Isobel

by A J Griffiths-Jones

  Jack couldn’t answer, although he felt the murder was definitely connected to the break-in. He could feel it in his bones.

  In Saint Margaux, Maurice Fabron waited patiently for his son to return from the morning deliveries and stood at the door of the boulangerie, looking out for the arrival of their Citroën van. It wasn’t long before the vehicle appeared along the main street, Telo holding on to the steering-wheel with both hands as he concentrated on navigating the parked cars and wandering pedestrians. Maurice felt guilty for having to ask the young man to look after the shop for an hour or so, but, after their conversation over breakfast that morning, there was a pressing matter to attend to.

  ‘Salut,’ the baker called as Telo entered through the back kitchen, holding up a jug of fresh orange juice. ‘Tu veux le jus des fruits?’

  The youngster nodded eagerly and watched as his father picked up a glass.

  ‘Je vais partir maintenant,’ Maurice told him.

  Telo nodded, stretching out his hand to pass over the van keys.

  Maurice stepped forward and put both arms around his son, kissing him on the cheek. ‘Pas de problème.’

  There was no reply, but Telo understood that his Papa must leave for a while to speak with Uncle Hubert. He knew that it was something to do with the brooch that he’d been given but couldn’t comprehend exactly what.

  Hubert Vidal was in the kitchen talking with Madam Paradis when his brother-in-law arrived. The grey-haired housekeeper stopped peeling vegetables and greeted Maurice warmly, asking eagerly about Telo and saying that she hadn’t seen the lad for a while.

  ‘Telo est bon.’ The boulangerie owner smiled. ‘Merci.’

  Hubert lifted a silver tray with a cafetière and cups on it, suggesting to his guest that they retire to the study.

  Madam Paradis watched the men retreat before turning back to her task, thinking nothing of the two relatives getting together for a mid-morning coffee.

  ‘You said on the phone that there was something urgent…’ Hubert began, gently pushing down the filter on the coffee pot. ‘What is it, Maurice?’

  ‘It’s quite a delicate matter,’ the baker explained, taking a seat by the window yet still fixing his eyes on the winemaker. ‘I need to ask you something.’

  Hubert gave a short laugh. ‘Come on, we’re like brothers, you can ask me anything. What’s wrong? Are you in financial difficulty?’

  Maurice puckered his lips. ‘No, of course not. It’s rather a delicate matter, but very important nevertheless.’

  Hubert splayed his hands. ‘Go on, I’m listening.’

  ‘On the day that Cecile… erm, passed away, was she wearing the leaf-shaped brooch that her father gave her?’

  The vineyard owner frowned, surprised at the question and unsure of the answer. ‘Well, I think so. She wore it practically every day.’

  Hubert walked around to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. ‘These are Cecile’s belongings that the police brought here. As you can see, her wedding ring and watch are here, and the pearl earrings she loved, but no, no brooch.’

  Maurice looked at the bag in his brother-in-law’s hand, already knowing that the gold item wouldn’t be there before he’d even looked. He dipped a hand into his own trouser pocket and pulled out something that had been carefully wrapped in blue tissue paper.

  ‘Here. Here it is, Hubert.’

  The tall man took the proffered parcel and opened it up, incredulous at what he was being given but still not fully understanding how the brooch could have ended up in Maurice’s possession.

  ‘Where did you get this, Maurice?’ he asked, picking up the amethyst brooch.

  ‘I’m afraid it was given to Telo a few days ago. I only found out last night.’

  ‘Given to Telo?’ Hubert repeated. ‘But by whom?’

  Maurice swallowed, feeling his throat dry up as he spoke. ‘Simone Dupuis.’

  ‘Où est son Papa?’ Madam Dupuis was asking, as Telo prepared two espressos.

  ‘Je ne sais pas,’ the young man lied.

  He could feel Simone’s feline eyes boring into his back as he took due care and time over pouring the drinks, certain that the woman would be angry when she found out that his Papa had actually gone to Uncle Hubert’s to show him Cecile’s brooch.

