Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Mallery swung round, his anger not dissipating one ounce. ‘Make a run for it? Well, Jacques, how would she do that anyway, without her passport? Do you suppose Miss Green to be a master of disguise?’

  Hobbs decided to let the ignited flame of Max’s fury burn out, which he knew it would eventually, and sat tight-lipped at his desk.

  ‘I need some coffee,’ the Inspector muttered, striding out of the room. ‘When I get back, I expect somebody to have come up with a plan of action. We’re no further along with this case than we were almost a week ago. At present, we are an embarrassment to the force.’

  The team signalled their agreement by unified silence and watched Mallery leave, his paces long and heavy-footed.

  ‘He’s right, you know,’ Gabriella told the rest of the group. ‘We haven’t got anything to go on. Without evidence, we have no suspects or conviction. Mind you, I guess we’re out of practice. There hasn’t been a murder in Bordeaux for almost three years.’

  Thierry handed around a bag of sweets, contemplating his colleague’s assessment of the situation. ‘We’re a good team. Besides, I still think it’s Isobel Green. It has to be her. She’s not exactly a stranger to murder.’

  Hobbs dipped his fingers into the paper bag and popped a hard-boiled sweet into his mouth. ‘I’m not so sure. Ninety-nine per cent of killers have a reason behind their crimes, yet we have no connection at all between Green and Vidal. I think we’d better get our thinking caps on before Mallery gets back.’

  Jack tapped the side of his head with two fingers so that the French team members could grasp his meaning.

  The constant tapping on a keyboard, that had been present since the team had gathered twenty minutes earlier, suddenly stopped and Luc stood up. He turned the screen to face the centre of the room and beckoned the others to come over and look.

  ‘I have it. Here is Isobel Green’s Beetle parked in a side street near the town centre last Wednesday morning. The CCTV camera shows the time as eight thirty-two.’

  The three detectives came closer to get a good look at the pale blue VW.

  ‘So,’ Luc explained, ‘it’s impossible that Isobel Green was on the train from Saint Margaux. She simply wouldn’t have had time to return, fetch her car and get back to Bordeaux for that time.’

  ‘Could she have got off the train at the stop after Saint Margaux and doubled-back?’ Jack queried. ‘Perhaps having already murdered Cecile Vidal?’

  Luc shook his head. ‘No way. I’ve already checked the train timetable. If she’d got off at the next village, which is Salbec, and then waited for a train back to Saint Margaux, it would already be eight twenty-five. That’s not enough time for her to collect the car and drive to Bordeaux.’

  ‘And she definitely couldn’t have dropped off the car the previous night,’ Thierry added, pulling out a file, ‘as we have a statement from Hubert Vidal that he saw Green at the station on Wednesday morning when he dropped off his wife.’

  ‘We’d better tell Mallery,’ Luc sighed, reaching for another sweet. ‘Who wants the task?’

  Every eye in the room turned to look at Jack Hobbs.

  ‘What? Why me? That’s not fair!’

  ‘You seem to have a good relationship with the boss,’ Gabriella reasoned, ‘and after his certainty that Isobel Green was guilty, I think you’d be best to break the news gently. Off you go.’

  Jack’s freckled complexion took on a pink hue as he started to blush. ‘Well, thanks. Thanks a bunch.’

  Inspector Mallery scrolled fruitlessly through his phone messages while enjoying a macchiato, the sugar hit much needed after missing breakfast that morning. There was still nothing from Vanessa and he was beginning to wonder if she would ever return his calls. Perhaps it was time to set his sights elsewhere. There were few women in the force that held his attention, yet Max yearned for some female company, especially to have conversation with over dinner.

  A knock at the office door roused Max from his thoughts.

  ‘We have an update, sir,’ Jack explained. ‘It’s about Isobel Green.’

  Max sat completely still, his hot drink abandoned and growing colder with each passing minute, as Hobbs gave him the details of Luc’s CCTV findings.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he eventually said, in an exasperated tone. ‘It’s taken nearly a week to find a sighting of her car, and now that we have it, well…’

  ‘It definitely puts her out of the frame,’ Jack commented, ‘unless she drove at over a hundred kilometres an hour to get to Bordeaux.’

