Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Reaching into the closet, Izzy pushed the shoebox as far back as it would go, pulling a few pairs of shoes and bags over the top like a pirate covering treasure. If she kept Martin Freeman in here, locked away, he couldn’t get at her. Yet she needed the constant reminder like an alcoholic sometimes needs to see a full bottle of vodka, to prove that she was over him and that from now on, things would be different.

  Izzy staggered to the kitchen, desperate for a drink before her throat closed up on itself. The mineral water was finished but she spied the quarter bottle of wine in the fridge door and took a long swig, not bothering with a glass. Slowly, the nightmare clouded over, yet the experience still caused her to clutch at the work surface to steady herself. Would she ever be able to forget what had happened, she asked herself silently. Would that ordeal haunt her forever? Mum, Dad, Vivien, none of them had believed her. They’d simply decided on their own version of events, choosing to pity Martin over her.

  She could still hear her father tutting, ‘Look what our Isobel’s gone and done now.’

  Her mother had been practical, bringing clean clothes, eventually. Vivien had steered clear, disgusted at her sister’s behaviour and terrified that she might become tarnished by association.

  ‘Isobel!’ a voice called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Are you alright up there?’

  Izzy looked at her watch and saw to her surprise that she’d been gone for over an hour. ‘Sorry, Maurice, I’m fine. I’m coming down now.’

  But of course she would brush her teeth first, disguising the fact that she’d needed to resort to alcohol to steady her nerves, in the face of everything being far from fine.

  CHAPTER EIGHT – THE MURDER WEAPON

  While a heavy atmosphere hung over the boulangerie in Saint Margaux, the incident room in Bordeaux’s police station was buzzing with chatter as Inspector Max Mallery gathered his team.

  ‘Luc,’ he called, splaying arms to quieten the rest of the group to a dull hum, ‘what do we have from the CCTV cameras at the train station?’

  The young techie brought up an image on the projector screen and began running the tape, stopping it at a point where a woman could clearly be seen entering the rear train carriage.

  ‘Here, we have Cecile Vidal getting on the train,’ he explained in English for Jack Hobbs’ benefit, using a ruler to point to the passenger, ‘but the most interesting part is next.’

  He ran the footage in slow motion, stopping when another figure appeared, carrying a large shoulder bag. ‘As you can see, another person got into the same carriage.’

  There was an intake of breath as the group leaned forward, straining to make out the dark, grainy image.

  ‘Damn,’ Mallery muttered. ‘He or she is wearing very plain dark clothes and a cap of some sort.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ Gabriella interjected, ‘that’s a woman. Look at the shoes.’

  Luc zoomed in on the person’s feet and Mallery nodded when a pair of high-heeled stilettoes came into view.

  ‘Well spotted.’

  ‘Luc, do we have an image of this person getting off at the terminal in Bordeaux?’ Jack asked, feeling that very slight headway was being made.

  The computer whiz shook his head. ‘No, sorry, I’ve checked through several times. There weren’t many passengers arriving on this train and certainly no-one who matches this picture.’

  Mallery looked at Hobbs and raised his eyebrows. ‘Jacques, what are you thinking?’

  ‘That this is our murderer. How many other stations are there between Saint Margaux and Bordeaux? Maybe she got off somewhere else.’

  Luc rubbed a hand through his hair, ‘There’s only one, at Salbec. Unfortunately, it seems that the CCTV system there hasn’t been working for several weeks.’

  Jack exhaled loudly, the frustration evident on his face. ‘Can you zoom out again please, Luc? Let’s see if we can get some idea of this woman’s proportions.’

  The screen skipped back several clicks until they could see the back of the person as they ran towards the train carriage.’

  ‘It looks as though she was waiting until the last minute to enter the train,’ Thierry commented. ‘I’d say she’s quite skinny and not much over five feet two.’

  ‘Gabriella?’ Mallery asked, turning to the only female detective in the stuffy room. ‘Do you agree?’

  The petite blonde nodded. ‘Yes, I’d say she was about my size.’

