Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Madam Dupuis blew out her cheeks and made a huffing sound. ‘Please yourself. Goodnight, Maurice.’

  She lurched forward, open-mouthed and ready for a full-on kiss but Maurice deftly stepped to one side avoiding the collision.

  ‘No, Simone.’

  The man waited until he was sure the florist was safely inside and then strode across the village square towards his own residence. He could clearly see a light on in Telo’s bedroom and smiled. He would be able to spend a few minutes with Telo before bed, which would no doubt include the usual milk ritual.

  ‘Goodnight, Gaston,’ Izzy was saying as she leaned against the doorframe that led up to her cosy apartment. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’ he grinned, tilting his head to one side in mock dejection.

  ‘Not tonight,’ she said automatically. ‘I just don’t think it would be a good idea, do you?’

  The artist shrugged, taut muscles tightening under the cotton seams of his shirt, ‘What difference would it make? After all, I know you’re attracted to me…’

  Isobel pushed her key into the lock and turned back to look over her shoulder. ‘Is that so? Goodnight, Gaston.’

  She swiftly slid inside and closed the door before her companion could utter another word. It had been a strange evening and an extremely stressful day, yet Isobel feared that Gaston could be right. She might actually be very attracted to him indeed.

  As Monsieur Fabron reached the top of the stairs, he paused to watch his son through the crack in the doorjamb. Telo was rolling something over in the palm of his hand and it sparkled against his pale fingers.

  ‘Telo, do you want some milk?’

  The young man jumped at the sound of his father’s voice, yet was too slow to hide the golden brooch from Maurice’s eyes as he entered the room.

  ‘What is that?’

  Telo dutifully opened out his fingers to reveal the treasure.

  ‘Ah, your mother’s,’ his father sighed, recognising the brooch as the boy’s mother’s favourite piece of jewellery. He recalled that Valerie and Cecile had been given identical brooches by their father one Christmas. The women had proudly worn the items on their coats, jackets and cardigans every day, signalling the bond between them as sisters.

  Telo shook his head, loosening his grip on the brooch. ‘No.’

  Maurice looked puzzled. He was sure that he’d shown Telo all of the pieces in Valerie’s trinket box. Nevertheless, he was too tired to disagree and instead reached for the empty glass that sat rimmed with milk on his son’s bedside cabinet. It irritated the baker that he’d arrived home too late to make Telo a bedtime drink. He leaned forward and kissed the young man’s head.

  ‘Goodnight, my dear son.’

  Undressed and standing in the bathroom, Maurice looked at his reflection in the wide vanity mirror. He considered himself to be fairly fit for a man in his mid-fifties, yet there were tell-tale signs that he didn’t hold with a regular exercise regime in the form of a slight thickening of his waist, loose skin on his upper arms and the beginnings of a double chin. He wasn’t half as handsome as he had been on the day that he’d married his beloved Valerie. Still, nowadays there was no-one to impress, no queue of women ready to fill his lonely hours, nobody special to wine and dine.

  Monsieur Fabron wondered whether taking Simone out to dinner had been a mistake. Her intention to raise a petition against Isobel was cruel and unnecessary, showing the florist’s true colours and he hadn’t liked what he’d seen. Maybe Valerie had been right about her friend. Simone had certainly shown her vindictive side tonight and, with too much wine inside her, she had appeared more than willing to lure Maurice into her den. It wasn’t what he wanted, not in any small degree. Despite Simone Dupuis being a good friend after his wife’s death, the baker was neither ready nor willing to take it a step further. He would step back, starting tomorrow.

  Before climbing into bed, Maurice paused to lay a hand on his wife’s jewellery box. It hadn’t been moved and he was curious as to why Telo would choose tonight to remove the leaf-shaped brooch. Gently lifting the lid, causing the tiny ballerina figure inside to start twirling to a tinkling melody, Maurice peered inside. There, on its tiny velvet pillow where it had always been, sat Valerie’s golden brooch.

