‘You stabbed her, Simone,’ he replied, after a long pause. ‘Don’t ever forget that. Letting Telo take the blame won’t change a thing. All it will do is eat at your conscience every day for the rest of our lives.’
‘Don’t tell me about regret, Gaston. You held your hand over Cecile’s mouth to stop her screaming as she died. You wanted her dead, too,’ came the quick retort. ‘Leave well alone and let Telo go to jail.’
Jack Hobbs was peering in through the window of the deserted florist’s shop as Max approached, but his boss’s beaming smile was caught in the reflection of the glass door. The English detective didn’t have to guess too hard to find out what had caused such a turnaround in the Inspector’s mood.
‘There’s no sign of her here, sir,’ he said, pointing at the sign and locked door, ‘and no answer at the cottage. Where do you reckon she’d be?’
Mallery looked around the square. Few people were out and about, and those that were, walked quickly as they went on with their daily errands.
‘Let’s try Fabron’s boulangerie first. Gabriella and Thierry have gone over to the house to see if Telo’s there.’
‘Gaston, wait!’ Simone screamed, racing to keep up with the artist whose legs were pumping as he ran towards the bridge and then turned left, in the direction of the local church. His face was full of determination, blood coursing through his veins as he took the fresh afternoon air into his lungs.
As Gaston reached Maurice’s ‘Maison de Maitre’, a small car pulled up outside and a couple got out. He could tell they were detectives straight away by the smart leather jackets and designer jeans that they wore, and Gaston took a dive into some nearby bushes to avoid being seen. Scratched but unharmed, he parted the leafy foliage and peered out. The female was ringing the doorbell, while the man walked gingerly around the back of the house, one hand on the wall as he tried not to crunch the gravel under his feet.
Behind him, the artist could see Madame Dupuis standing in fear close to the church. Her face was fixed upon the two people at Maurice’s house. It appeared that Gaston was too late to save young Telo from his undeserved fate.
‘Monsieur Fabron,’ Max said hurriedly, giving a quick nod in Isobel Green’s direction, ‘we need to find Simone Dupuis urgently.’
‘I haven’t seen her at all today,’ Maurice informed him. ‘She’s usually in the shop until five on a Saturday. Have you come to arrest her?’
‘Yes,’ Mallery admitted, ‘we have.’
Jack Hobbs stood in the doorway and glanced at Isobel, who wore a satisfied smile on her face. He blushed to the roots of his fiery red hair, embarrassed that they’d put the Englishwoman through a horrific ordeal when she had, in fact, been completely innocent.
‘I also unfortunately have to inform you that we’re going to have to arrest your son, too,’ Max went on. ‘Is he at home?’
Maurice’s eyes flickered to his large, foreboding house across the square. ‘Yes, he is, Inspector. I’m coming with you. Isobel, please take care of things here.’
Telo Fabron opened the huge oak front door and gazed at the pretty woman. She looked vaguely familiar, but the youngster wasn’t sure where he’d seen her before.
‘Oui?’ he said simply, immediately alerted to the three figures dashing across the square towards him.
Gabriella slipped a foot into the doorjamb and then followed Telo’s gaze.
‘Papa?’ he was calling. ‘Qu’est-ce qui ne vas pas?’
Jack knew this meant, what’s wrong? He’d heard his wife say it enough times.
Maurice signalled to the detectives to stand back while he calmed his startled son and then led everyone into the kitchen.
‘Telo’s hair was found on Cecile Vidal’s jacket,’ Jack explained. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Fabron, it’s a definite match.’
The boulangerie owner shook his head. ‘That’s impossible. Telo wouldn’t hurt anyone, let alone Cecile. He adored his aunt.’
Max put a hand on Maurice’s shoulder. ‘I know this is difficult, but we have evidence to the contrary. We’ll have to take Telo in.’
While Inspector Mallery, Jack and Gabriella stood in the Fabron kitchen, Luc had arrived in Saint Margaux on his motorbike and parked up by the gift shop.
The gift shop owner was outside as quick as lightning, admiring the long-haired man’s leather jacket and gleaming Triumph.