  ‘Which is highly unlikely, given the usual morning traffic on the highway and the age of her car. That leaves us with no suspect at all. Do you realise that?’ Max growled. ‘We cannot release this information, not yet, or the people of Saint Margaux will probably crucify us. This is the worst possible news.’

  ‘Right!’ Inspector Mallery announced, striding into the Incident Room with renewed vigour. ‘Back to the beginning. I want every single detail gone over twice – no, three times, or at least until we find something to go on.’

  Thierry groaned, already feeling lethargic from the late nights and early mornings he’d spent keeping an eye on their English suspect.

  ‘Does that mean surveillance on Green is off now?’ he asked tentatively.

  Max bit the skin around his thumb. ‘Yes… no, let’s keep an eye on her. Perhaps there is some connection to her chance meeting with the drug dealer. Or maybe someone else drove the Beetle to Bordeaux. I still have a bad feeling about her.’

  ‘Who else could have driven the car?’ Jack piped up.

  ‘Well, Telo Fabron has already admitted that he used Green’s car to collect Gaston Lauder from the airport…’

  Hobbs didn’t buy it. ‘There’s too much animosity between him and Green for them to be in cahoots together.’

  ‘What is that famous saying by Sherlock Holmes, Jacques?’ Mallery enquired.

  ‘When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Max exclaimed, looking triumphant. ‘First, we exclude the impossible.’

  A room full of puzzled faces looked back as the Inspector clapped his hands together in a dramatic manner. ‘Somehow, somebody drove that car to Bordeaux. Perhaps it was Mademoiselle Green, or perhaps it was someone else, but it is our job to find out the truth.’

  Thierry rustled the small paper bag as he extracted another boiled sweet, trying to carefully devour it without crunching and breaking the silence in the room.

  It was too late. Mallery had already noticed and raised an inquisitive brow. He looked down at the last remaining sweet with interest.

  ‘Where did you get that?!’

  Thierry jumped, startled at the raised tone. ‘At the gift shop, sir, the one in Saint Margaux. We went in to chat to the shopkeeper.’

  Using two fingers to carefully lift the striped pink and white candy, Mallery held the item aloft for all to see.

  ‘What do we have here?’ he said, with a broad grin.

  Jack Hobbs was the first to gasp out loud. ‘Blimey, it’s exactly the same as the sweet that was lodged in Cecile Vidal’s throat!’

  ‘At last, a clue!’ Max exclaimed triumphantly.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN – ACCUSATIONS FLY

  By Wednesday morning, the news that the Saint Margaux residents had an ex-convict in their midst circled like wildfire, spreading from house to house, shop to shop and back again. Speculation regarding Isobel’s arrest and subsequent involvement in Cecile Vidal’s murder grew to new heights, every face inquisitive and accusing. Subsequently, the boulangerie was busier than ever, with customers eager to get a glimpse of the English killer, unwilling to give her the benefit of the doubt, their emotions running high on hearing of her release from the police station.

  Simone Dupuis had spilled the beans. In a moment of drunken chatter, she had confessed Isobel’s past to her friend Dominique Fabre, who in turn passed the news on with relish, adding a few
sordid details of her own. As morning broke, the Saint Margaux grapevine was alive with the news that Isobel Gilyard had a different identity and had once been convicted of a heinous crime.

  Maurice Fabron was struggling with all the unwanted attention that day, despite his bakery sales rocketing, as each face at the counter lingered far too long, undoubtedly there to dig for more information. As advised, Izzy had stayed in the back kitchen, trying to focus on new bakes and exquisite decoration, but she could hear the constant flow of business and knew exactly why Maurice’s bread was suddenly in such great demand. The cakes, however, were not selling as well as they should, for the villagers feared that the murderer could strike again at any given time, perhaps even poisoning the chocolate éclairs, so warped was their way of thinking.

  Simone Dupuis had already called in three times before ten o’clock, once for an early espresso, again to ask Monsieur Fabron for change and then once more with the excuse that she had previously forgotten to purchase a fresh baguette.