  Mallery returned to his position at the front of the room. ‘Okay, Luc, shut it down,’ he said, pointing to the screen and holding up a large plastic bag containing Madam Vidal’s handbag and its contents. ‘The only other clue we have so far, is this.’

  Eyes scrutinised the tri-coloured Union Jack lighter that had slid to the corner of the evidence bag.

  ‘This points us to Isobel Gilyard.’ The Inspector shrugged. ‘Especially as she told Jacques that she’d lost her lighter, and I would say her stature fits the suspect at the train station perfectly.’

  ‘I have to agree with you,’ Hobbs added, turning in his seat to retrieve a notepad from the desk. ‘I also noticed a pair of black stilettos in her hallway. But something just doesn’t feel right. What motive would she have to murder Cecile Vidal?’

  ‘It looks like we need to head back out to Saint Margaux,’ Max stated, his face stern yet solemn. ‘With no other suspect, we have little choice.’

  After giving instructions to the rest of the team, Mallery held up five fingers to Jack and pointed to the staircase. He then returned to his office to retrieve his jacket and to try the Paris telephone number one more time. It still rang out, an endless trill that went unanswered, causing him to press the ‘end call’ button with more force than necessary. It seemed that Vanessa really had been serious when she’d told him it was all over.

  ‘We’d better take your car, in case we need to bring Miss Gilyard in,’ Max told Jack, as he stood waiting on the police station steps. ‘Unless you have enough room in the trunk?’

  The joke was lost on Hobbs as he pulled out a set of keys. ‘We call it a boot. “Trunk” is American.’

  Mallery shook his head, confused. ‘One language, but so many different words for the same thing. Let’s get going.’

  ‘Any thoughts on a motive, sir?’ Jack ventured, as he took the Mondeo steadily out of town, stirring his boss from troubling thoughts about his personal life.

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t for money. There were over two hundred Euros in the victim’s purse and Monsieur Vidal has confirmed that no credit cards are missing.’

  ‘I’m wondering if Isobel Gilyard might have met Cecile previously,’ Hobbs pondered, jabbing the horn as a van pulled out in front of them. ‘Perhaps there was a grudge between the two.’

  Max shook his head, certain that his colleague was speculating. ‘I very much doubt it. Thierry has interviewed most of Madame Vidal’s friends and has found nothing to suggest that she knew anyone at all from England. Cecile is local to the area and has barely been overseas, except for holidays.’

  ‘So, where did she meet the highly educated Hubert?’

  ‘As he told us, his parents owned the vineyard, so I guess the couple grew up together. Still, I’ll ask Gabriella to check, just to be sure.’

  Jack Hobbs turned his full attention to the drive ahead, trying to remember how far off the highway he needed to turn, while Mallery pulled out his phone to ask Gabriella to check out the Vidals’ younger days.

  Telo Fabron was busy sweeping the front step of the boulangerie with a great deal of concentration when his eyes caught a glimpse of the Ford Mondeo cruising down the main street. He carefully leaned the broom up against the shop door and stepped inside, his face flustered as he called to Maurice.

  ‘Papa, la Police.’

  Monsieur Fabron finished cutting the ribbon on a box of macaroons before placing the parcel on top of the glass cabinet and taking the proffered five Euro note.

  ‘Trois Euros cinquante, Dominique,’ he told the customer
, a rather plump lady with large, doleful eyes. ‘Merci.’

  ‘La Police,’ the woman repeated, looking quizzically from father to son.

  Maurice moved from behind the counter and ushered Dominique out, while at the same time laying a hand on Telo’s arm to pacify him. As they reached the door, Mallery and Hobbs were just entering.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Fabron.’ The Inspector smiled, waiting for Dominique to leave. ‘Je voudrais parler à Mademoiselle Gilyard.’

  Dominique’s eyes widened further as she shuffled out through the entrance, clutching the box of macaroons to her chest. Maurice noted that instead of making her way back to the gift shop, where Dominique had closed up only a few minutes ago to collect her afternoon treats, she made a dash for the flower shop. The baker rolled his eyes at the thought of what gossip might be imparted within the next few minutes.