‘Bonjour,’ she said with a smile, tossing a thick brown curl over one shoulder. ‘Je m’appelle Dominique Fabre.’
Luc, unused to attention from the other sex, told the woman that he was with the police and didn’t require her assistance.
Dominique pouted and then stepped back inside her shop, unsure of what she’d said or done to deserve such a curt reply. She contented herself with peering out from behind the pastel-coloured bunting instead, determined not to miss a thing.
Luc saw no sign of his boss or colleagues, so he immediately walked towards a lone figure that stood half in and half out of the bushes in front of the largest house in the village.
‘Monsieur!’ he called. ‘Suivez-moi!’
Gaston stepped out onto the pavement, aware that he must have looked like some kind of weirdo, spying in the bushes. He explained that he’d seen a man going around the back of his friend’s house and pointed to the stone path that led to Maurice’s garden. Luc hesitated for a second but decided that the man looked innocent enough and strode past him to the rear of the ‘Maison de Maitre.’
As soon as Luc was out of sight, Gaston ran back down the lane to the church and searched for Simone. She wasn’t amongst the ageing gravestones and the artist wondered whether she might have doubled back and returned to her cottage via the riverbank. All hope was now lost of him saving his precious painting, but Gaston thought it might be prudent to return to collect his easel and paints. He’d just have a quick look inside the church first, he thought, and then return to the cottage via the river.
Meanwhile, Thierry and Luc came face to face with one another as they prowled the perimeter of Maurice’s grand house, each presuming the other to be a trespasser until they almost knocked each other out as they sprang forward in surprise. Thierry rubbed his head and punched Luc on the arm.
‘Where is Mallery?’ Luc whispered, as though on an undercover mission.
Thierry pointed to the kitchen window and raised his eyebrows. ‘Here. We’ll look for Madame Dupuis.’
Gaston knew his landlady better than anyone and found her kneeling in prayer at the altar, with a bewildered Father Claude standing at her side. The artist stepped quickly down the aisle and took Simone’s arm, determined to get her out of there before a guilty conscience forced her premature confession. The priest leaned to one side, watching the couple retreat out through the main doors, a feeling of great darkness falling over him.
As Gaston dragged Madame Dupuis out into the afternoon sunshine, she began to cry, a deep, wailing sound that chilled the artist to the bone.
‘Hold yourself together,’ Gaston commanded, pulling roughly at her arm. ‘If you fall apart, you’ll take me down with you!’
‘We did it together, Gaston!’ the woman cried, desperately trying to free herself from his grasp. ‘We both murdered Cecile!’
Thierry and Luc stepped out from behind the wooden archway leading to the graveyard and could hardly believe their ears.
With Madam Dupuis and Gaston Lauder handcuffed and safely secured in the rear of Gabriella’s car, Max stood outside Maurice’s home and shook his head.
‘I’m sorry for putting Telo through that,’ he said sincerely. ‘Monsieur Lauder has explained how your son’s hair came to be attached to Cecile’s jacket, and I’m sure Simone Dupuis will confess to her part once we interview her formerly. At the moment, we need nothing further.’
‘What about Isobel?’ Maurice asked, as the detectives made to leave.
Inspector Mallery reached into the glove compartment of Hobbs’ car and pulled out a burgundy-coloured document. ‘Yes, she d
eserves an apology at the very least. Let’s return this passport to its rightful owner.’
Max, Jack, Maurice and Telo crossed the square, their shoulders moving in unison as they strode towards the boulangerie, each lost in his own thoughts.
Isobel watched the approaching foursome and pulled four cups from the shelf. One was for her, as she’d already prepared a chocolate milkshake with marshmallows for Telo. It might go some way to patching things up between us, she thought hopefully. At least until I leave.
In the days that followed, Simone Dupuis confessed to her intense jealousy and, most importantly, to the murder of Cecile Vidal. The hatred had burned deeply and strongly for years but, after the rebuff by Hubert, it was as though paraffin had been added to the smouldering embers and she snapped.
