‘Monsieur, who is Miss Green?’
Mallery rolled his eyes, realising that they would now have to satisfy these inquisitive minds, yet he believed it only fair that the baker find out who he’d really employed. He made a slight grimace at Jack and began to explain.
‘Isobel Gilyard’s real family name is Green. She has her own reasons for using a different identity, but we are not obliged to go into the details at the moment. Now, if we could just ask a couple of questions, we’ll soon be on our way, leaving you to enjoy your activity.’
Maurice frowned. ‘I’m very confused, Inspector. Gilyard is not her real name?’
‘No Monsieur Fabron.’ Max sighed. ‘In time, we may be able to explain properly but for now, I’m afraid that’s all we can say.’
‘But you need to question Telo and Gaston because of something she has said?’ Simone clarified, her startlingly beautiful eyes wide and alert.
Mallery paused for a second, drinking in the dark pools that looked his way. God, he thought, Simone Dupuis was an elegant and enticing creature.
Jack Hobbs stepped into the deathly silence that hung in the air, wondering why his senior hadn’t responded.
‘Yes, just two things. Monsieur Lauder, there has been mention of you wearing a white shirt with red stains on it…’
Gaston shrugged. ‘When? Which day, detective?’
Hobbs was unsure. ‘Around Wednesday?’
The artist looked blankly back at him. ‘I might have been, but all of my shirts have been washed since then.’
He looked at Simone for confirmation, a genuine bewilderment on his face.
‘Yes, yes.’ The woman nodded. ‘Your linen shirt, Gaston. It had red paint on the cuffs, so I soaked it before putting into the machine.’
‘Would you mind us looking at it?’ Max ventured, his manner calm and non-intrusive, ‘Just to confirm.’
‘Of course,’ Gaston replied curtly. ‘I will get it from my room.’
Mallery turned to Telo and said in clear French, ‘Now, you’re not in any trouble but I need to ask if you again if you have used Isobel’s car without her permission.’
The young man was unfazed by the question and answered honestly, only stopping for a moment to glance at his father.
‘As Telo told you, he used it to fetch Gaston from the airport late on Wednesday afternoon,’ Max translated for Jack. ‘But only because it was parked behind the delivery van. Convenience, I suppose.’
Hobbs nodded, trying to gage the degree of sincerity in Telo Fabron’s face.
Maurice faced his son and muttered a few stern words.
‘We also need to know if Telo opened the glove compartment, or if he saw either the shirt or the knife while in the car,’ Jack added.
Maurice squeezed Telo’s shoulders with the palms of his hands, urging the youngster to tell the truth.
‘Non,’ Telo replied, shaking his head, ‘Non, Papa.’
Fabron looked up at the detectives. ‘There is your answer, and I believe my son. Although we will be having a conversation later about him using Izzy’s car.’
Just then, Gaston Lauder returned to the garden holding a neatly folded white shirt.
‘Here you go,’ he announced, passing the garment to Max. ‘I think this is the one, there’s a slight trace of something dark on the sleeve that hasn’t quite washed out. I’m always getting paint on my clothes, hazard of my work.’
Mallery held the shirt up to the sunlight and regarded the brownish-red tinge. Having washed several of his own shirts after kitchen mishaps in the past, he knew that if the substance were blood, it might have left a stain such as that being shown to him, but it also could easily be paint.
‘Merci,’ he said, handing back the shirt. ‘I’m sorry, it was just a line of enquiry.’
‘So, is Isobel Gilyard, Green, or whatever her name is, trying to set me up, Inspector?’ Gaston laughed, trying to make light of the situation.
‘Nothing like that at all,’ Mallery lied, ‘it was just something said in passing.’
‘And now?’ Simone asked, clasping her hands together. ‘Is she going to be charged with murder?’
Max felt cornered, yet also acknowledged that he owed these good people the truth as they had been incredibly honest with him.
