Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Maurice followed the tall policeman up the stairs and through into a large office, where an antique desk took up a prominent position. His legs were weary and his mind jumbled with theories and postulations.

  ‘Café au lait?’ Max offered, holding up a spotless china cup.

  Maurice nodded gratefully, turning slightly as Jack Hobbs entered the room.

  ‘Don’t you need to go home, Jacques?’ Max suggested kindly, switching back to English for the sake of his young deputy.

  ‘Not yet, sir. Let’s see if we can find out any more about Miss Gilyard.’

  Mallery smiled, grateful for the spark that had ignited itself within his new recruit. He could see a good deal of himself in Hobbs and knew instinctively that the young Yorkshireman was top class material, if only he could let his head rule over his heart. A good track record was only as good as its commanding officer would allow it to be, Max thought inwardly. Being overconfident or too flippant could also lead to mistakes. He was also concerned that, with their one and only suspect being English, Jack Hobbs would be overly sympathetic towards her.

  Max pressed various buttons, dispensing hot cups of white coffee to the two men seated at his desk.

  ‘Well,’ he finally asked, leaning forward to better hear Maurice, ‘is there anyone she wants you to call?’

  Monsieur Fabron sipped the fresh coffee, grateful for the caffeine hit but well aware of Gaston waiting downstairs and Telo at home with Simone Dupuis.

  ‘Non.’ He shrugged and sighed. ‘She says there is nobody.’

  Mallery glanced up at Jack, trying to telepathically convey that this might be one of the areas that they would need to check. Family. Background. Friends.

  He turned his gaze to Maurice. ‘Anything you can bring from her apartment?’

  ‘Oh no,’ the baker said adamantly. ‘Izzy said she doesn’t want me to go up to the apartment. The things that Simone sent are enough.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Fabron,’ Max told the baker. ‘You have been very helpful. I understand that Cecile Vidal was your sister-in-law and we are very sorry for your loss.’

  Maurice drained his cup and then stood up, a soft white handkerchief knotted between his fingers. ‘Inspector Mallery, Detective Hobbs, please find the person who did this. I am sure that Isobel Gilyard is not a murderer. I pride myself on being… how to say?… a good judge of character, and she really seems a sincere young lady.’

  Jack escorted the baker downstairs to the reception area, where Gaston sat with his head in his hands underneath a continuous ticking clock.

  Maurice shook hands with the English detective, before resigning himself to leaving the station. ‘Je reviens demain. Sorry, I mean, I’ll come back tomorrow.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Fabron.’ Jack nodded sympathetically. ‘Thank you.’

  Hobbs watched as the artist slid behind the wheel of the boulangerie delivery van, leaving Maurice Fabron to get into the passenger’s side. The evening was late and heavy thunderclouds gathered overhead, mingling together like a witch’s brew. He watched as Gaston made a U-turn in the police station car park before swinging the Citroën into westbound traffic. So engrossed was Hobbs in the men’s departure that he didn’t notice his boss sidling up behind him.

  ‘Well?’ Max whispered, making Jack jump out of his skin. ‘Did she do it?’

  Hobbs rubbed the ginger stubble on his chin, conscious that he must go home and shave before beginning another shift, let alone find something to eat.

  ‘I’m still not convinced. Although the fact that Isobel won’t let Fabron call her family is a bit concerning.’

  ‘It certainly is,’ Mallery agreed, lighting up a cigarette. ‘Get on to your colleagues in Manchester first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you going home now, sir?’

  Max shrugged, the tip of his cigarette dangling limply from his lips. ‘Don’t worry about me, Jacques, just go home before Angélique puts your dog in the dinner.’

  Jack smiled at the erroneous analogy. At least his boss was having a go at the English language, which meant he needed to make more of an effort to brush up his French.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

  Mallery watched the Ford Mondeo spring to life as its driver turned the key. He envied the ease with which Jack Hobbs had integrated himself into life in rural France and wished that things could be as simple for him. He detested the daily grind of Bordeaux, where life plodded rather than buzzed as it had in Paris. Imagine being a young detective with a gorgeous French wife, he mused. Life had no limitations for such circumstances. The world was their oyster.