  ‘Inspector, Detective Hobbs,’ he said simply, gesturing for them to come inside. ‘I’ll fetch Isobel.’

  The men stood looking at the delicious array of goods displayed on silver trays and in wicker bread baskets as Maurice went through the rear kitchen and opened the door at the bottom of the staircase.

  ‘Isobel, are you alright up there?’ they heard him call.

  The response was muffled but the baker continued, ‘Please come down, the detectives would like to speak with you again.’

  ‘Is Miss Gilyard not working today?’ Jack ventured, gesturing towards the empty back room.

  ‘She is just having a break,’ Maurice explained. ‘We were very busy this morning.’

  Mallery craned his neck as a woman’s footsteps clattered down the stairs, culminating in the appearance of a tired-looking Isobel Gilyard.

  ‘Inspector Mallery, Detective Hobbs,’ she sighed, bristling slightly at the sight of the men. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We have a few more questions regarding your whereabouts on Wednesday morning,’ Max told her openly, hoping that Maurice Fabron might add his own thoughts should the woman be unable to give the required information.

  ‘I’ve already told you. I drove to Bordeaux, did some shopping and drove back.’

  ‘In the VW?’ Jack queried.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Izzy tutted. ‘How else would I get there?’

  ‘Has anyone else driven the car?’

  Isobel shot a look at Telo, who had visibly reddened and dropped his gaze, ‘Not unless…’

  ‘Telo?’ Maurice grumbled, able to sense his son’s guilt.

  The detectives swung around to look at the young man who was whispering in his father’s ear.

  ‘My apologies, Izzy,’ the baker sighed. ‘It seems Telo used your car to collect Gaston from the airport on Wednesday evening.’

  Isobel was flabbergasted. After the earlier scenario of Telo insisting that he had only moved her car, she could hardly believe her ears.

  ‘But he did fill up the tank with petrol,’ Maurice added, as if it were at least some consolation. ‘Don’t worry, Telo and I will be having a conversation regarding this later, I promise.’

  ‘Perhaps we could take a look at the car?’ Jack suggested, before Izzy could fly off the handle at the baker’s son. ‘Just for the record.’

  ‘I don’t see why,’ the woman snapped. ‘There’s nothing to see. Oh, good grief, I’ll fetch the keys then.’

  Outside, in the glare of the afternoon sun, Max Mallery put a hand up to shade his eyes as the group stood around the carport at the rear of the boulangerie. It was a makeshift building, antiquated in its design and build, but serving a purpose, nevertheless. Isobel had pulled open the driver’s door and stood with her arms folded tightly across her bosom, scowling at Jack Hobbs as he peered inside.

  ‘Can you open the passenger door please, Jacques?’ Mallery instructed, stepping around the opposite side of the battered old Beetle.

  He lifted the catch and swung the door wide before leaning over into the back seat. With Isobel having emptied the car of her belongings on arrival, there wasn’t much to see, and Max soon stood back up and flexed his shoulders.

  ‘The trunk,’ he told Jack, ‘erm… boot?’

  Hobbs pulled a lever, allowing the senior detective to pull up the front-facing cavity. Mallery moved a few items, a spare oil can, some cleaning cloths and a basic tool kit.

  ‘Sir!’ Hobbs shouted from inside the vehicle. ‘Here!’

  Max banged his head on the underside of the bonnet-boot as he straightened up. ‘Urrghh.’ He rubbed the painful spot.

  Jack Hobbs was pointing to something inside the glove box and was blocking the passenger’s door of the VW with his body.

  ‘In there, sir,’ he said quietly, glancing over at the trio standing at the rear of the car. ‘I think it’s a knife wrapped in an item of clothing. You can just make out the handle sticking out.’

  ‘Fetch an evidence bag from the car,’ Max instructed, swapping places with his junior. ‘Let’s see what we have.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Isobel called, preparing to move towards the front of her beloved vehicle. ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Stay there, Madamemoiselle Gilyard,’ Mallery shouted, in a firm voice. ‘Do not move.’

  Less than a minute later, Hobbs was back, pulling on latex gloves.

