, gosh, yes, I think I did!’

  Maurice sighed. ‘So now, we are clear, nothing to be alarmed about, oui?’

  Half an hour later, Isobel Gilyard was showered, dressed and making her way back down the stairs to the bakery for the second time that morning. It was by now eight o’clock and she looked forward to applying her skills as a baker. If nothing else, it was therapeutic and would take her mind off the embarrassing accusations that she’d made a while earlier. Izzy had to admit to herself that Telo’s explanation had been completely plausible, yet she could kick herself now, as a recollection of the soapy smell in the Beetle came to the fore.

  Maurice seemed unfazed by the car scenario, although, as he simultaneously kneaded dough and slid golden loaves out of the oven, there was a dark cloud hanging over the bakery as all three co-workers dwelled deeply upon Cecile Vidal’s murder and the ongoing investigation.

  Within the first two days of her employment at the boulangerie, Izzy had tirelessly toiled over ginger biscuits, cream horns and custard tarts, the enthusiasm to prove herself a worthy baker knowing no bounds. It was effective, too, for Maurice Fabron was delighted with her work and layered on praise after praise. Isobel was unsure whether it was the pastry-rolling, creating delicate icing which required her full concentration, or the whisking of cream for her delectable fillings, that caused her intense feelings of pride. Each process had its own merits.

  However, the surprise visit from Mallery and Hobbs was weighing heavily upon her and, as she worked, she could feel an inexplicable growing anxiety. Maurice was naturally morose, but Izzy couldn’t work out whether he was taking Cecile’s death badly or knew that the detectives had paid her a visit. She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  ‘So, Izzy,’ Monsieur Fabron called into the back room where she was carefully piping cream cheese onto a freshly baked carrot cake, ‘it must be time for us to take a break, oui? If we continue in this way, so busy, I shall have to change the business name from ‘Fabron’s Boulangerie’ to ‘Fabron’s Patisserie.’

  Isobel looked up from her task, a faint smile on her face. ‘Just give me two minutes, Maurice, and then I’d love a cup of tea.’

  The baker nodded approvingly, as much at the woman’s dedication to her cake-making as to the fact that she was willing to sit and talk with him.

  As the pair sat with a pot of Earl Grey and a plate of vanilla biscuits between them, Maurice ran a finger around the rim of his cup and carefully considered whether to ask the question that had gathered on the tip of his tongue. Relief washed over him as Isobel took the reins and ploughed right in.

  ‘I had a visit from the police yesterday,’ she said openly, taking a sip of the tea. ‘They wanted to ask me why I was at the station.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that you were there. Didn’t you drive to Bordeaux?’

  Maurice looked perplexed, as Isobel’s version of events somehow conflicted with those of the officers, but he waited patiently, allowing his assistant to explain what had occurred two days earlier.

  ‘Now it is very clear,’ he sighed, when Izzy had supplied every last detail. ‘Do you think you might have seen someone following Cecile?’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she confessed. ‘I was only there for a few minutes and was mostly preoccupied with counting out enough coins for the train fare.’

  Maurice looked disappointed but had nothing to admonish Isobel for. ‘Let’s hope that they find this despicable criminal very soon. I still cannot believe there are such evil people in the world. Saint Margaux has always been a peaceful and safe place, until now.’

  The bakers were suddenly interrupted by the appearance of Gaston. This time, he was wearing cut-off jeans and a casual plain t-shirt that revealed the curves of taut muscles beneath.

  ‘Bonjour, Maurice, bonjour, Mademoiselle Gilyard.’

  ‘Ah, Gaston!’ Maurice enthused, getting up to greet the artist and hugging him warmly. ‘We are just taking tea. Will you join us?’

  ‘I can’t stay.’ The young man smiled weakly. ‘I just came in to pick up a loaf for Simone and to ask if there was any news, you know, about the investigation?’

