Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  ‘Deux eaux pétillantes, salade composée et poulet, s’il vous plaît,’ Max requested, waving away the offer of menus. ‘Okay, Jacques?’

  ‘Salad and chicken?’ Hobbs ventured, his face quizzical as they sat at the small corner table.

  ‘And fizzy water,’ Mallery confirmed. ‘Your French is improving.’

  Jack Hobbs blushed, a pink tinge that rose upwards from his neck and skimmed the ginger-coloured fringe at his hairline.

  ‘Thanks. Anyway, sir, the lads in Manchester haven’t come up with anything. No Isobel Gilyard on any election records, either. It’s looking bleak.’

  ‘Bleak?’

  ‘It’s almost as though she doesn’t exist.’

  Mallery looked up, startled. This wasn’t the news that he’d been expecting but, in regard to the case, it was extremely disappointing.

  ‘We can’t be sure that the date of birth she gave us is correct,’ he pointed out, trying to remain calm, yet feeling positively niggled.

  ‘Since first meeting Miss Gilyard, I’ve had the feeling that she’s not quite been telling the truth. But I reckon there will be clues somewhere...’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, in my experience people don’t just evade documentation. There are usually credit card records, passports, utility bills.’

  ‘How about finger-printing?’ Mallery smiled. ‘If she has a police record, your ex-colleagues could match fingerprints, oui?’

  ‘Yes, sir, that’s one possibility. I’ll arrange it this afternoon.’

  There was a sudden vibration and Mallery snatched up his phone, eyes quickly scanning the message.

  ‘In the meantime,’ Max grinned, ‘we have a search warrant being sent over. First, we will look over Isobel Gilyard’s apartment.’

  ‘Excellent, sir. That’s good news. And for the record, I have to apologise. It seems your instincts were right, and I was way off the mark. There’s something wrong with this whole set-up. Isobel Gilyard can’t be all that innocent, after all.’

  The Inspector pressed his fingers onto Jack’s shoulder. ‘It’s not a competition, Jacques. Your contacts will prove very useful, I’m sure of it and now we have plenty to do to help us move forward with a prosecution.’

  Hobbs was silent as the café owner brought sparkling water and two tall glasses filled with ice and lemon.

  ‘It’s frustrating that we haven’t made more progress since Wednesday,’ he said, as soon as the man had departed to fetch their food.

  Once it had been put on the table, Max dug a fork into his meal and sighed. ‘Sometimes, to do a job properly it is necessary to look under every rock…’

  ‘Leave no stone unturned,’ Jack supplied. ‘And you’re right.’

  Having consumed their chicken salads in relative silence, Mallery and Hobbs returned to the police headquarters with heavy thoughts.

  ‘I’ll contact the Prosecutor,’ Max announced. ‘See if we now have enough to detain Gilyard until forensics come back with something. You pick up the warrant to search her apartment. It should have arrived at the front desk by now.’

  ‘Is it worth getting a psychiatric evaluation, too?’ Jack ventured, biting his lip.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’ his senior officer replied.

  ‘Just a hunch, sir. Never mind.’

  In Saint Margeux, Maurice Fabron was trying his best to continue running the boulangerie as normal, yet a lack of sleep and the predicament of his new employee weighed heavily upon him. At least Telo had seemed in better spirits since Isobel’s arrest, talking excitedly about the steak that Simone Dupuis had prepared for supper the night before, followed by lashings of vanilla ice-cream. Maurice felt indebted to Simone. Her hospitality was so generous, despite this being a difficult time for her, having lost her best friend. The chic, slender woman now sat across from Monsieur Fabron’s rather empty-looking patisserie counter, her slim hands around a hot cup of black coffee. The pair had chatted quietly in between customers, Simone asking the baker’s advice on whether she should resume normal opening times at the flower shop. Maurice had told her gently that life must go on, sadly, even though it was without Cecile Vidal.

  The air changed between the pair as a strip of red flashed across the mirrored ceiling light, both heads turning to witness Max Mallery pulling up across the square in his flashy sports car. Maurice said nothing, but visibly tensed as both the Inspector and his English colleague began their stroll across the street.