Gaston Lauder’s story was more complex. After a brief and passionate summer fling with Cecile, they’d parted amicably, or so the woman thought. A year later, Gaston had undertaken to sketch Madame Vidal naked, the prints intended to be a gift to her husband on his birthday, and it was a trip to the framers on that fateful day that had caused her to be on the early morning train. As arranged, Gaston was already on the same train, having left his home in Paris on the first available train to Bordeaux St.Jean, travelling via Saint Margaux and Salbec.
It had been the artist’s specific instruction to Cecile that she get into the last carriage, where they would meet and continue on, in order to purchase the perfect frame to match his tasteful and beautiful interpretation of Cecile’s curves. What she was unprepared for, however, was the depth of Gaston’s obsession with her. Ever since their short tryst, he had yearned to have Cecile for himself and refused to allow her to continue being with Hubert after what he, Gaston, had perceived to be the love affair of the century.
On Cecile’s part, it had been an affair born of boredom and misjudgement, one that she deeply regretted, yet had confessed to her best friend Simone. It was that one mistake that had cost Cecile her life, for, next to Hubert, the only man that Madame Dupuis cared about was her handsome regular lodger, Gaston.
It had been Gaston’s idea to travel to the nearby airport and have Telo Fabron collect him from there. And with the murder weapon concealed securely in his artist’s portfolio case, nobody had given the Parisian a second glance as he emerged from the train station at Bordeaux that morning.
A stroke of good luck in the VW Beetle’s overheating on the return journey, had given Gaston the perfect opportunity to get rid of the bread knife, too. As Telo got out to lift the bonnet on the motor, to allow it to cool down, his friend had opened the glove compartment, spotted the car owner’s denim shirt and deftly wrapped the knife in it. Unfortunately, he’d not been quite as careful as he had intended and Gaston accidentally got a smear of blood on his favourite white shirt, a deep crimson stain that Isobel had spotted on his cuff later that day.
Gaston Lauder had confessed, of course. He’d had no choice. In the next interview room to his, the artist didn’t doubt that Simone Dupuis was singing like a canary in order to pin most of the blame on him. Luckily for Gaston, he’d been astute enough to record his subsequent conversations with the florist and offered them up in exchange for some plea bargaining.
Luc, the computer genius, had been kicking himself since the arrest of Cecile Vidal’s murderers. On closer inspection of the Bordeaux railway station CCTV footage, he’d spotted Gaston Lauder leaving the train with a large valise, just a few passengers behind the femme fatale, Simone Dupuis. It was a huge error on his part, but not one that Inspector Mallery had chided him for. They’d all missed it and Luc would suffer no adverse effects from the oversight, apart from having to fetch coffee and pain au chocolat for the rest of the team for a week.
Jack Hobbs had returned to Salbec station the day after the culprit’s arrest and spoke to the rotund porter for a second time. Yes, he’d said, the tall man in the photo had also been there at Salbec on that morning. He’d used the conveniences and caught the next train to Bordeaux with the dark-haired woman.
‘And why didn’t you tell us this before?’ Hobbs had hissed through gritted teeth, watching as the man’s wide mouth tackled a fresh pork roll.
‘You didn’t ask,’ came the nonchalant response. ‘If you had, I’d have told you.’
Max Mallery was impressed with his team. They’d solved the first murder of his reign as Inspector on the Bordeaux force and the telephone hadn’t stopped ringing with congratulations from his peers. If pressed, Mallery would admit that solving the case had taken far too long, but he was satisfied enough, and life was on the up.
The Commissioner’s wife, Vanessa, was coming down to see him this weekend while her husband went off to play golf in Spain. It didn’t mean anything, she’d said on the phone, they would just talk and go out for dinner somewhere quiet. Max knew just the place; a little bistro in a village called Saint Margaux.
Jack Hobbs got an official letter from the Department de Police, inviting him to join the team in Bordeaux for the next twelve months, after which there would be a review and a possible permanent position, should he desire it. Naturally, Angélique was delighted and promised to go easy on her husband, at least until the next case requiring him to work long hours came along.
