‘Mademoiselle Green, if you need to speak to me, if you have anything that I should hear, please will you call?’
Max held out his personal card between two fingers, which Isobel accepted reluctantly. She glanced at the name before pushing it into her pocket.
‘Did you follow up on what I told you, Inspector? About the blood and the car?’
Mallery held her gaze, trying to decide whether the tiny female could lie through her teeth while still looking at him so openly.
‘Yes, but there was a reasonable explanation for both. Why are you insistent on pinning this murder on someone else, Mademoiselle Green?’
He’d taken a chance, stepped beyond Isobel’s comfort zone and prayed that the question would catch her off guard, lull her into a false sense of security.
‘Because I didn’t do it!’ she spat. ‘Now, if that’s all…’
Max got to his feet, pushing upwards with both hands on his knees. ‘As I said, you have my number. Au revoir.’
Isobel watched the well-dressed policeman head towards the staircase, stepping lightly as though it required no physical effort at all. He was handsome, she had to concede, with dark, rugged looks and an expensive taste in clothes. Unusually for a man on a hot summer’s day, Mallery smelled good, too, the cedar tones of his cologne lingering well after the Inspector’s departure.
In Saint Margaux, Maurice Fabron finished serving a customer with bread and fondants before reaching for the telephone. Telo was due back from his deliveries shortly but, as the weather was so fine, the baker expected his son to have stopped near the river for a while before heading back. It was a possibility that Gaston was also down by the water with his easel and paints that morning, as the thickly wooded area and fast flowing water were a subject that the artist had captured on canvas many times before.
The baker dialled quickly and waited just three rings for a response.
‘Oui, Simone Dupuis,’ the silky voice answered.
Maurice took a deep breath, annoyed that he should have to ask such a huge favour of his friend. ‘Simone, do you remember how you said if I needed anything I should just ask?’ he said in French. ‘Well, I think today is that day.’
Madam Dupuis listened carefully as the boulangerie owner explained that he was unable to collect Isobel from the police station in Bordeaux. It was a big ask, he told her, but, it being Monday, he would be tied up with baking and such.
‘Maurice, it is not a problem,’ the female voice trilled. ‘Let me close the shop and come around to speak to you. We can settle the details face to face.’
‘Merci beaucoup, Simone.’
Despite her conversation with Monsieur Fabron being short, Simone Dupuis was in no hurry to collect the Englishwoman. It was in Isobel’s best interest, the florist had told Maurice, that she first gather together some fresh clothing and cosmetics before heading out to the police station. As a woman, Simone knew that the residents would mark the accused’s arrival with sideward glances and whispered comments, and for that reason alone she would help Izzy to look presentable for her return to Saint Margaux. Therefore, half an hour later Simone started up her black Renault and left the village. She had no idea what situation to expect upon arrival, but she was doing this for Maurice, nobody else, and she harboured her own doubts about Isobel’s return.
‘Jacques,’ Mallery sighed, taking a seat in Gabriella’s empty chair. ‘Have you anything new from the detectives in Manchester?’
Hobbs bit the top of his biro, a habit that he had failed to abandon since his student days. ‘A few bits and pieces, but nothing too alarming, sir.’
‘Oh, like what?’
Max scooted over to Jack’s side, peering at the information on the computer screen. He squinted at the small-print, as the machine whirred to life.
‘Isobel Green was arrested for shoplifting as a teenager, really went off the rails at one point, and then she served community service for spray-painting a school building after leaving college,’ Hobbs summarised, turning the data for his boss to read properly. ‘No other grievous bodily harm or assault charges, though.’
Mallery tutted, having expected more. ‘Seems she was a very difficult young woman. What do we know of her parents? Anything to suggest they were…?’
‘Father works in a ceramic tile factory, he’s shop steward. Mother is a housewife. She’s got a sister, though, Vivien. Married and works in a bank.’
‘Really? So, one normal daughter and one crazy one?’ Max shrugged. ‘I suppose that happens in more families than would actually admit it.’
