‘Angélique is going to be mad at you,’ Max commented, reaching into his jeans for the customary departure cigarette.
‘Yep,’ Jack confirmed, glancing at his watch, ‘but it’s been a productive day.’
‘When this is over, I owe you a long weekend with your family,’ his boss promised, ‘but it might be best to warn your wife that there will probably be a few more long days over the next few weeks.’
The younger man nodded, picturing Angélique’s image growing horns as her temper swelled. He’d have a lot of making-up to do to compensate for today, let alone the arduous toil of an ongoing murder investigation.
‘And tomorrow?’ Jack asked, ‘What’s your plan for Miss Green-slash-Gilyard?’
‘Hopefully, she’ll do plenty of thinking overnight and have some answers for us tomorrow. Sitting alone in a cell usually has the desired effect on criminals.’
‘You’re sure she did it then, sir?’
Mallery lifted his chin, contemplating the question. ‘Oui, I think so. Don’t you?’
‘Everything points that way,’ Jack admitted, pulling out his car keys, ‘but I have no idea how we’re going to get a conviction at this rate. All the evidence so far is purely circumstantial.’
‘Don’t worry. I think forensics will give us exactly what we need,’ Max countered.
The two men headed down the steps and towards their respective cars. Any onlooker might have thought them unlikely friends, yet the comradeship between the two detectives was building, as was their mutual respect for one another.
‘See you tomorrow. Bonsoir,’ Jack called, wrangling with the Mondeo lock.
‘Bonsoir, Jacques. I don’t want to see you before ten in the morning, okay?’
Hobbs nodded enthusiastically.
‘Let the others do some work and make sure you get a good rest.’
Fat chance of that, with a new baby that thought it was fun to test out his lung capacity every two hours, the young detective mused, yet he appreciated the sentiment. It proved that Maxime Mallery wasn’t immune to the difficulties of family life.
‘Thanks.’
Max turned and flipped the fob to unlock his BMW. It was so new that the interior still reeked of polished leather, a reminder of the leaving present he’d treated himself to after being shown his transfer cards from Paris. Taking out his phone, the Inspector set the device on the dashboard clip in front of him. If Vanessa suddenly decided to call, he didn’t want to miss the opportunity to talk her around to coming down to Bordeaux.
He closed the door and fastened his seatbelt, watching Jack reverse carefully out of the police compound. He admired the young newcomer very much and wondered if he might be able to secure Hobbs a permanent position on Team Mallery. For now, he was just glad to have the Englishman’s help.
CHAPTER ELEVEN – AN OPPRESSIVE SUNDAY
As the congregation of Saint Margaux residents prepared to leave church, Hubert Vidal, Simone Dupuis, Maurice Fabron and young Telo stayed behind to light individual candles for their dearly departed wife, sister-in-law and friend, Cecile Vidal. Flames sparked to life as each took their turn to say a silent prayer, all hoping that Cecile was resting in peace and that her killer would be brought to justice soon.
‘Hubert, will you join us for lunch?’ Simone whispered to the vineyard owner as the group made their way outside, each smiling and thanking the parish priest as they did so.
‘Thank you, Simone but, as this is the last Sunday before Cecile’s funeral, I plan to take the children out somewhere special. They were too upset to accompany me today and I feel a change of scenery will do them good.’
Madam Dupuis lowered her thick lashes. ‘Of course.’
The woman quickly turned, linking arms with Maurice and Telo. ‘Let’s go and see what Gaston has prepared for us. Hubert, please call if you need me.’
‘Thank you, Simone, and you too, Maurice, I couldn’t have got through the past few days without you.’
Hubert hugged Telo tightly to him and whispered, ‘Take care of your father, there’s a good boy.’
In the kitchen of Simone’s pretty stone cottage, Gaston Lauder was sprinkling herbs over a pan of roast potatoes just as the trio entered, a red apron tied around his waist and a large glass of claret on the work-top at his side.
‘Gaston,’ Madam Dupuis reprimanded him, ‘you have started the wine without us.’
