The pair chuckled, various scenarios going through their minds at the same time. As they’d pulled up outside the accident and emergency doors, both had forgotten about their soaking jackets and muddy footwear.
“Coffee’s on you, Jack,” Gabriella called, automatically locking the car before racing into the hospital to escape the downpour. “I drove.”
“Fine,” her colleague shouted back, dodging puddles as he followed behind. “Might even treat you to a chocolate bar, too.”
Max Mallery stood in the darkness of his immaculate kitchen, swallowing the last drops of an ice-cold tumbler of water. Despite the woman in his bedroom sleeping soundly, the police inspector knew that his night would be a restless one. It had been great, fantastic even, having Vanessa stay here for the weekend, yet it turned Max’s stomach to think of the woman returning to the Commissioner’s bed, his bloated body and wrinkled skin lying next to hers.
For an hour now Max had turned over the situation in his conscience, but had no idea of the response he would get should he broach those subjects. In an ideal world, he would want Vanessa to join him in Bordeaux every weekend, taking in a theatre show or sharing conversation in an up-market wine bar, but women always wanted commitment, didn’t they? At least he thought so. His lover was used to having a vast disposable income at her fingertips and, despite Mallery’s healthy salary, he wondered whether a permanent arrangement between them might drain his bank balance completely. There was always the ‘elephant in the room’, too, as his younger English colleague would say; the possibility that the Commissioner would discover his wife’s second indiscretion after he’d issued such a stern warning to Vanessa and Max some months before.
Mallery poured himself another glass of water and drank it down in one. It was rare that he had company in his apartment and found the sight of Vanessa’s silk scarf on the back of the kitchen chair an unfamiliar sight. Lifting it gently with two fingers, Max sniffed the perfume that wafted from the fabric, slowly inhaling the undertones of vanilla and wild cherry. He folded the item quickly, pushing it into the top drawer as a token, a reminder that Vanessa had been here, and touched upon his mobile phone as he did so. The screen was black, power switched off.
The inspector felt guilty that he’d left one of his junior detectives in charge of emergency call-outs, yet not bad enough to switch the device on and check. It was unlikely that there would be anything needing the team’s attention, Max told himself, searching for excuses to appease his own conscience. There hadn’t been a really serious incident since Cecile Vidal’s murder back in May, after all.
Looking up at the clock, Mallery could just make out the hands in the gloom of the silent room; it was nearly three o’clock. He wondered whether a last-minute plea to Vanessa would be worth the humility, to convince her to come back down the following weekend under pretence of visiting friends. Max was a proud man and, despite his affection for the older woman, he knew he’d be pushing his luck to ask. Giving up on all hope of rest, Mallery instead padded back to the bedroom and curled himself into his lover’s slumbering body, enjoying the intimacy of her naked curves and determined to savour every last drop of her presence.
At Bordeaux General Hospital, Jack Hobbs was nursing a lukewarm coffee and a half-eaten packet of biscuits as he waited for news of Leo Bouchon. He and Gabriella had spent two hours waiting for surgeons to repair the man’s hand and then for him to recover from the anaesthetic. Finally, at four in the morning, they’d received the nod that the patient could be interviewed briefly, and Gabriella had gone into the side ward to see what she could glean from the situation. According to the doctor, the fork had missed the bone, hitting tendon instead, and whilst it might take a few months for Monsieur Bouchon to get full feeling back in his left hand, there would be no permanent damage.
Jack had opted to wait in the corridor, watching cleaners polish the linoleum floor with a huge buffing machine and nodding off for a brief nap when tiredness overcame him every now and again. He would be of no use to Gabriella and knew that she could conduct the questioning much faster without him asking for a translation of each and every last detail.
“Right, it looks like we can finally head back home now,” a female voice announced, startling Jack and causing the detective to spill milky coffee over his jeans. “Monsieur Bouchon doesn’t want to press charges, so that’s the end of it. Although I think we should leave his wife in the cell overnight to calm down. They’ll probably kiss tomorrow. What do you think?”