  Simone finished her coffee and rose, intending to leave her friend to speak with the detectives alone.

  ‘Monsieur Fabron,’ Max said solemnly, pulling out a piece of paper from his back pocket. ‘We have a warrant to search Isobel Gilyard’s apartment.’

  Simone Dupuis laid a hand on her heart as though greatly shocked and used the other to grip the back of the chair.

  ‘Detectives.’ The boulangerie owner nodded. ‘This is Madame Dupuis, a good friend. It was she who kindly provided Izzy with the nightwear yesterday.’

  The men gave a slight bow, acknowledging the attractive female for the first time. Mallery couldn’t help thinking how much she reminded him of the Commissioner’s wife and had to hold himself in check when his mouth began to fall open.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Simone replied sweetly, a half-smile appearing on her pink lips. ‘Is there any news? Why are you searching Isobel’s apartment?’

  ‘You’ll excuse us if we can’t discuss the case, Madame Dupuis,’ Hobbs stepped in, before his boss could answer. ‘The investigation is on-going.’

  ‘Of course, I understand perfectly. I am just eager to see Cecile’s killer put away as soon as possible. It hardly bears thinking about.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Jack conceded, ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I should now get back to work.’ Simone sighed, turning her attention to Maurice and kissing both his cheeks. ‘Thank you. You know where I am should you need anything.’

  Monsieur Fabron touched hands with Simone as she brushed his face with her lips, lingering a few seconds longer than necessary as he inhaled the heady scent of her signature Chanel No.5 perfume.

  ‘Merci, Simone.’

  Three heads turned as the men watched the flower shop owner make her way next door, slender legs walking carefully on the cobbled pavement in kitten heels. Mallery wished that this was a normal Saturday, in which case he might be inclined to purchase a bunch of sunflowers to brighten up his apartment and then perhaps extend an invitation to take Simone Dupuis to dinner.

  ‘Gentlemen.’ Maurice cleared his throat. ‘You need to go upstairs?’

  Max unfolded the search warrant and held it out.

  ‘We’re here to look through Isobel Gilyard’s belongings. If you wouldn’t mind unlocking the door, please, Monsieur Fabron.’

  ‘Really? Inspector, I cannot believe that Izzy has committed this terrible crime.’ The baker frowned. ‘Surely there is some mistake?’

  ‘I’m afraid we can’t go into details with you at the moment,’ Hobbs explained, ‘but let’s just say that we need to find out more about Miss Gilyard’s past.’

  Maurice stood dumbfounded, wondering what on earth the Englishman was hinting at, until Telo walked in with an empty delivery basket.

  ‘This way, please,’ he suddenly answered, patting his son on the arm as he passed. ‘I’ll get the spare key.’

  Telo turned to the fresh juice machine to quench his thirst, unaware that the woman he despised was just about to have all her darkest secrets laid bare.

  With Maurice Fabron back downstairs and out of earshot, Max pointed Jack towards the living room. ‘You look in there, I’ll take the bedroom.’

  ‘No problem. Let’s see what we can find.’

  As Mallery entered Isobel’s bedroom, he was firstly struck by the lack of personal effects. There were the usual bits of jewellery and a make-up bag on the dressing-table, but very few items that would give clues to the occupant’s identity, such as photographs or a diar
y. He noted that the bed was neatly made, with the sheets tucked into ‘hospital corners’. Just one painting hung on the wall, a copy of Claude Monet’s Water Lilies but, as the artist was French, Max presumed that it was probably purchased some time before by Monsieur Fabron.

  He crouched down to look under the bed, but only an empty void stared back and Mallery quickly turned his attention to the vast built-in cupboard that took up most of the shortest wall.

  A continuous row of pastel-coloured dresses, jeans and floral tops were neatly hung from the rail, portraying Isobel’s penchant for 1950s fashion and pretty patterns. Running a hand along the clothing, the Inspector looked closely at the items, waiting for a clue to drop out from a pocket or sleeve. As he neared the end of the rail, he glanced down to where Miss Gilyard’s shoes were neatly lined up and it was then that he saw the space behind them.