  Isobel noticed the artist’s impeccable English and promised herself that she would spend an hour every evening practising French from that day onwards.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ Maurice told him, continuing in English, in order for Izzy to join if should she so wish. ‘Let’s hope this Max Mallery is a smart detective. And of course, how is Simone? Has she opened up the shop today?’

  ‘Naturally she is still very upset, so I am working in the shop this morning and I’ve told her to get some rest. In fact, I was wondering if you could spare Telo for a couple of hours to do a few deliveries. Simone has had lots of extra orders today, as people want to leave tributes at the station for Cecile.’

  Maurice rubbed his eyes. ‘Of course, he’ll be glad to help out. I think he’s out back, washing the van. Tell Simone I’ll visit later, when we close here.’

  The young man bowed his head solemnly. ‘Simone will be glad to see you. Having something to keep him busy might keep Telo’s mind off his aunt, too. I think he’s taking it pretty hard.’

  Isobel looked down at Gaston’s bare wrists, reminded of the stained shirt he’d been wearing the first time they’d met. It was hard to imagine that there was anything more than an innocent explanation, but the mark had most definitely looked to her like dried blood. Watching the men interact, she wondered how well Maurice really knew the artist. Didn’t they always say that most crimes were committed by people you knew?

  As a warm loaf was carefully wrapped in brown paper and passed across the counter, Isobel stood up and gathered the empty cups. ‘I’d better get the cakes finished. Nice to see you again, Gaston.’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Gilyard.’

  ‘Take a little longer,’ Maurice told her. ‘There’s no rush for the cakes as we’re not busy. Maybe go up and have a proper lunch break today? It’s been a difficult couple of days for all of us.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you know, I think I will.’

  The artist tilted his head, watching the woman closely, although no smile was present as he saw her disappear into the kitchen.

  As soon as Izzy was out of earshot, Gaston leaned over the counter and tugged gently at Maurice’s sleeve. ‘What did the police say to her? Do they think she is involved?’ he asked, in rapid French.

  ‘I’ll explain later,’ the baker promised, glancing back over his shoulder to where Isobel was now unlatching the door to upstairs. ‘It’s just a mix-up. It seems she wasn’t on the train, after all.’

  Gaston accepted the response but was only just warming to the topic. ‘That’s good to hear, Maurice. But look, if you don’t mind me saying, there’s something a bit secretive about your new assistant. I feel as though she’s hiding something. What do you actually know about her?’

  Maurice looked up and frowned. ‘Izzy is simply here to help me in the boulangerie, there’s nothing more to it. Gaston, you are mistaken. She was just in the wrong place. The police have cleared things up, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Think about it, Maurice,’ the artist pressed on. ‘Saint Margaux has been crime-free for centuries and now suddenly we have a murderer in our midst. Is it just a coincidence that Miss Gilyard showed up here, just days before Cecile was murdered?’

  The baker rolled his eyes up towards the ceiling where, in the room above, he could hear Izzy’s footst
eps moving around the little apartment.

  ‘Mere coincidence. Now, stop letting your imagination run away with you.’

  Isobel lay back on the soft cotton bedspread, intending only to close her tired eyes for a few minutes, just long enough to gather her torrent of thoughts into some kind of rational perspective. She tried to compartmentalise everything in her head; Cecile Vidal’s murder, the strange scent in the Beetle, Telo’s behaviour, the red stain on Gaston’s sleeve and the visit from the detectives. Out of all these ‘anomalies’, Izzy knew that it was the surprise appearance of Mallery and Hobbs that had shaken her up the most. Even the fact that they’d been there, in her apartment, full of questions, was almost too much to bear.

  And then Hobbs, asking about her cigarette lighter… Why on earth would that be significant? Izzy hadn’t missed the lack of subtlety in Mallery’s pulling the junior detective away, just at the point where he was going to explain, either. A flashback to a scenario that happened over a decade before caused her to give an involuntary shudder. She prayed that history wasn’t just about to repeat itself…

  A cold grey room, cups of lukewarm coffee that tasted like dishwater, hours of sleep deprivation and then questions, so many endless questions. She’d been allowed just one phone call and had spoken to her father, who in turn had waited until almost the end of his working day before ringing the family solicitor. Isobel had waited for hours, knowing that her family would treat the incident as yet another of their daughter’s misdemeanours. How right she had been.

