‘Sir, she has no motive whatsoever and no connection to the Vidal family,’ Jack explained over a cup of cappuccino straight from his boss’s machine. ‘There’s a lot more to this case than we’re seeing, I’m sure of it.’
Mallery eyed his colleague over the desk while running a finger around the rim of his mug. ‘You’re wrong, Jacques. I think it’s an open and shut case.’
‘So, how do you want to do this when we go through to interview her? I take it you want to play your cards close to your chest?’
Max looked confused. ‘Do I want to do what?’
‘Sorry, an English expression, sir. It means not to give away too much of what we know.’
‘Oui, that’s exactly how I want it to go.’
A knock on the door caused both men to turn their attention to Gabriella, who was standing with one foot in the office. ‘Sir, Monsieur Fabron is here. I’ve put him in Interview Room Two. I’ll take his son down to the café to get a drink.’
‘I do apologise,’ Maurice gabbled, his words rapid and disjointed as the detectives entered the room. ‘We had a customer, needed to lock up the boulangerie and then we had to stop for Telo to use the toilet.’
‘It’s no problem.’ Jack smiled, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table while Mallery held the evidence bag aloft. ‘Can you just tell us if this knife might be one from your bakery?’
Maurice Fabron shook his head and splayed both hands in a dramatic manner, ‘Certainly not. All of the boulangerie knives have steel handles, not wood. But it does look like the one that went missing from my house.’
Mallery and Hobbs looked at each other, a flicker of confusion passing between them.
‘Are you sure?’ Max pressed, pulling out a chair to sit down. ‘When was the last time you saw it?’
The baker rolled his eyes upwards. ‘Well, I know I used it on Sunday, as we had bread with our evening meal, but on Monday and Tuesday Telo and I had croissants for breakfast, so I probably wouldn’t have noticed if it were missing. However, Gaston and Simone came for a little supper on Wednesday, after the terrible… well, after Cecile… and I had to ask Gaston to go to the boulangerie to tell Isobel to get a bread knife from the kitchen there, as mine had gone.’
Jack held his breath for a couple of seconds, letting the information sink in. ‘But you definitely had it on Sunday?’
Maurice thought for a moment and nodded. ‘Yes, we had fish, vegetables and a full bread-basket. Isobel will confirm it.’
‘Madam Gilyard had dinner with you on Sunday?’ Max asked excitedly, seeing that an opportunity to seize the knife had fallen straight into their suspect’s arms.
‘Well, yes, I thought it polite to invite her, as the shops were closed on Sunday and Izzy hadn’t had chance to go grocery shopping.’
Mallery pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and slid the knife from its place within the denim shirt. ‘For the record, Monsieur Fabron, does this bread knife belong to you?’
‘Oui, Inspector,’ Maurice replied without hesitation, ‘it is mine.’
‘And have you ever seen this denim shirt before?’ Jack quickly jumped in. ‘Have you noticed anyone wearing it?’
The baker shook his head with surety. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life.’
Outside in the corridor, Max Mallery leaned against the cool brick of the wall and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. ‘Fabron’s knife,’ he told Jack. ‘Gilyard had the opportunity to take it, too.’
‘Hang on a minute, sir, what about the son, Telo?’
‘The boy’s a little soft in the head,’ Max retorted, ‘but not a murderer. I’m not prepared to keep the Fabrons here for any longer than necessary and, with the business being local, they’re unlikely to do a midnight flight.’
‘Flit, sir, midnight flit.’
Mallery fixed Hobbs with a steely glare before putting a cigarette to his lips. ‘How are your French lessons coming along, Jacques?’
In Interview Room One, Isobel Gilyard felt the beginnings of a deep and nauseous sensation building inside the pit of her stomach. It had now been an hour and a half since her arrival at the police headquarters in Bordeaux and, despite telling herself umpteen times to stay calm, panic was setting in. It didn’t help that she’d skipped lunch, instead imbibing only a mouthful of wine after falling asleep on her bed.