  Hunkering down on all fours, Max reached into the depths of the cupboard all the way to the back. It was several seconds before his hand touched upon something other than footwear and he found himself grasping a long, rectangular box.

  ‘Jacques,’ Mallery called, ‘I think I’ve found something.’

  Hobbs strode down the short corridor and arrived just as his boss lifted the box onto Isobel’s bed and pulled off the lid.

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Fabron.’ Mallery lit a cigarette outside the boulangerie as the duo prepared to leave.

  ‘And now?’ Maurice enquired. ‘What will happen to Izzy?’

  Mallery shrugged. ‘We don’t yet have enough to prosecute her for Cecile Vidal’s murder, but she is certainly not the innocent woman you think she is.’

  ‘If Isobel had anything to do with Cecile’s murder, I think I have a right to know,’ the baker confessed. ‘After all, she has been living and working here for a week. What is inside the box?’

  ‘Monsieur, you know we can’t divulge that,’ Hobbs answered, ‘but as soon as we’re able to tell you something, I promise we will.’

  Max’s expression told Maurice that the young man was being as honest as he could be, and the conversation drew to a close.

  ‘It won’t be long before we have news.’ Mallery winked. ‘I am sure of it.’

  Back in the incident room, Gabriella and Thierry had just returned from Toulouse.

  ‘Besides having witnesses that put Louis Perant in Bordeaux half an hour before the CCTV caught him talking to Gilyard, there’s nothing. He swears he never met her before, and it was just a chance meeting as he saw that her car had broken down,’ Thierry explained. ‘Perant’s employer has also confirmed that he hasn’t been outside of Toulouse at any other time this week.’

  Max nodded, wondering what their next step should be and if it was worth bringing the drug dealer in for more formal questioning.

  ‘Well, we’ve had a more productive afternoon,’ Jack announced, sliding Isobel’s battered shoebox across the table with gloved hands. ‘In here are photographs of a man we presume to be Gilyard’s murdered boyfriend, a wristband from the high security psychiatric unit where she was held, a passport in the name of ‘Isobel Green’, showing her with long dark hair, a discharge letter recommending her release and several photocopies of documents from her trial.’

  Gabriella looked at the contents, her eyes wide and startled, ‘Seriously? This woman has murdered before?’

  ‘Apparently so,’ Max muttered, lifting out a file from the box. ‘Isobel Green served ten years for murder. She’s a very dangerous young lady.’

  Hobbs swung around to face the Inspector. ‘Now that we have her real name, I’ll get back on to the lads in Manchester.’

  Mallery sighed and waved a hand at his team. ‘Go home, all of you, but be sure to get here early in the morning. And tomorrow, I want to hear your ideas on how we are going to convict Mademoiselle Gilyard. As Jacques might say in English, a tiger never changes its spots.’

  The word ‘leopard’ was on the tip of Hobbs’ tongue but he thought better of it. Max had shown him a great deal of respect in letting him take the lead on this case and he wasn’t going to start rocking the boat now.

  Jack Hobbs sat alone in the incident room, a large mug of Yorkshire tea on the cluttered desk next to him. He had refused to return home until detectives in Manchester had returned his call requesting information and he didn’t have to wait long. Max Mallery was close by, rewriting parts of the information on the whiteboard, straining his ears with excitement to hear what news his colleague was gathering.

  ‘Wow!’ Jack dropped the telephone back into its cradle and stared down at his notepad. ‘They’re sending over the full records now,’ he explained, leaning back in the chair, ‘but basically, Isobel Green served ten years in a high security psychiatric unit for the murder of her boyfriend, Martin Freeman, in 2007. She was released in November last year after several positive evaluations. Her record inside was exemplary, and she even took a course in…’

  ‘Don’t tell me, it was patisserie,’ Mallery supplied, coming over to lean on Jack’s desk.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Mmm, hence the position at Fabron’s boulangerie,’ Max tutted.

  Hobbs nodded, appreciating how switched on the Inspector’s mind was.