The artist shrugged, popping the pan back into the oven. ‘I needed to open it for the jus, Simone, so I thought it best to test it.’
Maurice smiled at the handsome young man. His cheek and easy-going manner was a great comfort to them all, and he knew that Simone secretly loved having her regular summer house-guest to stay.
‘Sit, have a glass,’ Gaston ordered. ‘Lunch will be about half an hour. Just time for me to show Telo the painting that I’m working on.’
‘Fantastic!’ Telo grinned, trudging out of the room behind Gaston.
Simone seized the wine bottle and began filling two glasses. ‘So, Maurice, what are you going to do about Isobel?’
The boulangerie owner clasped his hands together and took a deep breath, ‘Honestly, I really don’t know what to do, Simone.’
‘If she was innocent, the police would have let her go by now, don’t you think?’ Simone raised her eyebrows and took a sip of the claret.
Monsieur Fabron nodded. ‘Very true. I think they found something in her apartment, too. The detectives took an old shoebox with them.’
Simone leaned in closer. ‘Really? How interesting. Something incriminating, perhaps?’
‘I really couldn’t say, but whatever it was, I don’t think it’s looking good for Izzy.’
Simone brushed the back of her hand across her friend’s cheek. ‘Come on, maybe it’s time to admit that maybe Mademoiselle Gilyard did have something to do with Cecile’s murder.’
‘She just seemed so, bubbly, so normal. You met her, Simone. Surely you can’t believe she could kill a woman in cold blood?’
Madam Dupuis made a noncommittal sound and looked into Maurice’s eyes. ‘I really can’t say. I have only spoken to the woman for a few minutes.’
‘I feel responsible,’ the baker admitted, sliding a finger up and down the stem of his wineglass. ‘I brought Isobel Gilyard here, to Saint Margaux. Besides, whatever she’s done, I really don’t think that Izzy has any family to turn to. I am a compassionate man, Simone. I cannot simply turn my back on her.’
Madame Dupuis regarded her friend’s sincere face and then bent forward to kiss him gently on the forehead. ‘You are getting soft, Maurice, too soft. If anyone needs to go to take things, or speak to Isobel, I will go. She will manipulate you. Besides, you need to think about Telo. Agreed?’
The man nodded, grateful for Simone’s friendship and laid his hand upon hers.
‘Now, let’s see how our roast pork is coming along,’ Gaston interrupted, bouncing into the room with Telo close on his heels. ‘It smells wonderful.’
The fact that Maurice’s hand slid away from Simone’s at that point didn’t escape the artist’s notice and he smiled inwardly at the oddly matched pair.
Isobel Green nibbled at the tuna baguette, neither tasting its contents nor really focussed on her task. Ever since Inspector Mallery had mentioned Martin Freeman’s name, the young woman had been living as though inside a tunnel with sounds echoing around her and thoughts disjointed and bleak.
She felt as though her whole new life, albeit a short one, was about to come crashing down in a swift and brutal motion. Everything she had attempted to build for herself here in France, a job, new lifestyle and home, was threatened by all the events that had come before. There was so much that Isobel regretted about the past, but that had been the purpose of putting every scrap of memories into a single box, in the hope that one day she would have the courage to burn it all.
Izzy had spent the previous night tossing and turning restlessly on her bunk, afraid to close her eyes in case the ni
ghtmares came back. She couldn’t bear the thought of reliving Martin’s last few minutes again and therapy had taught her how to compartmentalise the events in her head, to lock them away and turn the key. Only now, with terrifying conviction that she had might actually go to prison for Cecile Vidal’s murder, did Isobel open up that door a fraction and peek inside,
On that fatal afternoon, all those years before, parked in the woods far from home, Isobel’s heart had been in her mouth when her so-called boyfriend had revealed his plan. He was fed up, he told her, of his woman flirting with other men and not being where she was supposed to be. How could he trust her, he’d asked. Panic had pushed its way up into Izzy’s throat, preventing her from screaming as Freeman pulled out a knife from under the driver’s seat. She remembered the weapon all too well, a gleaming hunter’s knife, sharp and curved with a strong leather hilt. It belonged in a Viking history museum rather than in the Ford Cortina of a geeky young man, but Isobel knew that this was Martin’s pride and joy, one of a collection of artefacts that he’d purchased from an antiques website.