Hobbs nodded, secretly panicking that it would possibly mean another trip into the police station the next day, Sunday, when he’d hoped to have a peaceful day at home. Oh well, such was his chosen profession.
“Okay, it’s often the case with domestic arguments, although Madame Bouchon stabbing her husband was a bit over the top. If he doesn’t want to press charges, there’s nothing more for us to do except have a stern word with his wife.”
Gabriella flicked her long blonde ponytail over one shoulder, a habit that her colleague had noted was customary when the young woman was thinking deeply.
“It was a bit, how to say, extreme,” she agreed, passing Jack a tissue to wipe the soggy liquid that was seeping into his jeans, “but I don’t know how I’d react if I thought my husband were cheating.”
“Is that what the argument was about? Was he cheating?”
The female detective shrugged. “Non. Monsieur Bouchon says he was out drinking at a bar in Salbec, celebrating a friend’s birthday, and had to drive home slowly down the lanes to Saint Margaux as there was flooding in places. Considering the weather tonight, I believe him.”
“I guess we’ll never know.” Jack smiled. “Although that means Leo Bouchon was probably well over the alcohol limit to drive, doesn’t it?”
“As he was at home when we met him, we have no proof that he drove, only his own admission. It wouldn’t be fair to arrest him for drink-driving, Jack, the poor man has had a tough night already.”
“Fair enough.” Hobbs sighed. “Shall we get off home then?”
“Oui.” Gabriella grinned. “I’m on my final legs.”
Jack let out a laugh. “Last legs. The saying is, ‘on my last legs’.”
The woman giggled. “You English speak in such a funny way.”
Leo Bouchon lay in his hospital bed hooked up to a morphine drip and heart monitor that stood beeping constantly at the side of him. In the foggy, drugged haze, his mind wondered why Michelle wasn’t there to sit with him and then suddenly he remembered going past his wife in a hospital wheelchair as she sat on the staircase of their home, hands behind her back, two detectives there. A fuzzy recollection of their argument worried Leo. He remembered getting home late, nearly midnight, and warming his supper in the microwave oven. He’d presumed that his wife had been upstairs fast asleep, that’s why he’d taken off his shoes and tiptoed into the house. What then? Yes, that was it! As soon as he’d reached for a fork to start eating the hot beef casserole, Michelle had appeared through the kitchen door and started shouting. She’d accused him of seeing another woman and then stabbed him with the eating implement.
Monsieur Bouchon let his eyes wander to the huge white bandage that covered all his left hand and finished at the wrist. There was little feeling in the area, yet Leo could just about wiggle his fingers if he concentrated. They felt heavy, as though they didn’t really belong to the rest of his body. He wondered if the pretty blonde policewoman was going to come back. She’d been kind, asking lots of questions, but smiling at him. It seemed surreal that Michelle was in a cell; she’d be even angrier by morning, the man reckoned. However, he’d told the truth. His friends in Salbec could verify the time that Leo left the bar, so it wasn’t his fault if Michelle had unfounded suspicions. Besides, it wasn’t very often that he went out alone, no more than once a month. What on earth did his wife have to worry about? She should think herself lucky that he wasn’t like his friend Marcel, out four or five nights a week and spending his wife’s
inheritance money.
As the drugs took their toll and Monsieur Bouchon drifted into a dreamless sleep, a smile played on his lips. He blamed the menopause. Michelle was in her early fifties so that must be it. His wife’s hormones were all over the place lately.
As Gabriella parked the Mini outside Jack’s apartment building, she drummed her fingers on the steering-wheel, silver rings clicking against the leather as she considered her words.
“I’ll sort out Michelle Bouchon tomorrow, I can send her home with a caution. You have a rest and enjoy the day with your family.”
Her colleague turned in his seat and let go of the door handle that he was in the process of opening. “You don’t need to do that, Gabriella, I can come in. There should be two of us present.”