  ‘Sir,’ a soft female voice called from behind him. ‘Mademoiselle Gilyard is very restless.’

  Max turned, eyeing up the young detective with lustful eyes before reprimanding himself. It was circumstances such as this that had brought him to this back of beyond town in the first place.

  ‘I’ll deal with her, Gabriella,’ he stated, looking over and beyond the petite blonde’s head. ‘Go home and get some rest, there will be lots to do tomorrow.’

  ‘Merci.’ The young detective blushed, shrugging on a flimsy navy raincoat just as the first wet spots dripped down onto her shoulders. ‘Bonsoir.’

  The cell peephole flipped open for the third time that evening, allowing Inspector Max Mallery to cast a wary gaze over the single occupant. He could see a prone body lying on its side, knees hunched up and head tucked in, but Max was wise to the helpless foetal pose of Isobel Gilyard and rapped on the steel shutter to announce his arrival.

  ‘Good evening, I hope you are comfortable.’

  Izzy rolled over, her stomach lurching as she swung her legs over the side of the cot. ‘Can I go yet?’

  Max feigned a laugh and placed a solid tab of gum on his tongue. ‘Not until we know the truth, Mademoiselle Gilyard.’

  ‘I promise you,’ she pleaded, ‘I’ve told you all that I know. I have no idea how that knife got into my car, I wasn’t on the train to Bordeaux last Wednesday and I didn’t murder Cecile Vidal.’

  Mallery used his usual delay tactic as he considered a response and studied the back of his hands carefully. ‘And your cigarette lighter, Mademoiselle Gilyard? How do you suppose it got into the purse of the murder victim?’

  Izzy faltered, gathering her thoughts then dropping them, as a basket weaver might stumble with an armful of twigs. ‘I have no idea, honestly. I lost it… what, Monday, maybe even Sunday. Besides, a Union Jack lighter isn’t exactly uncommon.’

  ‘Maybe in Britain, but in France…’ Max grimaced. He then decided upon a different tack and swivelled around to rest against the bedstead next to Isobel.

  ‘Why didn’t you want Maurice Fabron to contact your family?’

  Izzy swallowed hard. ‘I… er… we’re not close.’

  ‘Surely, in a situation such as this, one would turn to their family for some kind of… assistance?’

  Isobel leaned back against the cold bricks and exhaled loudly. Maybe she should have asked Maurice to call her father, but what then? He’d presume, not incorrectly, that she’d got herself into ‘a spot of bother’ and would consider a few days in a cell the perfect punishment for a minor misdemeanour. Except this time, it wasn’t. This time she was innocent. This time she needed her family’s support more than anything in the world.

  Max ran a slim finger over the green-lit message on his mobile phone. Anger welled up inside him until he thought better of it and reached down into the bottom drawer for a bottle of finest Cognac.

  ‘Damn you, Commissioner Chirac. Damn you, Vanessa,’ he cursed, pouring a large measure.

  Mallery bit his lip, fighting back the tears of frustration that threatened to burst forth from his cat-like eyes.

  ‘Inspecteur,’ an unexpected voice boomed into the darkness. ‘Voilà.’

  The senior detective brushed a hand across his cheek and swung both legs off the desk where he’d been resting them.

  ‘Luc? Bonsoir.’

&nbs
p; The techy hopped nervously from one foot to the other, eager to impart his findings to the superior officer. The conversation continued in French, now that Hobbs had gone home.

  ‘You asked me to check the motorway cameras from last Saturday?’

  Max nodded, eager to find another piece of the so far evasive puzzle. ‘And?’

  ‘On my computer.’ Luc smiled, proud that his attention to detail was paying off. ‘I have something you need to see. It’s from last Saturday.’

  Hunched over the grainy screen of Luc’s police computer, Max Mallery couldn’t believe his eyes. He wound a finger backwards, motioning the computer whiz to rewind the tape to the beginning.

  Unlike the Saint Margaux train station footage, this time the images were clear and easily decipherable.

  ‘Isobel Gilyard.’ He grinned, peering at the picture of a woman leaning back against the bonnet of a 1970s Volkswagen Beetle. ‘Well, well, well.’