  Monsieur Fabron gasped out loud, a look of fear and alarm crossing his face. If Valerie’s brooch was still here, then the one that Telo had in his room could only have belonged to Cecile. So, how would his son have got hold of it?

  Clammy with perspiration as his blood pressure rose, Maurice padded across the landing to his son’s bedroom. The young man lay on his side, head pressed into the pillow, his fingers curled as he slept. Silently, Maurice prised the hand open and looked down at the purple gemstones. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind now that Telo was holding Cecile’s brooch, the brooch that she had worn every day for the past twenty or more years. It could only mean one thing; either Telo knew who had murdered his sister-in-law, or the boy had been involved!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN – NEW LIGHT ON THE MATTER

  Jean Manon entered the Bordeaux Police Headquarters and stepped briskly up to the reception desk. He had returned from a vacation in Switzerland the previous evening and had been alarmed to find dozens of messages on his telephone answering-machine, some from his boss at the Railways office and others from the local force.

  ‘Bonjour, j’ai rendez-vous avec Inspector Mallery,’ he told the woman behind the desk, pulling off a pair of brand new sunglasses as he spoke.

  ‘Oui, asseyez-vous,’ the woman told him, gesturing towards a row of plastic chairs lined up against the wall.

  Monsieur Manon took a seat and looked around the white-washed foyer. He’d been alarmed to hear the news of Cecile Vidal’s death, partly because it had happened on a train line that he supervised, but mainly due to the fact that everyone knew the vineyard owner and thought very highly of her. His wife, Louisa, had been distraught to think there was a murderer in their midst and told Jean that she flatly refused to leave the house until he was caught.

  It was typical, the stationmaster thought; the only time they had taken a vacation away from modern technology and this had happened! The trip had been a well-deserved anniversary treat and they’d relaxed more in those few days than ever he could recall in earlier years.

  He watched the receptionist speak quietly into the phone and waited.

  ‘Jacques,’ Mallery called, sticking his head around the Incident Room door where four sets of shoulders were hunched over their computers, ‘the stationmaster is here. Interview Room Three.’

  Jack Hobbs closed his browser and took a sip of water from a plastic bottle.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied, wiping his lips. ‘Coming.’

  Max strode out and took the stairs two at a time, eager to meet Jean Manon in person. With the stationmaster having been on holiday for over a week with no mobile phone coverage in his remote Swiss cabin, the Inspector had lots of questions to ask and didn’t intend to waste time on small talk.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Manon,’ Max greeted the portly gent, immediately noting the highly polished buttons on the man’s uniform and perfect knot in his ‘Railway’ commissioned tie. There was also a strained look about the stationmaster. No doubt he had been shocked on hearing that the police needed to interview him urgently and Mallery decided to tread carefully.

  Jack Hobbs appeared seconds afterwards and led the way to the interview room.

  The Inspector made the usual introductions, asking Monsieur Manon if he was comfortable speaking in English so that Jack, the team’s temporary recruit, could follow the line of questioning.

  ‘No problem,’ Jean smiled, taking in the fiery red-haired detective. ‘My English is not great, but I will try my best to give all the information you need.’

  ‘Now,’ Max began, ‘please could you think about the day before your holiday, the Wednesday. I believe you were in the ticket office that morning?’r />
  Jean paused, then his eyes lit up. ‘Yes, that’s right. The usual attendant was late on that day, so I worked in the office until about nine-thirty.’

  ‘Now, please think carefully. Do you know the Englishwoman who works for Monsieur Fabron in the Saint Margaux boulangerie? Her name is Isobel.’

  The stationmaster looked perplexed and scratched his head. ‘Isobel? Well, I don’t know her, exactly, but I met her a couple of times.’

  ‘Where?’ Jack asked, looking up from his notepad.

  ‘Now, let me see. Well, the first time was in Maurice’s shop when I went in after work to buy some croissants. Then the second time was on that Wednesday morning, at the railway station.’

  The two detectives looked at one another momentarily, relieved to see an immediate connection between Isobel Green and the day of the murder.