“I insist. After all, one of the uniformed officers will be on duty to sit in on the interview. Jack, there’s nobody at home waiting for me, except my cat.”
Hobbs didn’t need to be told twice and blushed slightly at Gabriella’s kindness. “That’s really good of you, thanks. I owe you one, okay?”
The female detective nodded, stifling a yawn. “Okay. Besides, if Madame Bouchon causes me any trouble, we can spend Monday finding the witness that can prove her husband was driving home from Salbec when he said he was.”
Jack widened his tired eyes. “Oh? Who?”
“Apparently, Monsieur Bouchon gave a lift to a young foreign man on his way home. He was wet through from the rainstorm and carried a heavy bag. Leo dropped him at the Monastère du Saint Augustin just before midnight.”
“A strange time of night to be visiting the monks,” Jack commented, wondering if the traveller was some kind of weird religious devotee. “Well, anyway, seems he has someone to back up his story after all.”
CHAPTER THREE – RAMBLINGS
At exactly five, the clock-tower bell sounded for Sunday morning mass, causing an unmistakable echo to ring throughout the monastery, and sixty-nine monks shuffled, clattered and scurried to the chapel. Some men were in slight disarray, their open-toed sandals still undone and cassock belts untied. Fingers scrabbled to finish dressing, some aware of the more senior monks giving a shake of the head as they watched the procession. It was the same ritual every morning, yet all knew that Abbot Arnaud considered the most holy day to be the one on which they must leap more earnestly from their uncomfortable metal cots to give thanks to the Lord.
Abbot Arnaud put a hand on the frame of the infirmary bed where the stranger lay and, with great effort, eased his arthritic bones up from the chair. There were a few familiar creaks as joints settled in their sockets, but the twinges coursing through the old man’s body were more from his self-inflicted punishment than having lived through eight decades. He took a deep breath, managing to stand without aid, and blinked away the sleep that threatened to overcome him. Nothing motivated him more than the words of wisdom that he delivered to his gathered flock each morning.
Through the long, narrow, leaded windows, darkness still penetrated the landscape outside and driving rain continued to hammer against the roof like a demon trying to gain entrance to the holy house.
“Father,” a familiar voice called out in French, “forgive me for saying so but you look exhausted. Why not let me conduct Matins today? You should rest.”
The Abbot waved away the suggestion with the brush of a hand as he turned to look at Brother Bénédict, one of his most senior clergy.
“I am well, Brother. Come, lead the way, we shall be keeping the others waiting. Let us now leave our guest to rest.”
As the two ageing men made their way out of the infirmary, the sleeping traveller stirred as the slight recognition of voices tapped away at his semi-conscious state.
Ten minutes later, the Abbot looked down upon the expectant faces of the men in his care, each one eager to learn if the rumours of a midnight visitor were true. It was in the monks’ nature to yearn for contact with the outside world and, when it came, they chattered like a group of washerwomen feeding off gossip and hoping to be chosen to become involved with unfolding events.
Abbot Arnaud settled his weary eyes upon the men furthest from him, craftily hoping to catch them dozing at this early hour, before beginning to share information in perfectly articulated French. He was tired beyond belief, yet there was the Lord’s work to be done and the group of rumbling bellies in the chapel indicated that the monks would have more than prayer on their minds.
“Brothers, before we begin our service this morning, let me settle the rumours and give news of our unexpected visitor…”
Sixty-nine faces sat in silence, absorbing the details and forming questions that they knew would never be raised with the wise old man.
“Father, what are we to do about the traveller?” Brother Cédric asked, as they sat in the busy refectory eating a simple breakfast of oatmeal and hot tea.
Abbot Arnaud continued to steadily spoon porridge into his mouth, hands shaking slightly, turning over the words thoroughly in his mind before replying.
“What would you have us do, Brother Cédric? Surely our benevolence can stretch to caring for the young man until the fever has abated and he is able to go on his way? It’s hardly an inconvenience now, is it?”