Life in Saint Margaux returned to normal, with undertones of gossip and new arrivals being met with cautious stares. Dominique Fabre was fundamental in welcoming every new male visitor to the village, but never did manage to find the man of her dreams. Needless to say, she’s still looking, every single day.
Father Claude held an extended sermon on the first Sunday after Simone and Gaston’s arrests, warning the residents to repent and love thy neighbour, not covet feelings of lust and greed. Naturally, his words were met with murmurs of appreciation, especially by Hubert Vidal, who was heartbroken by the news of his wife’s infidelity and vowed never again to take the things in his life for granted.
Isobel Green received a short visit from Gabriella a few days later. The young detective was carrying a battered shoebox full of documents that the Englishwoman instantly recognised as her own. The sight of the memories brought with it mixed emotions and she’d disappeared upstairs to the apartment to mull over the feelings that churned inside.
She’d had a lengthy and heartfelt apology from Inspector Mallery, and Jack Hobbs had called in for coffee to add a few words of regret of his own. It wasn’t easy fitting in when you were an outsider, Hobbs had told her, but things would get easier every day. It was a promise that he made to himself as well as Isobel.
The pain of the past few weeks had numbed Izzy now and her anger had dissipated to a low bubble, simmering just below the surface. The Englishwoman had now begun to repair her fragile relationship with Telo Fabron, thanks to his father, and assisted in part by a rather special bake that she’d decorated in honeycomb and hazelnuts. A little bird had told her that these were Telo’s favourites and might help in closing the rift between them. Izzy doubted whether Telo fully understood why she’d been arrested, but Maurice had explained, using delicate language that was neither accusatory nor harsh and his son had subsequently mellowed as the days passed. It seemed that only Maurice knew what went on in his son’s head and the baker insisted that all was forgiven and forgotten on Telo’s part.
One night, not long after the murderous revelations, Isobel Green stood out in the courtyard at the rear of the boulangerie with her skinny right shoulder touching the muscular left arm of Maurice Fabron. A plane ticket to Spain the next morning sat on the bedside table upstairs.
The pair stood silently watching orange and blue flames licking at the edges of the cardboard box as they danced around eagerly, devouring Isobel’s secrets. A photo of Martin Freeman curled and disintegrated as the heat obliterated his face to ashes, ridding the young woman of a decade of hurt. A second image started to singe at the edges.
‘Will you stay?’ Maurice asked softly, touching Izzy’s fingers with his own, ‘now that it’s all over?’
Is
obel sighed. ‘It will never be over if I stay in Saint Margaux, Maurice. People don’t forgive easily and someone with a chequered past like mine isn’t welcome in a close-knit community like this.’
‘They will forget in time.’ The baker smiled, his deep, dark eyes boring into hers. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘The trouble is, Maurice, I won’t.’
‘Come away,’ Monsieur Fabron urged. ‘We’ll go inside and drink a toast to your future.’
The following day, on the morning of her final departure, Isobel Green took her suitcase downstairs and had one final coffee with Monsieur Fabron. Maurice had realised that no amount of pleading would convince Izzy to stay. Besides, a new job and a fresh start were beckoning to her, something that Saint Margaux could no longer provide.
‘These are for Telo,’ Isobel announced, dropping the VW keys onto the glass counter. ‘I won’t be needing my car any longer.’
‘Are you sure?’ Maurice grinned. ‘He’ll be delighted.’
Izzy nodded. ‘Yes, the Beetle definitely belongs in my past.’
‘Why not let Telo drive you to the airport then?’ the baker offered. ‘As a last thank-you. A taxi will cost you a fortune. I can phone the insurance company now to get him covered.’
Isobel considered her friend’s words and then the one month’s salary that Maurice had given her the previous day; she wasn’t exactly flush at the moment. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, ‘that would be great.’
As they drove down towards Bordeaux airport, the lack of conversation between them filled with music from the old-fashioned car radio, Isobel turned to Telo and smiled. She was grateful for his final acceptance of her, albeit just a few days. It had cleared the air and helped her move on.
Isobel Page 26