Jack agreed. ‘I bet it does. I’ve got a copy of the whole trial transcript if you fancy a read, although there’s nothing much in there that we don’t already know.’
The Inspector rubbed a hand over his face. ‘I’ll take it home with me tonight. Have Gabriella and Thierry gone out to Saint Margaux already, Jacques?’
‘Yes, they’re planning to visit a few of the shops, see if there’s any local gossip that might shed light on how the villagers feel about having a murder suspect in their midst. And to see if Miss Green made any friends or enemies on arrival.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ Max told him. ‘She hasn’t been in France long enough to get to know people, although I’m intrigued by Maurice Fabron’s position. He seems to believe Isobel implicitly.’
Hobbs was confused by that fact, too. ‘Perhaps there’s more than a working relationship between the two of them? Do you think they might be…?’
Mallery laughed out loud. ‘Fabron and Green, in bed together? Ah Jacques, what an imagination you have!’
Pulling up in the police compound, Simone Dupuis checked her lipstick in the mirror before getting out of the car. This was the first time she’d had occasion to visit the building, though she had passed it many times on shopping trips to the town.
Her smart, high-heeled shoes clicked softly on the concrete steps as she climbed them, aware of the appreciative glances she was getting from officers leaving the premises. Simone had always taken pride in her appearance and it was that single fact that had been foremost in her mind when Maurice had phoned. Isobel should look at least presentable on her return to Saint Margaux.
‘Madame Dupuis?’ Isobel was startled by the sudden appearance of Maurice’s friend and at first felt confused as to whether Simone was there by some coincidence, or had actually been asked to collect her.
‘Bonjour.’ The older woman smiled, her perfect teeth as white as marble. ‘Monsieur Fabron is very busy so I have come to take you back to the village.’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ Izzy began. ‘Thank you so much.’
‘Now, where is the ladies room?’ Simone asked, looking around at the numerous closed doors. ‘We need to get you changed and somehow looking decent.’
Isobel nodded, feeling slightly more encouraged as the seconds passed. ‘It’s over there. Thank you again.’
‘That’s much better!’ Simone smiled, her heavily accented French sounding exotic and dramatized. ‘Now you are ready to go.’
Isobel Green looked at herself in the bathroom mirror, her slim body now clothed in one of Madam Dupuis’ simple linen shift dresses, the colour a pale lilac, just like the lavender fields that lined the Bordeaux highway. With a few brushstrokes to her face, Simone had added colour to Izzy’s cheeks and hidden her red-rimmed eyes with dark mascara and a touch of concealer.
‘I feel almost human again,’ Isobel told her. ‘It’s been hell in here.’
Simone nodded, looking closely at Isobel’s reflection next to her own. ‘Here, put your dirty clothes in this bag.’
She handed over a paper bag with the logo of a boutique on the side, obviously somewhere trendy and chic that provided the Frenchwoman’s amazing wardrobe. Izzy thought it looked vaguely familiar but quickly dismissed the thought.
‘I’m so grateful,’ Izzy told her, folding the crumpled jeans and musty cardigan into the empty bag. ‘Grateful to both you and Maurice. You’ve bot
h been very kind.’
‘Well, hopefully the detectives will sort out this tragic affair soon and we can all get on with our lives. Now, let’s go.’
Maurice sat at a table in the boulangerie, a glass of water untouched by his hand, with a feeling of déjà-vu coming over him as he waited for his employee to arrive. It had been just over a week since Isobel ‘Gilyard’, as she’d called herself, had come into their lives, but since that very first day everything he considered to be normal had been turned on its head.