‘We have only circumstantial evidence,’ he told the group. ‘As far as we are concerned, there are still questions to be asked of Mademoiselle Green, but she will not be charged unless further proof of any misdemeanour is forthcoming.’
There was a murmur of disapproval from the French residents as they took in the Inspector’s words. His statement was obviously not what they expected.
‘We’ll let you know of any further developments,’ Jack promised, wondering to himself how long they would be running around in circles. ‘Thank you all for your time and patience.’
Mallery added that he was grateful for their assistance, before allowing Simone Dupuis to lead them back out through the cottage.
‘Your type, sir?’ Hobbs grinned as they made their way back to the car.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Aw, come on. Your tongue was almost hanging out back there.’
Max grunted but couldn’t help expelling the laughter that was welling up inside.
‘Jacques, you’re not afraid to say what you think, are you?’ he gasped, punching the detective on the arm.
‘Well, just a bit of fun, sir,’ Hobbs returned. ‘She’s got a bit of old-style Hollywood glamour about her, hasn’t she?’
‘Less of the “old”,’ Mallery retorted, glancing back towards Simone’s cottage. ‘I think just a few years older than me and very chic indeed.’
Hobbs shook his head. ‘You rascal.’
As the BMW raced forward on the main highway back into Bordeaux, Max took the opportunity to go over the day’s revelations with his junior.
‘Do you think Green is just playing for time? Sending us on a… what do you say, Jacques, a goose chase?’
‘A wild goose chase, sir. I’m not so sure. Telo Fabron had used her car without asking and Gaston Lauder had got reddish stains on his shirt. Just as she described to us. It’s a bit far-fetched to think Isobel Green made that up. Too much of a coincidence.’
‘I agree,’ Max conceded, ‘I tell you, there will be some harsh words in the morning if forensics haven’t got anything for us. We’ve literally got until lunchtime or we’ll have to let Miss Green go.’
‘There is one thing that I find strange about her, though,’ Jack ventured, gripping the side of his seat as Mallery overtook a lorry at breakneck speed. ‘She’s still refusing legal help.’
‘Well, we haven’t charged her, so unless she’s going to confess, there’s no need.’
‘Do you think she will?’ Jack asked, shutting his eyes as the car swerved back into the middle lane.
‘No,’ Mallery sighed, easing off the accelerator with a smile pulling at his lips. ‘I don’t think she will.’
In her cell, Isobel Green was frustrated. The lack of mental stimulation was causing her mind to go into overdrive and every minute that she was left alone was another step closer to a backwards slide in her mental wellbeing.
It was almost as though the French police were coercing her into admitting a crime by making her confinement as uncomfortable as possible. The room lacked ventilation and natural light and, as Izzy hadn’t been wearing a watch when she was brought into the station, she had no clue what hour of the day it was. Every meal that had been brought lacked taste and, with closed eyes, was as bland and nondescript as the next plate.
Isobel wrestled with her conscience, wondering if and when the time would come when she no longer had a choice but to contact her parents. It was an unbearable thought, the tutting and shouting all over again, and the very possible eventuality that she might need someone to pay for decent legal representation. She had no idea whether her father would even consider taking out a loan to cover the fees, or whether he’d been able to start p
utting a bit of cash away after her trial in 2007 had depleted the family’s savings. Every corner of her mind filled with desperation and the dread that her past was coming back at her with a vengeance. Martin Freeman might as well have been there in the flesh, she told herself, as the ways things were heading, he was going to get retribution in the form of Isobel going to jail for the murder of Cecile Vidal.
The Englishwoman curled up in a ball on the iron bedstead, knees tucked up in her familiar foetal position. Had those detectives actually gone out to Saint Margaux to question Gaston and Telo? she wondered. Did they believe what she’d told them? But more importantly, did Isobel believe herself?
CHAPTER TWELVE – MONDAY BLUES
By eleven o’clock on Monday morning, Inspector Mallery had already disposed of three espresso coffees and was contemplating a caramel latte when Gabriella Dupont knocked on his office door. The sound echoed off the high ceiling, causing Max to look up in surprise.