  Max leaned forward, pressing his palms on the table. ‘Now, Monsieur, this is vital. Do you remember if she bought a ticket and if she got on the early morning train to Bordeaux on that day?’

  Jean Manon sat upright in the chair, proud that he had such a good recollection of events. It was one of his best traits.

  ‘I certainly do, Inspector. She wanted to purchase a ticket but didn’t have enough cash and our card machine wasn’t working, so she walked back in the direction of the car park.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure?’ Hobbs pressed, biting the end of his pen.

  ‘Yes, I have no doubt. The train arrived shortly afterwards, and the Englishwoman wasn’t on it.’

  ‘Now,’ Max continued, ‘do you remember seeing Madam Vidal that day?’

  Monsieur Manon nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. She bought two tickets and got on the train. We chatted for a few minutes. She was going shopping and having lunch with a friend. It is terrible what happened to her.’

  Jean sniffed, trying to compose himself as tears welled up in his eyes.

  ‘Two?’ Jack said quickly. ‘You said Madam Vidal bought two tickets?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Cecile’s friend was running late, and she had to cut through the path at the back of the station. I saw her arrive just in time. She nearly missed the train completely!’

  Inspector Mallery rose and laid a hand on the stationmaster’s shoulder. ‘Monsieur Manon, did you recognise this friend?’

  Jean looked up, feeling the change in atmosphere as both detectives waited patiently for his response.

  ‘Bien sȗr. I know her very well. It was Simone Dupuis.’

  ‘What the hell?’ Mallery shouted, as soon as he returned to the Incident Room.

  ‘What happened?’ Gabriella asked, pushing her chair away from the cluttered workstation and looking expectantly at her boss.

  ‘Madam Dupuis got on the train with Cecile that morning,’ he explained, looking at the sea of faces in front of him ‘But we only have Jean Manon’s testimony. We have to go back through the CCTV footage.’

  Luc began clicking his fingers over the computer keyboard, searching for the footage that he’d gone over dozens of times before.

  ‘I guess it could be Simone Dupuis,’ he said, squinting at the grainy image, ‘Although whoever it is was dressed all in black, no front view of the face.’

  Max paced the room thinking.

  ‘Suppose she stabbed Cecile Vidal between Saint Margaux and Salbec. She could have got off the train there and then returned to Saint Margaux. Is that a possibility?’

  ‘What about that boutique receipt that Isobel Green mentioned?’ Jack asked, flipping papers around on his desk. ‘If it was hers, then Simone Dupuis was in Bordeaux that morning.’

  Mallery pointed a finger at Luc. ‘There was no footage from the camera at Salbec, right?’

  Luc pushed the long fringe out of his eyes. ‘It wasn’t working.’

  ‘Right, come on, Jacques. We’re driving out to Salbec to see if anyone remembers seeing Madam Dupuis at the station that morning. Grab that photo of her from the board and meet me downstairs.’

  Salbec station was deserted. It was the kind of place that would have made the perfect television location for a period drama set at the turn of the century. The red brick ticket office was connected to a set of public conveniences and a tiny waiting room, all three blocks looking uninviting and neglected. Its windows had gathered so much dust that you could easily write your name in it and birds nested in the eaves of the ancient iron bridge that joined both sides of the railway track.

  ‘It’s like a ghost town,’ Jack commented, as their heels clicked against the stone cobbled path leading to the platform. ‘I’ll check the ticket office.’

  Peering in through the single square window, Hobbs cupped his hands to block out the sunlight. The shade revealed a huge bear of a man, fast asleep in a chair that looked ready to split in half from the weight of its heavy burden. Jack tapped gently with two fingers, but the man failed to wake.

  ‘Monsieur!’ Max shouted, banging loudly on the glass over Jack’s shoulder and causing his companion to jump. ‘Police!’

  The huge figure stirred slowly, lifting his head to find the source of the disturbance. He focussed one eye on the men outside and struggled to his feet.