  ‘Carefully, Jacques,’ Max told him, allowing Hobbs to take control of bagging his precious find. ‘Make sure you keep the cloth around the weapon.’

  The young detective knelt down close to the footwell and used both gloved hands to lift the object into the plastic evidence bag being held by his boss.

  Mallery looked down at what his colleague had so deftly retrieved. Inside the bag lay a rolled-up denim shirt with the wooden handle of a long knife protruding out from the edge of the cloth.

  Maurice Fabron stood open-mouthed, his face ashen, a hand on his son’s arm. Next to him, Isobel made a strange squeaking sound, as though a mouse had got stuck in her throat. Telo looked confused, frantically switching his gaze back and forth between the detectives and the evidence bag.

  ‘Can you explain this, Madamemoiselle Gilyard?’ Inspector Mallery queried, holding up the evidence bag for the woman to see clearly.

  ‘No… I… it’s not possible…’ she gasped.

  ‘We are going to need you to accompany us to the station now,’ Jack stated. ‘In accordance with French law, Inspector Mallery will now read you your rights.’

  In a flurry of French, Max recited the caution and then nodded to his colleague to repeat the English version.

  Izzy stood rooted to the spot, visibly shaking and on the verge of tears.

  ‘Monsieur Fabron, it might be an idea if you follow us down in a short while,’ Mallery requested, rubbing his chin. ‘Given the nature of the weapon here, we may need you to take a look and see if it belongs to the boulangerie.’

  Maurice nodded, unable to utter a word.

  ‘Telo can you drive your father?’ Jack asked, not pausing to think whether the young man could speak English or not.

  ‘Yes, no problem,’ came the reply.

  Isobel did a double-take. Not only did Telo Fabron understand English, he evidently spoke it, too. What else had he lied about, she thought in her moment of panic. Could Maurice’s son have set her up for murder?

  ‘Please, I’m innocent! I had nothing to do with Cecile’s death. I have no idea where that knife came from.’

  Isobel Gilyard’s protests were wearing thin on Max Mallery’s patience as he sat in the rear of the Ford Mondeo at her side.

  ‘Please, don’t say anything else until we interview you formally,’ he warned.

  ‘You have to believe me,’ she wailed, twisting in the seat, the handcuffs loose on her slender wrists. ‘I’ve been set up!’

  Jack Hobbs glanced in the rear-view mirror and caught the woman’s eye. ‘Please be quiet now. You’ll have chance to explain your side of things at the station.’

  Isobel settled back against the seat, hoping that, with a native British detective there, she might ha
ve an easier time during the interview.

  Mallery shot her a warning glare and pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his jacket, tapping it against his knee before tilting the lid.

  ‘Sir, if you don’t mind…’ Hobbs began, frowning slightly.

  ‘Oui, oui, Jacques… I know.’

  Isobel Gilyard had been sitting in a cold grey-walled interview room for the best part of an hour. This was part of Max Mallery’s strategy to stress her into a confession, or at the very least to trip herself up over any supposed alibi. She’d been given a glass of tepid water and told that someone would be with her soon, but the clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, causing her temper to rise.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Izzy muttered, standing up to look out of the one small window. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Asseyez-vous, je vous en prie,’ the uniformed constable grunted. ‘Sit down.’

  Regarding the man’s large stature and serious expression, Isobel thought better of arguing and pulled out the uncomfortable chair on which she’d spent every minute since her arrival in Bordeaux. She brought the glass of water to her parched lips and took a sip before replacing it on the table and putting her head in her hands.

  ‘Oh God, I just want this to be over.’

  Inspector Mallery had decided to wait for Maurice Fabron to arrive before conducting a formal interview with the baker’s employee. He figured that if the boulangerie owner could identify the knife as one of his, it would add to the evidence that was quickly stacking up against Isobel Gilyard. Jack Hobbs had been a great asset so far in his first case, the senior detective conceded, and he wanted him right by his side while conducting the investigation, although he didn’t share Hobbs’ view that Isobel Gilyard was not their prime suspect.