‘Oui?’
‘Médecine légale,’ she said simply, turning to leave and knowing instinctively that her boss’s curiosity would cause him to follow.
The news that forensics had been in touch both excited and worried Mallery. This would determine the team’s success or failure in prosecuting Isobel Green. He pushed out of his swivel chair, leaving it spinning in his wake, and strode quickly down to the Incident Room.
Immediately on entering, he could tell by the group’s faces that it wasn’t the news they’d been hoping for.
‘Well?’
‘Nothing to incriminate Green,’ Gabriella told him. ‘No fingerprints whatsoever.’
‘Damn! Anything else?’
The young detective read carefully from the notes she’d taken during her phone call to the lab, carefully translating from French to English for Hobbs’ benefit.
‘The blood on the knife is a match for Cecile Vidal, but apparently it would have dried completely before being wrapped in the denim shirt. They only found small traces, dried flecks, on the fabric.’
‘Looks like Isobel Green could have been telling the truth after all, sir,’ Thierry commented, looking at the clock on the wall. ‘We’ve only got an hour before she’ll have to be charged formally, or released.’
Max grunted, noting the despondency in his detectives. He felt their frustration too, yet could do little to ease the negative tension.
‘You’re right there, Thierry. With no solid evidence, we’re going to have to release her. Although…’
‘What are you thinking?’ Gabriella asked, noting the wily grin on Max’s face.
‘Let’s put a tail on her. I’ll get a couple of uniformed officers to take the night shifts and then, Thierry, you can take the day shift. Green hasn’t seen you before.’
The team nodded in agreement, warming to the plan.
‘I can help out, too,’ Gabriella offered eagerly. ‘I’ve got a dark wig and lots of hats.’
Mallery laughed. ‘In this weather? I hope they’re sun hats! Go on then, go with Thierry to Saint Margaux and use the pool cars to vary things.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ Jack questioned, beginning to feel the familiar buzz of joining a stake-out.
‘Green knows you too well, as do the other villagers. We’ll spend the rest of the day going over what we know so far and then tomorrow, Jacques, you and I will attend Cecile Vidal’s funeral. It’s widely reported that killers get a thrill out of attending their victim’s burial, so we need to be vigilant in case anyone unexpected shows up.’
Hobbs nodded eagerly. It was encouraging that Mallery’s thoughts were running along the same lines as his own.
In her lonely cell, Isobel Green was sitting cross-legged on the bunk, desperate for news from outside. She’d spent yet another sleepless night at the police station, but this time her thoughts hadn’t been directed towards Martin Freeman. Throughout the long, dark hours, she’d been pondering whether the detectives had bothered to follow up on the information she’d given them about Telo and Gaston.
Despite her intention of getting to know Maurice’s son better and healing the rift between them, Izzy knew that he was the only one who had been anywhere near her car and, by his own admission, had used it without asking. It stood to reason that the young man could have hidden the murder weapon inside the glove box. She had doubts as to whether Telo could actually have murdered Cecile. She realised that he was different to her in the way that he thought and acted, but, despite their differences, she could never believe that he could kill someone.
It was obvious to see, from their interaction at Monsieur Fabron’s house and at the boulangerie, too, that Telo was very close to the artist. Isobel reasoned that, if it had actually been blood that she’d spotted on his shirt, Gaston could easily have manipulated Telo into covering up his tracks. She wondered whether there had been some ill-feeling between Cecile and Gaston, perhaps a love affair gone wrong? There was plenty to speculate about, sitting there in the lonely hours.
The familiar sound of footsteps coming down the corridor caused Izzy to strain her ears, just in case they were coming for her. She was aware that the police could not hold her much longer without solid evidence and it was impossible, in her opinion, that they would find any.
The steel toe-capped boots plodded on, unlocking a door further down the passage. She’d heard a lot of commotion the night before, when a drunken youth had been incarcerated for making a public nuisance of himself. There had been singing into the early hours as the man serenaded his custodians and then a flurry of feet running to the cell as officers fetched buckets to swill out the contents of the man’s stomach after he’d deposited them on the floor.