He sipped the fresh coffee, eager to catch Telo on his return before Simone pulled up. He wanted to be the one to tell his son of Izzy’s return. The young man had been so tense over the past few days, and Maurice could pinpoint it to the moment that the detectives had retrieved the murder weapon from the Beetle. It was a difficult decision on his part, bringing a murder suspect back here, but Cecile had been a part of their family and if Isobel had anything to hide, Maurice would soon find out. He was proud of his natural instincts and, although still not convinced of the Englishwoman’s part in Cecile’s death, he felt that something was amiss. There was surely no better way to keep an eye on Izzy than to have her under his own roof. The hard part would be explaining that to Telo.
There was a hum as the Citroën van skirted the square and disappeared around the back of the bakery, windows open and the radio tuned to Sixties music. Telo had always been musically gifted, just like his talented mother, and Maurice imagined that the young man had been singing in perfect pitch on his rounds, no doubt to the amusement of the residents on his delivery circuit.
Maurice heaved himself back out of the chair and began whipping up a chocolate milkshake for his son. Today, it would be loaded with marshmallows and fresh cream, the coward’s way of breaking unpleasant news but the easiest way, he was sure. One look at the sweet creation and Telo would trust his father, although no doubt there would be a good deal of resentment, too.
‘Are you alright?’ Simone asked, glancing at Isobel as she watched the fields passing in a multi-coloured blur on her right.
Izzy nodded, gulping back the harsh lump in her throat that threatened to bring her to tears. ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just feeling a bit sick, that’s all.’
‘Well, with a good meal inside you tonight, you’ll be feeling better in no time.’
Isobel wanted to tell the other woman that some meat and vegetables couldn’t take away the fact that she’d been held as part of an ongoing murder investigation, but thought better of it, instead staying silent and allowing the journey to swallow up her thoughts.
‘If you need someone to talk to…’ Simone ventured again a short time later, ‘Sometimes it’s easier, you know, woman to woman…’
Isobel wanted to kick herself. No, she didn’t want to talk, not to a stranger, not to anyone, except maybe her counsellor. But this kind woman was trying her best to make things easier, so she should at least appear to be grateful for the concern. Unsure of Madam Dupuis’ feelings towards her, Izzy tried to explain.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that the past few days have been really... tiring. There have been so many questions and I haven’t slept much.’
Simone felt the beginnings of an opportunity opening up and decided to tread carefully. ‘I cannot begin to imagine what you have been through. Being blamed for such a terrible crime…’
She let the words hang for a while, willing Isobel to fill in the void with an admission of guilt, or at least a hint of doubt as to her own innocence.
‘But I really wasn’t on that train,’ Izzy murmured, blinking back tears. ‘I’m innocent. You have to believe me.’
‘But of course you are.’ The Frenchwoman smiled, fixing her sparkling eyes on the busy main road ahead. ‘But we all make mistakes, don’t we?’
Izzy repeated the words in head, unable to fathom whether the comment was made innocently or held some underlying disregard for her plight. Simone’s demeanour hadn’t altered. She sat relaxed in the driver’s seat and not a muscle twitched in her elegant features. Izzy sighed, so quietly that not a breath of air could be heard between the two women. It looked as though she might actually have an ally besides Maurice Fabron.
As the car turned off towards Saint Margaux, Izzy began to feel that there might be light at the end of the tunnel. With two people willing to come to her aid, it shouldn’t be long before detectives Mallery and Hobbs realised the dreadful mistake they’d made in arresting her.
As Isobel Green made her way back to the village with the florist, Gabriella Dupont stood choosing candies in Dominique Fabre’s sweet shop with her colleague, Thierry. The couple were making a great show of pretending to argue lovingly over their selection, while also aware that the shopkeeper had one eye on the door.
‘Madam, are we keeping you from something?’ Thierry asked casually in French, following the woman’s gaze out to the square beyond.
‘No, not at all.’ Dominique blushed, embarrassed that she might not be attending to her customers as she should be. ‘It’s just that…’
Gabriella smiled warmly, tilting her head on one side. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t really gossip,’ Madam Fabre went on, obviously warming to her topic, ‘but we’re expecting an Englishwoman to return here today. She’s been held at the police station over the recent murder…’
‘Really?’ Thierry countered, urging the woman to continue. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Oh, yes, my dear friend Simone has gone to fetch her. The woman, Isobel has been questioned over in Bordeaux for the past forty-eight hours.’