  Behind them, Dominique Fabre was becoming impatient and beckoned her friend to sit down and chat, asking Telo if they might have two slices of chocolate torte to go with their morning caffeine fix. She was excited about the petition against Isobel Green’s residency but was astute enough not to say it out loud in front of the boulangerie owner’s son.

  Telo stood rigid with his back to the women, afraid that his Aunt Simone might get angry with him if she found out that Papa now had the brooch. He didn’t know why Simone giving him the piece of jewellery was supposed to be kept a secret, but that’s what she’d told him as she handed it over.

  ‘Telo,’ Simone repeated, ‘où est son Papa?’

  The young man bit the skin on the inside of his mouth. He was a terrible liar, his father had always told him so.

  ‘Avec mon oncle Hubert.’

  Simone narrowed her eyes and put a hand on Telo’s shoulder to forcibly turn him towards her. ‘Pourquoi?’ she demanded.

  Telo Fabron could feel the florist’s sharp nails digging into his skin. The young man dropped his chin down onto his chest and instantly Madam Dupuis knew the reason. Telo had divulged their secret.

  It was Dominique who spoke next, wondering why the espressos hadn’t been forthcoming as rapidly as usual and she asked if everything was alright.

  Her friend made a muffled sound and placed a hand to her mouth. ‘Non, non.’

  As Maurice parked up the Citroën van and eased himself out into the midday sun, he was torn between finishing his day’s work, immediately demanding an explanation from Simone Dupuis, or telephoning Inspector Mallery. As it happened, the choice was immediately taken from his hands as the florist darted around the corner to meet him.

  ‘Maurice!’ she cried, tears streaming down her face. ‘Thank goodness you are back. There is the most distressing news. Telo has confessed!’

  ‘What are you talking about, Simone? Please, calm down.’

  The woman crumpled, laying a hand on her friend’s arm for support. ‘The boy, he told me what he has done. I am so sorry to break this to you, after all you are the most wonderful father, but Telo has told me everything.’

  ‘Really?’ The baker frowned. ‘And pray tell me, what has he done?’

  Simone searched her pocket for a handkerchief, avoiding Maurice’s wary gaze. ‘He told me that he stabbed Cecile. I’m so sorry that you have to find out like this.’

  As the boulangerie owner stood incredulous in the rear courtyard, with Madam Dupuis hanging off his arm like a pet bird, Telo Fabron appeared in the kitchen doorway, his eyes pleading with Maurice to come inside.

  ‘Papa,’ he said simply, ignoring the crying woman. ‘Salut.’

  ‘Don’t be hard on him,’ Simone begged, her whispering voice a hiss in the baker’s ear. ‘I don’t think he understands. You know how Telo is prone to having temper tantrums. Perhaps that’s what happened with Cecile.’

  ‘Let me deal with this,’ Maurice replied, leaving the weeping woman and bustling his son inside the kitchen. The bolt was drawn across without a single backward glance, leaving the florist’s fate hanging in the balance.

  With the boulangerie sign turned to FERMÉ to indicate that it was now closed, Maurice poured two cups of tea and told his son to take a seat. Telo remained silent, unsure of what Simone had told his father and determined to get his own mind straight about the events of that morning before saying anything. As soon as his aunt had burst into tears and declared his guilt in front of Dominique, Telo had panicked and run to the rear kitchen, leaving the women to express their shock and to console one another. He vaguely recalled Madam Fabre running out of the boulangerie in the direction of the gift shop, but he’d had no idea wher
e Simone Dupuis had gone.

  Maurice cajoled gently, asking again how Telo had come to possess his Aunt Cecile’s precious brooch. Again, as he had done the night before, the young man repeated how Simone had given it to him for safe-keeping, telling him sternly that he wasn’t to show the item to anyone else, nor to speak about it at all. It was to be their secret, she’d said, nobody else could know.

  Satisfied that Telo was telling the truth, Monsieur Fabron rubbed a hand over his tired and weary face and then got up to use the phone.

  ‘Inspector Mallery,’ Max shouted above the din of the Incident Room, where both the clicking of keyboards and the intense chatter was at its highest level yet. ‘Oui, Monsieur Fabron.’