The grey walls and stark surroundings, with sparse functional furniture, reminded Izzy all too well of the hours she had spent being questioned ten years previously. At that time, too, she’d had to sit awaiting information, as though the powers in charge relished her agonising situation. She desperately needed to know what was being discussed, and how the hell that knife had got into the glove compartment of her Beetle… unless someone was trying to frame her? Her instinct led Isobel to believe that Telo Fabron had put it there. After all, he’d just confessed to his father that he’d been out in the VW without asking permission. How dare he? And to pick up that artist from the airport, too? What cheek!
Isobel’s eye twitched involuntarily as a flash of recollection triggered her memory. The artist, Gaston; the night he’d come for the knife, there was that red patch on his shirt, something resembling dried blood. What night had it been? Slowly retracing the days and nights, Isobel found herself recalling that it had been Wednesday, the same day that Cecile Vidal had been murdered.
‘I need to speak to Inspector Mallery,’ Izzy told the uniformed officer, who was now leaning against the windowsill watching the traffic outside. ‘Please fetch him.’
The policeman pretended not to hear, instead tilting his head back to smooth down his carefully oiled hair.
‘I said –’
The door was suddenly flung open, causing the officer to quickly straighten up.
‘Mademoiselle Gilyard,’ Max Mallery murmured. ‘Sorry to have kept you.’
‘An hour and a half, I’ve been sitting here,’ the Englishwoman told him, stiffly.
‘I’m sorry, did you need to be somewhere else?’ Max asked sarcastically. ‘Now, I need to ask if you would like a solicitor? Some legal representation?’
‘No, there’s no need. I haven’t done anything. I’ve been stitched up, framed,’ Isobel announced, pressing her palms against the formica tabletop. ‘And I think I know who the murderer is!’
Jack Hobbs sauntered over to the chair next to his superior and folded his arms, watching the woman with intrigue. He’d had a keen interest in body language from an early age and noticed that Isobel Gilyard’s movements were defensive but not closed, telling him that she believed what she was saying.
‘Would you mind sharing that information with us?’ Max asked, somewhat amused, while checking that the tape recorder was switched on.
‘Gaston, the artist staying in the village,’ Izzy replied eagerly. ‘I even saw blood on his shirt last Wednesday.’
‘Really? Very interesting, I’m sure,’ the Inspector continued. ‘We will speak to that gentleman in due course. Jacques, please make a note of his name.’
Hobbs pulled out his scribbling pad and let the pen hover over the page, ‘Gaston? And his surname, Miss Gilyard?’
‘I… I don’t know,’ Isobel confessed. ‘He didn’t tell me.’
Mallery smiled a satisfied grin, as though he were a fox having just caught the fattest chicken in the coup. ‘How very convenient. Jacques, please bring both evidence bags.’
‘Miss Gilyard, is this your shirt?’ Jack asked, holding up the plastic bag for Isobel to see.
‘Yes, it looks like it. I wore it last Saturday when I drove over from England.’
‘And could you explain what it’s doing in the glove-box of your car with a bloodied bread knife wrapped inside it?’
Izzy faltered. Her head was starting to hurt as she searched her memories of the past few days. ‘It was really hot, I was sweating, so I changed into a t-shirt.’
‘Did you stop somewhere along the route?’ Max inquired casually.
‘On the side of the road,’ came the whisper.
‘And is this your cigarette lighter?’ Jack went on, holding up the second bag.
Izzy nodded, tears streaming down both cheeks, ‘Yes, I lost it. But I…’
‘Isobel Gilyard I am charging you with the murder of Cecile Vidal,’ Mallery announced stiffly. ‘I will call the duty solicitor.’
CHAPTER NINE – SUSPICIONS
Isobel sat with both knees pressed against her chest on the flimsy grey mattress. A cup of pale, milky tea had been thrust through the grill in the holding cell several hours before, but it remained untouched and cold.
Stark walls gave the illusion of bricks and mortar closing in on the lone occupant, yet outside, the station buzzed as word of a murderer in their midst filled the Bordeaux constabulary. It had been three hours since Inspector Maxime Mallery had cautioned Isobel Gilyard, yet still no word of a defence lawyer or legal aid was forthcoming. Izzy could feel the familiar acidic build-up in her throat, a combination of the earlier wine and hours of starvation taking their toll.