Gabriella turned, pretending to inspect a tall jar of hard-boiled strawberry sherbets. ‘How interesting. Can I have some of these, please?’
‘Certainly,’ Dominique replied, lifting the candies yet unable to avert her chatter from the topic she was warming to. ‘Such a terrible crime. You’d think the police would have charged her by now. Most of the village is convinced that Isobel Gilyard did it. She’s just devious, that’s all.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN – ISOBEL’S RETURN
‘Maurice, où est la clé, s’il vous plaît?’ Simone called sweetly through the back door of the boulangerie, as Izzy stood forlornly in the doorway.
‘Un moment,’ the response came, amidst a prattle of voices, as customers chose their goods at the counter.
Madam Dupuis smiled at the Englishwoman, translating the reply in case she hadn’t heard. ‘He won’t be long.’
Isobel nodded but made no sound, instead remaining in the warm sunshine with the bag of washing clasped tightly between her fingers.
Presently, Maurice appeared, the faint shadow of a smile on his tired face as he bent forward and kissed his employee on both cheeks. ‘Welcome home.’
A single tear pricked at Izzy’s right eye but was effectively wiped away before anyone noticed. The magnitude of her recent ordeal was beginning to overwhelm her. She felt like an outcast, no matter how kind the people around her were.
Monsieur Fabron produced the apartment key and ushered the women upstairs. ‘Go, settle in. I will bring you coffee and cake. We can talk properly later.’
‘Would you like to be left alone?’ Simone asked, quickly darting forward to open the living room shutters in order to allow the daylight to filter inside.
Isobel nodded, her voice catching in the dryness of her throat. ‘Yes, if you don’t mind. Thank you so much for everything, Madame Dupuis. I’ll wash your dress and return it tomorrow.’
The florist flicked her sleek black hair and shook her head. ‘No need. Keep it if you like. Besides, the colour really suits you.’
‘No, really, I couldn’t…’
‘Please, I insist,’ Simone went on, checking the window-ledge for dust, ‘And when you’re ready, we can talk over a glass of wine. I’m here for you.’
Izzy nodded, grateful for the kind words and invitation, although deep down she truly doubted whether she would ever want to talk about the events of the past few days. She was caught between the Devil a
nd the deep blue sea in some ways, unable to decide who was friend or foe, yet Madam Dupuis had been so kind, and she was obviously trusted implicitly by Maurice.
Simone left shortly afterwards, allowing Izzy the time and space to get herself sorted out. The Englishwoman felt strange being back in the small French apartment, yet it was the closest thing to a real home that she’d had in years.
It was half an hour before Monsieur Fabron appeared with a cafetière and a slice of chocolate torte and Izzy wondered whether the baker had simply been busy, or was plucking up the nerve to face her alone after the terrible accusations. She considered both scenarios and found it amazing that Maurice was even willing to allow her to return to Saint Margaux after witnessing the discovery of the murder weapon in her car.
‘Are you alright?’ the baker asked nervously, tapping at the door, ‘Perhaps we should sit and talk when I close up the boulangerie later, oui?’
Izzy nodded, fearful of how much Maurice might have discovered about her past from the two detectives, yet grateful that she still might have a chance to make a fresh start in Saint Margaux.
‘You do believe I’m innocent, don’t you?’ she whispered, just as the man turned to leave, and then, a little louder, she added, ‘I swear to you, I had nothing to do with Cecile’s murder. I have no idea how that knife got into my car, but I promise you I didn’t put it there.’
Monsieur Fabron bowed his head, unable or unwilling to catch Isobel’s eye. ‘Yes, so you have told us, but somebody, somewhere, must know the truth.’
The door closed and Izzy was left alone to relax, a rare pleasure that had eluded her for the past three days.
Isobel Page 16