  Mallery waved a frantic hand to calm the detectives around him, who were pulling out all the stops to wind together a tight case against the Saint Margaux florist. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the Inspector. His face was tense and deep in thought, lines gathering at the bridge of his nose.

  After a few minutes, Max pressed the ‘close call’ button and looked at his team.

  ‘Telo Fabron has been found with a brooch belonging to the victim,’ he explained, walking over to the whiteboard and picking up a marker pen. ‘Apparently, she never took it off and, according to Monsieur Vidal, she would definitely have been wearing it on the day she was murdered. And we can all guess who gave it to him, can’t we?’

  ‘Simone Dupuis,’ Gabrielle breathed. ‘Do you think she was trying to set up Telo Fabron?’

  ‘Sounds like it,’ the boss replied, agitated that something so important had only just come to light. ‘But, lucky for us, Maurice Fabron knows his son well enough and has managed to get the whole story out of him.’

  A phone rang on Gabriella’s desk and all heads turned in her direction as she made a short apology and answered it. ‘Oui?’

  There was silence as she listened, scribbling a few notes on a pad as she did so.

  ‘Sir,’ Gabriella called, ‘forensic tests are complete. The blood on the clothing found at Salbec station is a match for Cecile Vidal. There are also a few strands of dark hair and some skin cells which don’t belong to the victim.’

  The room fell silent as everyone contemplated the news. Their main suspect was now Simone Dupuis, who had thick, lustrous dark hair, but Isobel Green was also naturally dark, and Max was reluctant to rule out the possibility of her involvement in the murder.

  Max ushered the rest of the group over to Jack’s desk and put his hands on his hips. ‘We need a DNA sample from Madame Dupuis. Any volunteers, Jacques?’

  Hobbs groaned and picked up his car keys.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN – THE SPIDER’S WEB

  ‘Madam Dupuis, I am here to request a DNA sample from you,’ Jack announced, pushing the door of the florist’s shop closed behind him and turning the sign to FERMÉ. ‘It’s in connection with the murder of Cecile Vidal.’

  ‘What? Don’t be ridiculous!’ Simone cried. ‘Telo Fabron has already confessed to murdering my dear friend. It’s him you should be asking for DNA.’

  Hobbs was perplexed. ‘I know nothing about that, Madame. As I said, I’m here to take a mouth swab and hair follicle from you.’

  The slender, chic woman stood still, eyeing the detective as though he were a delicate morsel of prey. ‘What if I refuse?’

  ‘Are you refusing?’

  Simone folded her arms and tilted her chin upwards. ‘If you follow up my claim about Telo, then I am willing to comply.’

  Hobbs nodded. ‘Okay, I’ll look into it.’

  Walking down the street with Simone Dupuis’ samples securely in his messenger bag, Jack Hobbs headed straight for the boulangerie.

  Maurice Fabron was coming through from the back kitchen with a batch of custard tarts. He looked worn out, with dark circles beneath his eyes.

  ‘Monsieur Fabron,’ the detective began, tapping his fingers nervously on the glass counter. ‘Do you have a minute to talk, please?’

  Maurice slid the warm tarts onto a shelf and shrugged, the smell of nutmeg and vanilla wafting up towards Jack’s nose. ‘Of course. What is it?’

  The detective delicately relayed Madame Dupuis’ accusation, asserting his own belief that Telo hadn’t been involved in the crime, but reiterating the fact that he was just following up on a serious allegation.

  ‘There is only one way to solve this, isn’t there?’ Maurice replied, having stayed silent throughout Jack’s explanation. ‘Take a sample of Telo’s DNA, too!’

  ‘Monsieur Fabron, I’m sure there’s no need for that…’ Hobbs told the baker.

  But it was too late. Maurice was already shouting for his son to come through to the café area, in animated French.

  Sitting in his Ford Mondeo, having now accumulated two sets of DNA samples instead of just one, Jack Hobbs scratched his head in thought. There were still many dots to join in this case and, for him, one of the most aggravating was the strange break-in at the vineyard. It seemed to hold so many clues, yet didn’t really connect with any of the evidence that they had so far.