At first, she had been afraid to move, stunned into silence by the sight of the sharp blade. She remembered pushing herself against the passenger’s door as far as she could, with Freeman leering at her and raising the knife to her hair.
‘Let’s start with this, shall we?’ he’d growled, slicing through a chunk of Isobel’s long shiny black hair, ‘and then we’ll get you to show me a bit of respect.’
Isobel closed her eyes, remembering how cold she’d suddenly felt as Martin tore through her skirt with the knife and ripped off her underwear, forcing himself inside her while gripping her neck with his free hand, the other holding tight to the weapon. She had lain as still as she possibly could, afraid that any sudden movement would cause the man to slice through her jugular and it was then, as Freeman jolted and pressed inside her, that Izzy remembered her mother’s dress-making scissors.
Careful not to move an inch of her body, yet sliding a silent hand downwards, Isobel Green touched upon the zipper of her bag and pulled gently. It took several long-drawn-out moments before she felt the rounded curves of the silver shears that she’d borrowed that morning to lend to her friend. Her fingers shook as she gripped the scissors tightly, ensuring that the tip was pointing away from her. Isobel waited, for an agonising two more minutes.
As Martin Freeman spent his seed, giving one last thrust to the limp body of his girlfriend, he lifted his torso upwards. Sweat patches splattered his white shirt and a trickle of perspiration ran down his gleaming forehead like a raindrop.
‘Maybe that will teach you,’ he gasped, ‘I bet you’ll never… aarrgghhh!’
Isobel pushed the sharp scissors into the man’s stomach with all the strength she could muster, deftly pulling them out for a second, third and fourth time and repeating the action over and over. She never did count just how many times she had stabbed Martin, but it didn’t matter. Now, he would never be able to violate her again.
For a short time, Freeman struggled to comprehend what had happened as he gripped his side in agony, watching the blood ooze through a gash in his abdomen. But as Isobel stabbed again, and again, his face turned white as he suddenly realised the enormity of his fate.
As soon as she was certain that her boyfriend was incapable of chasing after her, Izzy pushed with all her might, forcing the man’s body back over into the driver’s seat of the car. She grabbed what pieces of fabric were left of her skirt and fled the scene.
It was more than an hour later that a poacher had pulled up in his Land Rover, having seen a blood-covered woman hunched in the hedgerow at the side of the road. He’d immediately called the police and put an old army jacket around Isobel’s shoulders while he reluctantly disposed of the buck deer that he’d shot on private land just an hour before. There was no way he was going to play Good Samaritan and then get charged with trespassing and goodness knows what else.
Max Mallery looked proudly around the Incident Room. His team were all present as expected and heads were bowed at their respective computer screens. He hadn’t slept well but, judging by the intermittent yawns coming from Jack Hobbs’ direction, better than the younger detective.
‘Jacques,’ he said softly, tossing a twenty Euro note onto the man’s desk, ‘I’m going down to talk to Mademoiselle Green. I’ll take Gabriella with me. Maybe a woman’s presence might be able to crack Isobel’s tough exterior. Why don’t you and Luc go fetch some coffee and pain au chocolat?’
‘No problem,’ Hobbs replied. ‘The fresh air will do me good. Fingers crossed that you can get Miss Green to confess.’
Mallery wasn’t hopeful, but he did believe that a different tactic was needed if he were to trip up the Englishwoman about her movements.
‘Mademoiselle Green,’ the uniformed officer called, ‘Inspector Mallery is here to see you.’
The bolts clattered open and Isobel shifted from the bed to the wall, standing rigidly with her back against the cold stone.
‘Inspector.’
‘This is Detective DuPont,’ he introduced, gesturing to the blonde at his side.
‘Have you got rid of Hobbs then?’ Izzy asked sarcastically before she could stop the words.