Half an hour ticked by, although Isobel was unable to count the minutes and it felt like an hour. More clicking on tiles, coming closer, arriving outside her door.
‘Mademoiselle Green,’ Inspector Mallery called, ‘please come with me.’
Izzy groaned. She couldn’t handle any more questions, the torture of reliving her past crime, the detective’s incessant droning about her guilt.
‘What for?’ she asked, slowly getting to her feet.
‘Please, you will see.’
Max led her to reception where she was asked to sign for her belongings. Isobel did so with an air of disbelief, finding it incredulous that her ordeal could really be over.
‘Isobel Green,’ Mallery stated, watching her scribble on the record book, ‘you are free to go, but please stay available in case we need to question you further.’
Izzy looked at the clear plastic bag containing her few items of jewellery and the watch that her parents had bought for her twenty-first birthday. ‘What? That’s it, Inspector?’ She frowned. ‘No apology?’
Max drew himself up to his full height and stared down at the petite blonde, noting that dark roots were now pushing their way through her peroxide bob. ‘As I said,’ he retorted, choosing his words carefully, ‘we may need to question you again, but for now, you may leave.’
Isobel didn’t need to be told twice. She picked up her personal items but then stopped in her tracks. ‘I don’t have any money with me.’
‘Please, feel free to use the telephone here at reception, or perhaps you would like me to call someone to collect you?’
Isobel thought for a moment. All she really wanted to do was get the first flight out of France.
‘What about my passport?’ she demanded hoarsely.
‘The rest of your effects will be returned to you at some point, but we still need to keep hold of your passport. Don’t forget that the passport you entered our country with is a false document, as Gilyard turns out not to be your real name, Mademoiselle. I suggest you remember that, and the French Government may also have something to say on the matter.’
Isobel dropped her head to her chest. Shit, she was still in deep trouble.
‘So,’ the Inspector continued, beginning to lose patience, ‘a phone call?’
‘Maurice Fabron,’ Izzy whispered, re
alising that the baker was her last hope.
‘I understand this may be very difficult for you in the circumstances,’ Max explained, holding the telephone receiver close to his ear whilst simultaneously lighting a cigarette, ‘but we consider it imperative that Mademoiselle Green stays in France until the case is closed.’
Maurice Fabron held the boulangerie phone tightly as several inquisitive customers looked his way, eager to catch any snippets of gossip relating to the baker’s new employee.
‘Of course, Inspector. I am unable to leave the shop today but will arrange for someone to fetch Izzy within the next hour or so. She can stay here until you have resolved…’
The man’s voice trailed off, leaving Mallery to thank him before dropping the line. He loathed the idea of Monsieur Fabron having the burden of accommodating Isobel Green, but there was simply no other choice. Besides, the baker seemed unfazed.
Isobel Green sat in the reception area of the Municipal Police Station of Bordeaux Town, the small bag of personal belongings sitting in her lap as she awaited news. She felt so wretched and unclean that, even if she had been in a position to pay her fare back to Saint Margaux, she would have felt like a vagrant with such unkempt hair and dishevelled clothing.
Mallery stepped into view, his tall frame momentarily blocking the sunlight from the building’s open doorway.
‘Monsieur Fabron is sending someone to fetch you shortly,’ he explained, taking a seat on the bench next to Izzy.
She was taken aback, feeling slightly betrayed. ‘He isn’t coming himself?’
Max opened his hands and feigned knowledge of the details. ‘He must be busy.’
Isobel nodded, accepting that the boulangerie owner would of course be preoccupied with filling the shelves on this first day of his working week.
‘Do you know who is coming?’
‘Non, Mademoiselle, I have no idea.’
Izzy bit her bottom lip, hoping that it wouldn’t be Gaston coming to face her after her recent accusation. Or, worse still, Telo with his angry eyes and habitual silence. But who else could there be?
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