  Maurice knew exactly the purpose behind his friend’s pretence, for he had heard the idle gossip and regretted the very moment he’d told Simone about Isobel’s past. In a way, he felt guilt, too, for a trust had been betrayed between employer and employee. Izzy had been honest with him and in return, the baker had taken those secrets and gone running to tell all to his friend. Maurice was angry with Madam Dupuis, but chose to hold his emotions in check until a suitable time when he could politely express his disappointment at such a heartless faux pas.

  ‘Izzy,’ Maurice coaxed, ‘would you like a coffee? A cappuccino, perhaps?’

  Isobel looked up from the apricot buns that she was carefully icing, trying to decide whether dark chocolate might compliment the bakes, too, and hesitated slightly before saying, ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  The baker stood in the kitchen doorway and told her, ‘Eventually, things will get back to how they were when you first arrived. People forget, they move on. As soon as the police arrest someone for Cecile’s murder, you will be…’

  His words trailed off, failing to find the right English expression.

  ‘Vindicated?’ Isobel offered. ‘I don’t think so, Maurice. I’ve heard people asking, whispering. I know that my secret’s out.’

  Monsieur Fabron blushed deeply and looked down at his feet in embarrassment. ‘I’m so sorry. I confided in one very dear friend, somebody who I thought could be trusted. It was so hard to hold in what you had told me about your past. I suppose I just needed to talk about it.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Izzy countered, her face blank, ‘they would have found out sooner or later anyway, but it would have been much easier if they’d found out after I’d gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Maurice repeated, looking startled. ‘Surely you’re not thinking of leaving?’

  Isobel sighed. ‘What choice do I have? There can’t be a future for me here. As soon as I’ve saved a bit of money and the police have returned my passport, I’m going to start looking for another job.’

  The baker’s shoulders lifted slightly, almost as if a huge weight had been lifted from them.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘I have no idea yet, Maurice. But I’ll be sure to give you notice when I know.’

  Monsieur Fabron nodded. The relief he felt was welcome, yet he couldn’t help feeling guilty about his role in Izzy’s decision. ‘I’ll fetch your coffee.’

  Isobel turned back to her work, biting at her bottom lip to keep the tears from falling. It had been so painful listening to the morning’s gossip, straining her ears and then struggling to translate the words from French.

  ‘Le rapport de police. La déposition. Ça s’est passe quand?’ she’d heard.

  The police report. The statement. When did it happen?

  It hadn’t escaped her notice that Telo had been using the front door of the boulangerie for the collection of goods ready for delivery, either. Obviously, the young man still doubted Isobel’s innocence and probably hated her for making him confess about using the Beetle, she thought. Life was getting too damn complicated for Isobel Green and she couldn’t wait to leave, although making yet another fresh start might be a task in itself.

  ‘Dinner later?’ Simone Dupuis asked tentatively on her fourth visit to the boulangerie before noon, as the baker stood wrapping bread rolls.

  Maurice shook his head. ‘No, Simone. I plan a quiet night with Telo.’

  The florist flushed slightly, embarrassed at receiving such an obvious snub in front of a customer, and pretended to look at her perfectly manicured fingernails.

  ‘If you want to see how Isobel is doing, go through to the back,’ Maurice whispered, certain that Simone should apologise to the other woman about her erroneous gossiping. After all, he considered Simone as much to blame as himself in some ways.

  ‘Okay,’ Madam Dupuis muttered, excusing herself and disappearing behind the counter, her soft leather loafers squeaking on the polished floor tiles as she went.

  Inquisitive eyes followed as the female customer stood with her mouth agape, straining to hear any fragments of conversation between the florist and the Englishwoman. Maurice coughed to attract the lady’s attention. ‘Six Euro, s’il vous plaît, Madame.’

  ‘Isobel,’ Simone called out softly, ‘may I speak with you for a moment?’

  Izzy turned sharply, startled at hearing a woman’s voice. ‘Yes, of course, what is it?’