  On a whim, the young detective started up the motor and headed out of the village. But, instead of carrying on towards the main highway back towards Bordeaux, he turned off at the sign for the Saint Margaux vineyard.

  Hubert Vidal was outside when Jack pulled up. He was helping a robust and jovial customer to heft cases of wine into the boot of an estate car. The winemaker looked unfazed by the exertion of lifting, but the same couldn’t be said of his red-faced companion.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Jack called, hoping that he wouldn’t be expected to continue the rest of the conversation in French.

  ‘Ah, Detective Hobbs,’ Hubert replied. ‘What brings you here?’

  Jack marvelled at the way in which the vineyard owner spoke English so effortlessly and made a note to himself to ask Angélique to practice French more often at home.

  The men waited until the customer was well on his way down the long driveway before resuming their conversation.

  ‘There were a few things I wanted to ask you,’ Jack told Hubert. ‘About the robbery, mainly.’

  ‘The robbery? I thought the police would be more concerned with capturing my wife’s killer!’ Hubert didn’t look irate but there was a slight sarcasm in his words as he spoke.

  ‘It’s just a hunch,’ the detective confessed, ‘but I think the two might be connected.’

  ‘Come on into the house,’ Hubert instructed, his interest piqued. ‘I’ll ask Madam Paradis to make a pot of English tea.’

  ‘So, what’s this all about?’ Monsieur Vidal asked, as soon as they were settled in the study with tea and biscuits.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what the combination to the safe was? I presume you’ve changed it now, but I mean on the day of the break-in,’ Jack replied.

  Monsieur Vidal was curious to see where the line of questioning was heading but complied without hesitation. ‘It was Cecile’s birthday, 02-06-63.’

  ‘An easy number for someone to guess, I should imagine. And who else would have known that date?’ the detective continued, taking out his trusty notebook and pen.

  ‘Any of the family, I suppose. My children, Maurice, Telo, Madame Paradis. And most of our friends, too, as we always held a party for Cecile’s special day.’

  ‘Would that include Simone Dupuis?’ Jack ventured.

  Hubert didn’t answer straight away, but paused to take a sip of his tea, eyes flitting to the side as though avoiding the question.

  ‘Yes, Simone Dupuis was a friend.’

  Hobbs immediately picked up on Hubert’s use of the past tense and leaned forward in his seat. ‘You said was, Monsieur Vidal. Does that imply that you no longer consider Madame Dupuis to be a friend of the family?’

  ‘Did I? Slip of the tongue. She is still a friend.’

  Jack felt that there was more to the matter than Hubert was telling and pressed harder. ‘If there’s something you need to tell me, now would be the t
ime.’

  There was a long silence, in which the detective waited patiently, experience in the Leeds crime squad having taught him that all good things come to those who wait.

  ‘It was nothing,’ Hubert began solemnly. ‘Just one night.’

  Jack nodded at the other man, gently urging him to go on.

  ‘Oh, I suppose there’s nothing to be lost by telling you now,’ the winemaker sighed. ‘Last summer, Cecile went away overnight to a spa with her friend Dominique. Usually, Simone would have gone with them, but she was busy creating a wedding bouquet that weekend. Well, anyway, on the Saturday night Simone turned up here, saying that she wanted to discuss a surprise for Cecile. She’d had a few drinks, I think and was very talkative. We drank wine, had a little supper and that’s all I remember.’

  ‘So, nothing happened? I mean you didn’t… erm… have sex or anything?’

  ‘Detective Hobbs, I loved my wife very much,’ Hubert sighed, shaking his head. ‘But Simone must have put something in my drink that night because I woke up in bed the next morning with her asleep at my side. I honestly don’t remember if anything untoward took place, but I can assure you that I didn’t intend it to.’

  ‘Did you report this to the police? Drugging someone is a criminal offence?’

  Monsieur Vidal rubbed his hands over his face. ‘I couldn’t. If I’d reported it, then Cecile would have found out. She never would have forgiven me.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘I told Simone to leave immediately. She begged me to forgive her, said she was in love with me, crazy woman. I was so angry that morning, I told her never to cross my path again, but of course, as she was one of Cecile’s closest friends, we had to tolerate each other’s company now and again.’