‘Hey, is anyone out there?’ she croaked, desperate for information. ‘Can you tell me what’s happening?’
The cell shutter opened, and a tray of unidentifiable food sat on the slim shelf at eye level. It looked like cold mushroom stroganoff, but the origins of its contents could have been from any part of the universe as far as Izzy was concerned.
‘Please, let me speak to the Inspector!’ she cried, desperate for attention.
Max Mallery stubbed out his third cigarette and swivelled his chair around to face the station’s newest recruit. ‘What’s troubling you, Jacques?’ he asked tentatively. ‘Is it Madamemoiselle Gilyard?’
Jack Hobbs glanced at his watch, fully aware that his wife would be expecting him home within the hour and gave a noncommittal shrug.
‘Sorry, sir, there’s something not quite right about all this. I know that Isobel Gilyard’s not the full ticket, but I really can’t see her being a murder suspect.’
Max smiled, lifting an espresso to his lips before speaking. ‘Jacques, your record for detection is indeed exemplary but we have no other suspect. Let’s go through what we have…’
Mallery lifted his fingers from the cup and ticked them off one by one. ‘A woman at the station in heels similar to those worn by Madam Gilyard. A cigarette lighter exactly the same as the one lost by her. Sightings at Saint Margaux station confirming that Isobel Gilyard was there on Wednesday morning. And now, most damning of all, a murder weapon found in her car and wrapped in the woman’s shirt. Am I missing something, Jacques?’
Hobbs sat silent for a couple of seconds, allowing his superior to calm down, before taking a deep breath and preparing his speech.
‘Sir, there is no motive, on that we both agree. It’s hard to identify the woman on the CCTV footage, therefore we cannot prosecute without a formal identification. The admission by Telo Fabron that he used Miss Gilyard’s car tells us that evidence might have been planted, and… I just don’t…’
‘Ah, Jacques,’ Max interrupted, lighting yet another filtered cigarette, ‘your instincts, eh? Sometimes you have to let things lie… go with what the circumstances show us, oui?’
‘Sir,’ Jack ventured, ‘would you at least let me contact some of my former colleagues back in the Manchester force? See what they can dig up?’
‘Manchester? I thought you worked in Leeds?’
‘Yes, I did, but a lot of the lads I went to police training college with are now working detectives in Manchester. If that’s where Isobel Gilyard hails from, they’ll be able to do a background check in no time at all.’
Mallery blew a swirl of smoke out through parted lips whilst considering the young man’s suggestion. ‘Very well, contact them. It can certainly do no harm to our case.’
Isobel instinctively lifted her head as the cell door opened.
‘Bonsoir,’ Max Mallery smiled, regarding the unkempt and dishevelled woman with evident distaste.
‘Why are you still holding me here?’ Izzy snarled aggressively, curling her lips and clenching both fists. ‘You do actually realise you’ve made a huge mistake, don’t you?’
‘Non.’ Max shrugged. ‘I cannot find a reason to let you go just yet, Mademoiselle Gilyard. However, I need to ask if there is someone who can bring you a few necessities – nightwear, toiletries, that kind of thing.’
Isobel was astounded. She had never contemplated spending more than a few hours being questioned, let alone a night or more. She bit her lip and tried to show an outward semblance of control.
‘Maurice,’ she said finally, wondering whether it might be prudent to go along with the detective for now. ‘Maurice Fabron.’
Mallery raked a hand through his thick dark hair and nodded. ‘Very well, I will ask him to come.’
At eight o’clock that evening, Maurice Fabron pulled up outside the police station in Bordeaux for the second time that day. He was tired and distressed, having witnessed the arrest of his new employee that very afternoon. Maurice was accompanied by Gaston, one of his dearest friends and the artist who had met Miss Gilyard just a few days before.
‘Monsieur Fabron.’ Max nodded to the men, ushering both of them into the reception area. ‘Thank you for coming. Mademoiselle Gilyard asked for you specifically.’