Mallery ignored the comment and continued regardless. ‘Are you ready to tell us anything, Miss Green?’
Isobel sniffed and pulled her cardigan tighter. ‘I have two things to tell you, Inspector. It depends if you want to listen.’
Gabriella looked at her boss hopefully, but Max was unresponsive.
‘Go on, we’re listening.’
The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the room and Max inhaled deeply, grateful for the aroma that was in vast contrast to the odour of Isobel Green’s cell that he’d just left. The woman’s stale body odour, uneaten food and the acidic urine stench from the cell toilet had insulted his senses.
‘Pain au chocolat?’ Luc offered, pushing a large box forward.
‘Non.’ The Inspector couldn’t face food until he’d filled up on caffeine.
‘Any luck, sir?’ Jack asked hopefully. ‘Did she talk?’
It was Gabriella who took the reins, noticing that Max was preoccupied with selecting the hottest mug of coffee.
‘She didn’t confess, but she did offer up two interesting pieces of information about other residents of Saint Margaux.’
‘Trying to put the blame on someone else, eh?’ Thierry sighed. ‘Typical guilty suspect.’
‘I think it might be relevant, though,’ the young woman continued, ‘if by some chance Green’s not guilty. She mentioned that the baker’s son, Telo Fabron, had been using her car without permission. As the bread knife belonged to Maurice, isn’t it possible that Telo might actually be the perpetrator?’
Max shook his head. ‘The lad’s a bit simple but I can’t see him murdering his own aunt, they were really close.’
‘What was the second thing?’ Jack pressed, taking a large bite of the warm, flaky pastry.
‘Madam Green insists that she saw blood on the artist’s shirt last week. What was his name…?’ She flipped open her notes. ‘Gaston Lauder.’
‘The man who rents a room from Simone Dupuis every summer,’ Jack clarified. ‘What do we know about him?’
Thierry moved across to the whiteboard and read out the profile notes. ‘He’s been spending every summer in Saint Margaux for the past five years. Lives in Paris the rest of the year, no previous record, quite successful with his artwork.’
Max turned to face the group, inhaling the coffee with relish. ‘We have to follow up on Green’s accusations, even if just to dismiss these two men and tighten the case around her. Isobel Green has convinced herself that she’s been set up. It’s our job to prove that she hasn’t been.’
Hobbs felt the stirrings of another yawn threatening to descend upon him and clamped his lips shut to prevent it escaping.
‘Anything to add?’ Mallery queried, looking from face to face. ‘Anyone?’
Tiredness was etched on every countenance, but underneath, a bubbling determination to catch a killer was desperate to shine through.
At three o’clock that afternoon, Mallery and Hobbs pulled up outside Maurice Fabron’s impressive home and marched up to the front door.
It was several minutes before a voice called to them from across the street.
‘Detectives, Maurice is here.’
The men turned to see Simone Dupuis waving at them, her slender form dressed in a cream blouse and green floral skirt.
‘Bonjour, Madame,’ Max replied, gesturing to Jack to follow him across the square. ‘Merci.’
‘I saw you from the window just now,’ the woman explained, her English perfect yet heavily accented. ‘We are all in the garden playing boules.’
‘We are sorry to disturb you on a Sunday,’ the Inspector said with a smile, as Simone opened the front door of her cottage, ‘but there are questions that cannot wait.’
Madam Dupuis did not answer but led the men through a long passageway and out into a well-kept garden full of pink flowers and shrubs.
‘Ah, bonjour,’ Maurice said, looking up from his bent position on the grass before tossing a ball towards its marker. ‘There must be an important reason for you to be here on a Sunday.’
‘Indeed,’ Max replied. ‘And we are sorry to interrupt your afternoon.’
‘No matter,’ Simone added. ‘What can we do for you?’
Jack looked at his boss, who nodded for the younger man to step in, ‘We’ve had a couple of accusations from Miss Green and need to check a few things with Telo and Monsieur Lauder.’
As soon as the name fell from his lips, all four residents stopped in their tracks, one question on all of their minds. It was Maurice who spoke first.
Isobel Page 14