The younger monk fidgeted with the tie-belt on his cassock. “I was wondering whether he might be better in a hospital, Father. His family might be worried.”
“I have no doubt that in a day or two,” the abbot sighed, “he will be well enough to leave of his own accord. In the meantime, we shall provide the utmost care befitting our Order. Brother Alberon assures me that the poultices will draw out the patient’s fever and, after a day or two of rest, he should be back to full health. No doubt it was a combination of the atrocious wet weather and his insufficient outerwear that caused him to catch a chill.”
In the infirmary, Brother Alberon had resumed his duties and was administering a fresh mixture of warm clay and herbs to the patient’s forehead. He noted an agitated stirring as the stranger’s eyes fluttered to and fro under busy lids and placed a cool hand on the Dutchman’s cheek. It was clammy and warm.
“Dormez bien,” he whispered softly. Sleep well.
“Where am I?”
The monk leaned forward, checking that the young man had really woken, and smiled kindly at the slightly speckled blue eyes that looked back. Brother Alberon had anticipated this question and, despite his lack of English language, gave an immediate reply.
“Monastère du Saint Augustin.”
The man nodded, a glimmer of recollection crossing his pale face. “The monastery. I need to see…”
“Ssshhhh,” Brother Alberon soothed, concerned that the man might over-exert himself whilst still recovering from the previous night’s high temperature. “Dormez.”
In his office, Abbot Arnaud sat with his palms together on the desk, considering how best to begin a search for the Dutchman’s family. He supposed that it would normally be a task for the local police, given that the people they needed to trace were probably overseas. He’d seen the passport, and the foreigner had come a long way from his home in Amsterdam. The monastery was still in the dark ages where technology was concerned, and the abbot knew that attempting any kind of investigation himself would be futile.
However, the head of the monastery was a soft-hearted man and he wondered whether it might be prudent to allow the youngster to recover before submitting him to a barrage of questions, which he had no doubt would be necessary should the authorities become involved. As it was Sunday, the old man hedged his bets and made a decision. If the patient were to recover by the next day, he would give the young man a choice about what he wished to do; if not, then the Abbot himself would call the police station and ask someone to come. With the necessary documentation already in hand, he felt assured that the stranger would be back home with his family in no time at all.
There was a knock on the outer door and the holy man beckoned the visitor inside before sliding both hands down into his lap. I
t was Brother Bénédict.
“Forgive me for interrupting, Father. I have just called on our patient and Brother Alberon tells me that he is beginning to stir.”
The abbot stood and momentarily glanced out at the storm whipping mercilessly at the trees outside. Perhaps the nightmarish weather had disturbed the boy’s slumber. Still, he was curious. It was a most unusual circumstance to find a stranger at the door of the monastery and he was eager to find out what had caused the Dutchman to be out on such a cold and wet night. However, the bigger question was whether Noel Van Beek had purposely been heading here.
“I shall go to the young man myself,” Abbot Arnaud replied, a little unsteady on his feet as he rose. “Perhaps you might arrange a bowl of hot chicken broth for him?”
“Certainly, as you wish, Father.” Brother Bénédict smiled as he backed from the room. “I shall see to it personally.”
By mid-day, Noel van Beek, had recovered sufficiently to sit up and take a bowl of clear soup. The hot liquid soothed his insides, causing a flush of warmth to necessitate the removal of several blankets from the bed.
“Thank you… erm, merci. Sorry, my French isn’t very good.”
Abbot Arnaud smiled affectionately, reaching into the depths of his mind to recover long-forgotten verbs and nouns, the process reminding him of pulling water in a bucket from a deep, dark well. “And my Dutch is non-existent, therefore we can perhaps converse in English. Although, it has been a long time.”
Noel gave a grateful nod, exhaustion causing him to flop back against the lumpy pillows beneath his head.
“How long have I been here?” he pondered, taking in the old man’s gentle features before realising that the monk knew he was Dutch. “How do you…?”
Noel Page 3