Jack Hobbs stood back from the trio, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed upon the station clock that ticked away every minute that the young man was missing his wife’s supper.
‘I have brought some sleepwear and a few toiletries,’ Maurice was saying, showing Max a canvas tote bag. ‘A friend of mine gathered a few things as we didn’t want to pry into Izzy’s apartment.’
Mallery’s instincts were on high alert as he noted the boulangerie owner’s words. ‘I’m sure, under the circumstances...’
The baker shook his head. ‘Simone, my neighbour and dear friend, was able to provide the necessary overnight comforts.’
‘And Telo?’ Jack asked, concerned for Maurice’s autistic son.
‘He is having supper with Simone tonight.’
A heavy key being turned in the lock of the cell door alerted Izzy to her visitors.
‘Perhaps just Monsieur Fabron,’ Mallery advised, putting a hand on Gaston’s arm. ‘For now.’
The artist acquiesced, slinking back against the cool, stark wall of the corridor. ‘Of course, no problem.’
Maurice stepped forward, regarding the stark grey walls before focussing his gaze on Isobel Gilyard, his skin prickling from the contrasting coolness of the cell.
‘Maurice,’ Izzy cried from her bunk, ‘please tell me you’ve come to help sort out this mess.’
The baker stiffened, his instincts completely split between condemning his employee and hatching an escape plan.
‘I’ve brought you some things,’ he said eventually, placing the bag on the bed. ‘Simone thought you may need some pyjamas.’
Isobel stared at the neatly packed items, floral nightwear and an assortment of cleansing gels. ‘I shouldn’t be here, Maurice, I didn’t do it.’
The boulangerie owner looked down at his fingernails as if inspecting them for the very first time. ‘They found a knife in your car, Izzy. A knife covered in blood.’
Isobel’s throat clogged, filling with every word she needed to say yet unable to spit out a single utterance.
Maurice lifted his head, a fatherly gesture, as if awaiting a confession. ‘If there was a good reason… if you need to tell us...’
‘Maurice, please!’ Isobel cried, tears falling down her pale cheeks. ‘I promise you I did not kill Cecile.’
‘Okay, okay,’ the baker conceded, as his employee gripped both of his hands in hers. ‘Is there someone in England that you need me to call?’
The words came like the heavy blow from a shovel on the side of the head. ‘What?’ she whispered.
‘Izzy, do you want me to call your father, or perhaps your mother?’
Isobel shuffled backwa
rds on the makeshift bed, clutching her knees once again as if protecting her body from harm.
‘No, I… I don’t have anyone.’
Maurice Fabron was less than convinced and placed a warm hand upon his employee’s head. ‘Have a think, Isobel. Is there anyone that can help?’
Isobel sobbed silently, desperately racking her brains for inspiration. She couldn’t possibly phone her father. He’d judge the situation before even getting on a plane. Her mother would be a nervous wreck, going along with whatever her dominant husband decided, and Vivien… God forbid, not Viv! She would be about as much use as a chocolate teapot.
Outside in the corridor, Max Mallery watched the interaction with interest. It intrigued him how the boulangerie owner and his English assistant had seemed to gel, despite the short time of their professional life together. He supposed that in some ways, it was similar to his liaison with Jack Hobbs, although he would never admit out loud how much he admired the lateral thinking of his newest team member.
A buzz on the Inspector’s phone alerted him to an incoming message. Just as he had hoped, it was an unfamiliar number. Max typed in his passcode.
MAX, VA T’EN. JE NE PEUX PAS TE REVOIR. VANESSA.
He swallowed hard, reading once again the message that she never wanted to see him again and that he should go away.
Resting the back of his thumping head against the stone police station wall, Mallery breathed deeply, then rested both hands on his knees before standing upright again. Fuck, this really was it. Out of all the women he’d ever made a play for, the one he really wanted was going to get away.
‘Inspecteur.’ Maurice Fabron rapped on the cell door, his features tired and vacant.
Max nodded to the guard to unlock the steel door, allowing the baker to step out into the narrow corridor. ‘This way. Let’s get a coffee,’ he said, speaking French to his fellow countryman.
Isobel Page 11