  Isobel had sat still facing a barrage of enquiries, her mind drifting to the house in Greater Manchester where she imagined her parents sitting down to a dinner of shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash before even remotely considering that their daughter might need some moral support. In the windowless room, she’d been left alone to consider why she was there, a kind of mental torture dished out by the local police who had deemed her guilty before she could pause to draw breath. There was an empty chair in the room next to her, supposedly reserved for an appropriate adult. Whether that was her mother, a psychiatrist or a legal representative she never did find out…

  Back in the present, Izzy gulped down a tumbler of ice-cold mineral water, tears pricking at her eyes, before getting down on her hands and knees in front of the huge bedroom closet. Delving to the back, behind sensible loafers and strappy sandals, she reached for the familiar shoe box, pausing before lifting the lid and looking inside. Staring back at her was the photograph of a man who looked around twenty-five years old. His mousy-coloured hair was trimmed neatly, in fact it was almost too perfect, while a smattering of freckles covered a smallish nose.

  Isobel continued to take in the face, the curves of his shoulders, the prominent Adam’s apple. Yet she was afraid, too scared to pick up the picture, almost as if the photo-paper would burn her fingers if she dared to lift it. Perhaps she had been foolish to keep this constant reminder, but it served a greater purpose in Izzy’s mind. It ensured that she remained vigilant and didn’t get too comfortable. She lifted the box onto the bed and lay down, thinking about her past and fearful for the future.

  Martin Freeman had been the most attentive man she’d ever met. Sensitive, kind, sober, but in a way slightly boring compared to Isobel’s numerous previous boyfriends. Izzy’s friends had often commented on Martin’s clothes, the smart blazers that were years out of fashion, the trousers that were just that little bit too short so you could see his white socks, and his unwavering obsession with ties.

  Their tastes couldn’t have been more different, either. Martin played the trombone, took part in amateur dramatics and collected stamps, whilst Izzy listened to heavy rock, was obsessed with black eye make-up and revolved her weekends around getting drunk. Nobody would have put them together as a couple, but something, a strong magnetism, attracted the two and they had started dating just a few weeks after they first met.

  Martin would arrange to meet her from a friend’s house so that she didn’t have to walk home alone after dark, a gesture she took to be caring and cute. He would text throughout the day – if she counted, it could actually have been as often as every hour – just to see how she was doing. Isobel was a natural rebel and, despite her gothic clothing and alternative outlook on life, she relished the fact that her new boyfriend broke the mould. He didn’t fit in. He stood out in a crowd and bored the hell out of her best friend. Still, the sex had been great. Martin was a naturally gifted lover and Izzy told herself that if that was his only prevailing positive factor, so be it. Who needed conversation, anyway?

  Martin worked as a clerk for a distribution centre in the city and was able to afford to rent a flat, which at first was great. Instead of sneaking around and having sex in the back of his car, Martin would invite his girlfriend round for dinner, playing the perfect host and always taking her home by midnight. Clueless as to their evenings of lust, Isobel’s parents had immediately warmed to the idea of Martin Freeman becoming their son-in-law. His ability to talk about politics with a fair degree of intellect won Mr Gilyard over at once, and by the time he’d brought numerous bunches of flowers for Isobel’s mother, it was almost a given that the couple would eventually be married. Izzy’s parents gave up lecturing their daughter about her choice of black clothing and back-combed hair, instead hoping that lovely, sensible Martin would tame her into a state of domestic submission.

  However, it wasn’t long before the alarm bells started ringing. Isobel felt suffocated, controlled, uncomfortable with Martin’s constant presence and need to track her movements. He would always be there, just happening to drive by when she’d arranged to meet friends, offering lifts to the pub and back even though Martin was himself teetotal. At first, she’d thought his actions were caring and natural, the throes of first love, giddy and warm-hearted, normal for a lover obsessed, but after just a few short months together, panic set in and things began to change.