  After a few moments’ contemplation, Jack pressed a pen to his lips and pondered, ‘There’s still no motive for the murder of Cecile Vidal, though. Stabbing a man that you know and murdering a practical stranger in cold blood are two very different things, aren’t they? But we can’t hold her much longer without evidence. It’s either charge her on Monday or let her go.’

  ‘Do we know why she was sent to a psychiatric unit rather than prison?’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll see if the file’s here yet,’ Jack replied, his fingers flitting deftly over the keyboard. ‘Yes, here it is.’

  He skimmed the document quickly before hitting upon the information.

  ‘Apparently Mr. Green used his life-savings to hire a top solicitor who got the plea reduced to ‘diminished responsibility’. Otherwise she would have ended up serving thirty years or more. Nasty case, too. Martin Freeman was stabbed seven times in the stomach and according to the Coroner’s report would have bled to death within minutes.’

  ‘Stabbed seven times in the stomach,’ Max repeated, leaning forward to look at the screen. ‘Exactly the same as Cecile Vidal!’

  Mallery and Hobbs looked at each other, a combination of shock and revelation pasted across their faces. It was time to question Isobel Green.

  As soon as the cell key turned clockwise in its lock, Isobel was on her feet desperate for the news that she was about to be released. Her usually neat blonde hair was flattened at the back where she’d been leaning against the wall, and dark purple ridges were emerging from underneath her eyes.

  ‘Suivez-moi,’ the policeman grunted, holding open the door. ‘Come with me,’ he added, in heavily accented English.

  ‘Where to?’ Isobel urged, moving across the room. ‘Am I free to go?’

  The uniformed officer curled his upper lip and regarded her with distaste but didn’t respond, merely pointing to the corridor where a second guard joined them. Isobel was ushered along with one man in front and one behind, until they arrived at the all too familiar interview room.

  ‘Merci, Paul.’ Max nodded to his colleague. ‘Mademoiselle, please sit down.’

  He flipped on the tape-recorder and spoke clearly. ‘For the record, interview with Isobel Green commencing at 16:10 pm with Inspector Mallery and Detective Hobbs.’

  As soon as the name ‘Isobel Green’ dropped from the Inspector’s lips, Isobel let out a cry and put both hands up to her face in horror.

  ‘Please answer only the questions that we put to you,’ Max continued, unfazed by the woman’s obvious shock. ‘Are you Isobel Green?’

  Jack Hobbs pushed Isobel’s British passport across the table, the photo identity page open for her to see.

  ‘No… I… yes,’ Izzy sobbed, collapsing inwardly on the plastic chair. ‘Please, I can explain.’<
br />
  ‘Then please do.’

  ‘I wanted a fresh start. Away from everything. A new life,’ she began, feeling like a cornered mouse. ‘The last few years have been difficult.’

  ‘Since being found guilty of murdering Martin Freeman, you mean?’ Mallery ventured, watching the woman’s reaction closely.

  Isobel was aghast. At first, she’d had no clue how the detectives had discovered her real name, but with the passport in their hands it was obvious that they’d searched her belongings. She cursed under her breath, regretting bringing her box of secrets with her to France, but there was a greater underlying fear, that the things she had done back in England were now coming back to haunt her.

  Isobel bit her lip, searching for the words needed to explain. ‘I know you think I murdered Cecile Vidal, but I promise you, I had nothing to do with her death.’

  Max Mallery tapped his wristwatch. ‘Perhaps you can tell us how a convicted murderer happens to arrive in Saint Margaux just a few days before one of its residents dies in a horrific attack. We would also like to know about your links to known drug dealer Louis Perant. Finally, the most damning piece of information against you, Mademoiselle Green, after all your time in the cell, all those hours with the chance to tell the truth, why did you not reveal your true name?’

  ‘Please, you have to believe me. I simply wanted a new start. I’m not a murderer.’

  ‘I think Martin Freeman might disagree with you, were he still here to speak out.’

  Max delivered the punchline slowly and steadily, causing Jack Hobbs to flinch slightly. Even for him, that was a low blow.

  Mallery and Hobbs stood on the police station steps watching the thunderous clouds gathering overhead. It had been a hot and sweltering day, leaving both men ready to head home for a much-needed cool shower.