  Luc, encouraged by his new boss’s enthusiasm, zoomed in on the woman’s face, leaving no doubt whatsoever that it was the Englishwoman at the side of the highway heading towards Bordeaux.

  The pair watched in silence as the film continued in slow motion, eventually showing the arrival of a middle-aged man in a battered van.

  ‘Ah, so who do we have here?’ Max murmured, regarding the newcomer with interest. ‘Did you run the plate?’

  Luc pushed his shoulders back, proud of his own initiative. ‘Yes, Inspector. The driver is Louis Perant, a known drug dealer from Toulouse.’

  Mallery rubbed his hands together without realising the exaggerated action. ‘Superb! Now we can connect Mademoiselle Gilyard with a criminal and perhaps, behind that, lies a motive for murder. What do you think, Luc?’

  Luc nodded. This was the first time he’d seen his new boss visibly enthused by anything since his arrival in Bordeaux.

  ‘Well done, Luc,’ the Inspector continued. ‘This is great work. Perfect!’

  Isobel Gilyard lay on the lumpy mattress, a scratchy blanket pulled half-heartedly around her cold shoulders as the evening wore on.

  ‘Why the hell don’t they let me go?’ she mumbled. ‘This is ridiculous.’

  She closed her eyes, knowing that sleep would be evasive tonight, yet eager for any slight sound to keep her from drifting into the dark, emotional pool that beckoned. Izzy’s eyelids were heavy both from tiredness and crying, threatening to pull her down into the abyss of nightmares.

  The first face she saw was Vivien’s. A smiling, domesticated grin that wielded a feather duster just as a Samurai might hold his sword. Isobel tried to hold the image, afraid of what might follow, but it wasn’t long before Viv was swept along on the tidal wave of dreams, laughing loudly, ignorant to her sister’s plight.

  Mrs Gilyard shook her head, hands held tightly over both ears, unwilling to hear about the atrocities that her eldest daughter had committed. Undoubtedly, it was the shame of what the neighbours, the vicar and fellow members of the Women’s Institute would think that halted her tiny steps as she toddled towards Izzy with outstretched arms. Oh no, that wouldn’t do, whatever would other people think?

  Isobel’s father pulled at the braces on his trousers. It was that very stretching motion that had alerted Izzy to his errant temper. Partial to a brown ale on a Friday night, Mr Gilyard was a pillar of the community, union representative at the tileworks where he toiled for twelve hours, five days a week, and a church warden on Sundays. Nobody could want for a better role model. Or so they said. Nobody had warned of their father’s leather belt, removed only for purposes untold. Yet Izzy had felt its wrath on many an occasion and she still bore the scars to prove it.

  ‘Mademoiselle Gilyard,’ a voice was calling, although it seemed far away and echoing, as though it were being filtered through a tunnel.

  Izzy stirred, gently pushing herself up on one elbow before blinking into the harsh white light of the bright overhead bulb.

  ‘What is it?’ she whispered hoarsely.

  ‘I’ve brought you some tea, and some biscuits,’ Mallery offered, pushing the snacks onto a small side table. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Around midnight,’ Max admitted, rolling his eyes upwards. ‘Not too late.’

  Isobel flopped back down onto the mattress, exhausted. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’

  ‘Rarely. I need to ask you about your connection to Louis Perant.’

  ‘Who?’

  The Inspector pulled up a stool and sat, stretching his long lean legs out towards the bed on which Isobel Gilyard lay.

  ‘Now, now. Don’t try to be smart. We have seen you on the highway, obviously meeting up with Louis Perant.’

  Isobel pushed herself upright, rubbing the bottom of her spine where the mattress springs had been digging in. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  Max folded his arms, appearing amused and unwilling to accept Isobel’s replies.

  ‘Louis Perant,’ he emphasised, glancing towards the door to ensure that the uniformed guard outside was alert and listening, should he require a witness.

  ‘Inspector, I’ve never heard of anyone called Louis Perant, let alone met him.’

  ‘Did you stop on the side of the southbound carriageway entering Bordeaux? Did you step out of your car at that location? Did you or did you not interact with a man driving a dark-coloured Citroen van?’