  Having left work at the town library one Monday afternoon to attend a dental appointment, Isobel had caught sight of a red Ford Cortina with a black vinyl roof, exactly like Martin’s, parked across the road. Due to the distance, she was unable to make out the registration number and presumed that it was sheer coincidence that a similar car was in the area. However, after exiting the dental surgery an hour later, she noticed the same car crawling down the street towards her. This time, she was in no doubt that it was Martin.

  ‘Hey, thought you were at work all day,’ she said with a grin, as he pulled up alongside the kerb and revved the engine.

  ‘Never mind me, why aren’t you at the library?’ he’d bawled through the open window, wagging an index finger. ‘Get in!’

  Isobel had obeyed, not wanting to cause a scene in the middle of town where so many residents knew her parents and oblivious to the reason for Martin’s short temper.

  ‘I had to have a filling,’ she’d told him innocently, turning to put her bag on the back seat of the car. ‘It really hurts.’

  That’s when it happened.

  Martin Freeman drew back a balled fist and punched his girlfriend so hard that she felt her jaw crack instantaneously with a loud splintering sound. Tears immediately welled up in her eyes from the pain.

  Isobel’s reactions had been too slow to get out of the car, the shock of his knuckles connecting with the side of her already swollen face a harsh distraction, and seconds later, Martin sped away, taking her out of town and down a country lane, miles from home.

  Eventually, his rage dissipating, but with clenched fists still gripping the steering wheel, Martin had slowed down, pulling the car off the road and into a densely wooded area.

  ‘Where are we?’ Isobel had ventured, her words muffled from the inability to shape her mouth where it needed to be. ‘Please, Martin. I’m scared.’

  He rounded on her, teeth snarling like a rabid dog, spitting harsh words in her direction and grabbing a handful of her soft dark hair. ‘Don’t you ever, ever lie to me again, do you hear?’

  Isobel
kept one hand on her throbbing face as she nodded her head. The dental anaesthetic was beginning to wear off and pain seared through her cheekbone with an unbearable intensity.

  ‘I didn’t lie to you.’

  Smack. Izzy’s head connected with the car window as Martin pushed her backwards.

  ‘You told me you were working all day,’ he hissed, spittle frothing on his lips.

  ‘I was. I forgot I had a dentist’s appointment. Mum rang to remind me.’

  ‘A likely story! You were meeting someone, weren’t you? You lying bitch. Tell me who he is? How long has it been going on?’

  ‘I haven’t… there’s nobody…’

  A wave of nausea forced Isobel to close her eyes for a second, praying that this was all just a bad dream, but when she opened them again Martin’s face was pressed close up against hers.

  ‘I’m going to make sure you never lie to me again.’ He laughed, reaching down to grab something from under the car seat. ‘Look what we have here.’

  Isobel Gilyard woke, her scream only slightly muffled by the pillow on which she lay. The cotton dress and bedsheets underneath her were drenched with perspiration as her eyes tried to focus on the unfamiliar surroundings. Spying the flimsy lilac drapes of the French apartment, she struggled to sit up, desperate to regulate her erratic breathing, anxiety causing Izzy’s heart to thump in her chest. She blinked, fighting against the memories, grasping to cling onto the present day as though it were her only lifeline.

  She was still clutching the box of memories and hastily replaced the battered lid, wanting to lock away the scenes from the past before they could jump out of their hiding place and cause mischief. The image of Martin Freeman’s features, inches away from hers in a vile moment of jealous anger, still floated in her mind. Despite the years that had passed, despite the miles she had travelled to get away from the ghastly memories, still they had followed her here, to France. Isobel wondered whether she should let go, burn the papers and photos, truly put everything where it belonged, in the past. Letting go would mean never going back, so for now she would keep them as a reminder that she now had a new life.