  ‘I think I owe you an apology,’ Madam Dupuis began, clasping her hands together. ‘Maurice told me about your past in confidence and, in a moment of stupidity, I repeated the details to someone else. It now seems that everyone in the village knows. I am truly sorry, I had no idea that this would happen.’

  Isobel remained silent. A part of her wanted to slap Simone across the face, but a voice in her head suggested it was better to stay calm, allow the vulture to say sorry and then make her feel even more guilty by being friendly and forgiving.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Simone. After all, I’m an outsider here.’

  ‘Please, let’s try to be friends,’ the florist insisted, stepping closer. ‘Can we?’

  Izzy picked up the sharp knife that she was using to chop chocolate shards with and considered it for a moment, turning the handle slowly in her hands. ‘Yes, Simone. I’d like that.’

  The motion wasn’t lost on Simone and she fought to regain her composure, leaving just enough time for Izzy to deliver her own piece of news.

  ‘I know about you, Simone,’ she smiled sweetly, holding the florist’s gaze.

  ‘Sorry? What do you know?’

  ‘That you were in Bordeaux on the day of Cecile’s murder.’

  ‘I think you must be mistaken,’ Madame Dupuis insisted, looking down at the knife still twisting around in Isobel’s right-handed grip. ‘I was not there.’

  Isobel Green slipped her left hand into the deep front pocket of her apron and pulled out a slip of folded white paper. ‘That’s very strange. You see, I found a receipt for the dress you lent me. It was in the bottom of the bag, and guess what? It’s dated last Wednesday.’

  Simone stretched out a hand, intending to lift the receipt from Izzy’s fingers. ‘May I see?’

  The Englishwoman shook her head. ‘No, you may not. The police might be interested in seeing this. It could be used as evidence.’

  ‘The police!’ Simone gasped. ‘Evidence? Whatever are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, perhaps you were on the train to Bordeaux, Madame Dupuis. Maybe you were the one that killed Cecile and then calmly went shopping afterwards.’

  Simone lifted a hand to her mouth. It trembled slightly as she gathered her thoughts. ‘What a ridiculous accusation! Isobel, please look at the time on that receipt.’

  Izzy glanced down, noting the numbers. ‘Eleven,’ she uttered, looking questioningly at Simone. ‘So?’

  ‘You see, Cecile was already dead by that time. I drove into Bordeaux at ten for shopping last week and returned straigh
t after visiting the boutique. I cannot believe you would say such a terrible thing. Cecile Vidal was my best friend.’

  Izzy watched as Simone Dupuis stormed out of the kitchen, flustered and upset.

  Looking back down at the ETIENNE receipt, she realised that if Simone was telling her the truth about driving into Bordeaux, then she was also correct about Cecile being dead some hours before. Even if Simone had caught the earlier train, Isobel reasoned, she would have arrived in the town covered in blood. It just didn’t stand to reason that someone could have exited the train with blood on their hands and calmly walked away without being stopped.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Isobel muttered to herself, putting the knife back down onto the workbench in front of her. ‘What have I done now?’

  ‘Is this true?’ Maurice demanded, putting both hands on his hips in anger, ‘Have you really just accused Madame Dupuis of murdering Cecile? After all that woman has done to try to help you? I have no words to describe my feelings.’

  Izzy rubbed her palms over her face. ‘Yes, I’m sorry, Maurice, I wasn’t thinking. I’m just desperate to clear my name, you must understand that. And Simone did go to Bordeaux last Wednesday. I can prove it.’

  ‘A slip of paper for an innocent shopping trip proves nothing! And you think that, by throwing around false accusations, this will help your case?’ he growled, stamping a foot on the floor like a petulant child.

  ‘No, it’s just, when I found the receipt for the dress, I thought...’

  ‘No, that’s it exactly!’ Maurice cut her off. ‘You didn’t think at all. Perhaps it would be best that we terminate your contract right now. I will pay you to the end of the month and you can stay in the apartment until the police return your passport, but after that, Mademoiselle Green, or whatever your name is, please do not bother me or the other Saint Margaux residents again.’