  Isobel Gilyard’s walls of defence came crashing down around her as the scenes from Saturday’s overheated engine episode fast-forwarded in her mind like a children’s cartoon show. Was Mallery talking about the dirty man that had pulled up and spoken to her for a few minutes? Surely not! She rubbed a hand over her eyes, desperately trying to summon up a clear image of their interaction. They’d hardly spoken, he hadn’t even understood her properly. Then suddenly he was gone, the man, and that’s when she’d changed her sweat-stained top. She’d been wearing that denim shirt, the one that they’d found in the glove compartment of her Beetle, wrapped around the bread knife. The weapon that supposedly killed Cecile Vidal.

  Isobel Gilyard wept. For the first time in years, thick, wet tears rolled down her cheeks uncontrollably, her shoulders shuddering with grief.

  Max Mallery stood, satisfied that he now had the evidence to close his very first murder case for the Bordeaux Municipality.

  CHAPTER TEN – PAST CRIMES

  Jack Hobbs stretched silently and tiptoed out of the bedroom as quietly as he could, which wasn’t quietly enough as, three steps later, his bare foot landed upon a baby’s soft toy which emitted a high-pitched squeak.

  ‘Jack, what are you doing? Come back to bed.’ Angélique yawned, patting a hand on the sheet next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I have to go to work. You get some more rest.’

  ‘It’s Saturday,’ his wife moaned, her sleek long hair fanned out across the pillow like a peacock’s plume. ‘Surely you don’t need to go in today?’

  The young man padded back to the bed and kissed his wife’s lips tenderly. ‘Until we have a prosecution, the murder investigation is still ongoing, I’m sorry.’

  Angélique glanced over at the pretty white crib, checking that their newborn son was still sleeping contentedly, before pulling the duvet up around her ears. ‘Fine,’ her muffled voice huffed, ‘Do what you need to do.’

  In a sleek modern apartment across town, Max Mallery had slept for four hours before rising and draining a carton of orange juice. His body ached from lack of exercise and he promised himself an hour or two at the gym later that day. The Inspector also yearned for a female to warm the vacant side of his bed, but last night’s text messages remained unanswered and he was becoming resigned to a life of bachelorhood.

  Max stood in the doorway of his built-in wardrobe, proud of the neat rows of perfectly pressed shirts and trousers, before stepping inside and selecting a navy polo shirt and designer jeans. During his previous post in Paris, Max had openly encouraged his team to dress casually yet sma
rtly and tried to lead by example. A quick glance in the mirror told him that standards were being maintained.

  ‘Team, well done so far,’ Mallery told the group as they gathered in the Incident Room, ‘yet we still have much to do.’

  There was a murmur of agreement as he raised a hand and continued.

  ‘Gabriella, any news from forensics?’

  The young woman shook her head. ‘Not yet, sir, we probably won’t get anything back until Monday now.’

  The Inspector sighed. Relying on other teams to work weekends was not something that he tolerated well, especially when he knew that the lead scientist spent his Saturdays on the golf course.

  ‘Very well, keep on it. Now, as I’ve explained, Luc has found footage of Isobel Gilyard interacting with a known drug dealer, Louis Perant. I suggest that you two, Thierry and Gabriella, take a drive down to Toulouse and question the vermin. Okay with you?’

  The pair nodded. ‘Any chance we can take your car, sir?’ Thierry asked cheekily

  Max smiled and raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘That’ll be no, then,’ Gabriella remarked, tying back her hair into a long, soft ponytail.

  ‘Luc, see if you can locate Madam Gilyard’s car in Bordeaux on Wednesday. Try the side streets and lanes. She claims not to have used a main car park.’

  ‘On it now,’ the techie replied, giving a thumbs-up sign.

  ‘Now, Jacques, that leaves you to contact those Manchester colleagues of yours.’

  By the time his boss strode in with a lunch invitation at mid-day, Jack Hobbs was still struggling to bring forth information. He quickly closed down the computer and followed Max out into the street, where they headed for a local café. It was a typically busy weekend lunchtime, with both shoppers and tourists stopping to eat, but the proprietor instantly recognised Bordeaux’s newest police inspector and ushered the pair to a quiet table at the back of the room.