  As soon as the station worker let himself out through the ticket office door, he was bombarded with questions by the irate Inspector. Have you seen this woman? When? Where did she go? Jack Hobbs struggled to keep up with his boss’s interrogation but got the gist of the responses, thanks to the large railway employee’s slow way of speaking as Simone’s photo was thrust in his face.

  Yes, he remembered seeing that woman. It’s a quiet village and they don’t get many pretty ladies catching trains from here. There was something odd, though, he recalled, scratching his head for a second. The woman had run quickly from the early morning train and had gone straight into the lavatory, as though she was desperate. Mallery asked why that should be odd, to which the man explained that she had spent over half an hour in there and she had been dressed in black going into the restroom but, on coming out, was wearing blue.

  ‘Do you get that, Jacques?’ Max asked, looking at the younger man. ‘Simone Dupuis changed clothes here and then got back on the next train to Bordeaux.’

  Hobbs sucked in his breath, feeling the thrill of the chase as they closed in on their newest suspect. ‘Jeez!’

  A few more words were exchanged in French before the station worker pointed towards the grim-looking ladies room.

  ‘Come on,’ Max urged. ‘Apparently the bins in the public washrooms haven’t been cleaned out yet. It’s only done once every two weeks.’

  The detectives raced forward, each keeping step with the other in anticipation of what they might find, before pushing open the door of the women’s toilets. They were greeted with an acrid odour that suggested it had been far longer than a fortnight since the place had last been cleaned.

  ‘You start from that end…’ Max instructed, opening the door to the first cubicle, a hand over his mouth.

  The call came after Mallery had been in the tiny compartment for a mere five seconds. ‘Sir, I think I’ve found something.’

  Stuffed into the bottom of the plastic waste bin was a long-sleeved black tunic and a pair of dark trousers, and both were heavily coated in dried blood.

  After twenty minutes of additional questioning, Mallery and Hobbs were back in the BMW and heading down the highway towards Bordeaux with an evidence bag containing the bloodied clothing securely in the boot. They were now in possession of some vital information and needed the assistance of the team to pull out all stops in preparation for an arrest.

  ‘C’est bien,’ Max murmured as he pulled into the fast lane. ‘This is good. But we made a fatal mistake, didn’t we, Jacques?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Hobbs replied, mulling over the morning’s findings. ‘We should have checked the later CCTV footage at Bordeaux. Then we would have seen Simone Dupuis arriving on the later train.’

  ‘Correct!’ The Inspector smiled. ‘But nevertheless, we got there eventually
. How would you feel about becoming a permanent part of the team?’

  Jack was slightly taken aback at the offer; he wasn’t even sure if it was legally possible. ‘Do you think you could swing it, sir?’

  Max shrugged, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road. ‘Why not? I’ve known stranger things than having a Yorkshire man on my team! You’d have to promise to improve your French, though!’

  The younger detective felt proud that he might be able to find his feet in Bordeaux. It would also stop Angélique from worrying about their future together in France.

  ‘In that case, yes,’ he said, grinning. ‘I’d be honoured.’

  Back at the police headquarters, the team gathered for ten minutes before rushing off in different directions, each intent on fitting their own part of the case together.

  Luc immediately connected with the national rail camera system and located footage of the nine o’clock train into Bordeaux, the one which they hoped to catch Simone Dupuis alighting from.

  Gabriella raced to the forensics lab three blocks away, the plastic bag containing vital evidence on the back seat of her car.

  Thierry was dispatched to the local café to fetch coffee and baguettes, Max insisting that the police canteen food just wouldn’t suffice to fuel the hungry team.

  In the meantime, the Inspector beckoned Jack over to the whiteboard that took up almost one full wall in the Incident Room.

  ‘We still don’t have a motive,’ he pondered, circling Simone Dupuis’ name with a thick black marker pen. ‘Supposedly, the women were close friends.’

  Hobbs rubbed his chin, thinking hard. ‘I’m still puzzled over the break-in at the Vidals’. I’m sure it’s connected.’

  ‘But how? Simone Dupuis doesn’t strike me as a burglar and what could possibly benefit her from looking in the Vidals’ safe?’