Gabriella, the only female detective, was swinging to and fro in her chair, a pen tapping upon her mouth as though she were deep in thought at something dark-skinned Thierry was telling her.
Mallery turned at the sound of a squeak. Jack Hobbs, the most recent addition to the team and the only foreigner, was wiping the board clean of notes, his arms sweeping to ensure that every last word had been deleted.
“Bonjour,” Mallery smiled, “comment allez-vous aujourd-hui?”
A multiple murmur went around the incident room, portraying the traditional Monday morning blues that seemed to affect every office worker and civil servant countrywide.
“Morning, sir,” Jack greeted him in English. “How was your weekend?”
“Oh, you know,” his boss retorted, not wanting to appear smug. “Not too bad.”
Hobbs had already sensed the lighter tone in his superior’s voice but thought better than to comment on it. Sometimes silence was golden.
“This stabbing, in Saint Margaux,” Mallery went on. “All finished with?”
“Yes, sir. The husband didn’t want to press charges.”
Gabriella flicked her ponytail to one side. “I signed Madame Bouchon out yesterday morning. She thought her husband might be having an affair.”
Max raised his eyebrows, “I see. Luc, anything new this morning?”
The techie shook his head. “Nothing much, sir. Just a few incidents of graffiti in Rue des Écoles. Thierry’s heading over there now.”
At the mention of his name, the tanned young detective rose to his feet and grabbed a padded puffa jacket from the back of his chair. “On my way,” he said in a low voice. “It’s freezing out there.”
“Better be quick then,” Gabriella giggled, throwing a grey knitted beanie hat at her colleague. “Keep warm.”
“Bon,” Max muttered, before turning to the Englishman. “Jacques, how about we take a drive to Saint Margaux, see how the fields lie this morning?”
“See how the land lies,” Jack corrected automatically. “Yes, okay, sir.”
“You have enough to do?” the inspector asked the other two team members.
“Don’t worry, sir,” Gabriella sighed, “there is plenty to do.”
Settled into the soft leather passenger’s seat of his boss’s BMW, Jack Hobbs unzipped his winter jacket as the sports car’s heating system burst into full effect. It wasn’t often that the pair drove out of Bordeaux these days – in fact, the most they had travelled was during the Vidal investigation in the summer – and the young Yorkshireman was enjoying the change of scenery.
“Don’t you think the Bouchons will be all lovey-dovey by now, boss?”
“Lovey-dovey?” Max laughed. “Oh, my God, what is that?”
“You know, being all romantic like, domestic bliss.”
A tingling sensation ran down Mallery’s spine as he was momentarily reminded of his own very secretive yet sensual liaison over the weekend.
“I see. Well, who knows? What is she like, Michelle Bouchon?”
“About forty, kind of mousy hair, quite pretty though, slightly overweight but in a homely kind of way.”
“Mousy?”
“Her hair’s different shades of brown, like a mouse.” Hobbs chuckled, before reminding himself that the inspector still wasn’t used to his analogies.
Max gave his colleague a sideward glance and then turned his concentration back to the busy highway.
“Aggressive? Argumentative? Did she cause trouble at the police station?”
“Not with us, no. She calmed down straight away once we’d put her in the cell to cool off. I reckon she’s really sorry for stabbing her old man.”
“Oh, so Monsieur Bouchon is very much older than his wife?”
“Erm… no, sir. Sorry, I didn’t quite mean it like that. I meant to say ‘husband’.”
Mallery winked, some of Sunday’s sparkle returning to his face.
Michelle Bouchon opened the front door of her cottage wearing a flowered apron and slightly worn pink fluffy slippers.
Mallery flipped open his leatherette identity wallet and smiled softly.
“Madame Bouchon? Je verifie juste comment tu vas.”
The door swung open to allow the officers inside, Michelle Bouchon giving a cautious glance around the street to see if any of her neighbours had observed the policemen, before closing it behind the men with a clatter. The aroma of cheese and pastry wafted through the narrow hallway from the kitchen beyond.
“Tout va bien,” the woman replied with a shrug, before folding her arms across an ample bosom.
Leo Bouchon sat at the kitchen table, one of the national daily newspapers spread in front of him and a mug of coffee nearby. His injured hand remained heavily bandaged, but the man seemed cheerful as Max proceeded to ask a few casual questions.
Repeating his statement from Saturday night, more for the benefit of his wife than any other reason, Leo described the young man that he’d given a lift to.
“Si l’homme peut verifier… ma femme…” he finished.
Mallery laid a hand upon Monsieur Bouchon’s shoulder and turned to Michelle as she lifted a batch of gougères from the oven. Mallery’s nostrils twitched as the delicious aroma of cheese and pastry wafted to them.
“Je le trouverai,” Max assured him.
“Sir, why do I get the feeling you’ve just promised something impossible?” Jack asked, pulling the seatbelt wide to allow for the bulk of his coat underneath as they drove away from the Bouchon’s home.
“I simply said we will speak to the hitch-hiker that Leo dropped off, that is all. My good deed for today. Perhaps it will restore ‘domestic bliss’?”
Hobbs blinked, wondering if his boss had gone soft, as the lads back in Leeds would have told him.
“So, we’re heading to the Saint Augustin Monastery?” he quipped cheerily.
“Correct. You’re really very good at this detective game, Jacques.”
Brother Ebontius was short and round, with thick milk-bottle spectacles that took centre stage on his ruddy red cheeks, the epitome of any fictional monk that Hobbs had ever read about in his childhood bedtime stories. The man wrung his hands for a few seconds before scuttling away down the vast corridor in search of a more senior member of the Order. Jack watched the dull brown cassock disappear through an archway and likened the form to a mole going in search of morsels of food down a dark hole.
It was several minutes before an older and much taller Benedictine monk appeared, giving the detectives plenty of time to take in the sheer vastness of the ancient yet beautiful sandstone building with its intricate architecture.
“Bonjour,” the grey-haired figure said solemnly. “Je m’appelle Frère Bénédict.”
Inspector Mallery briefly outlined the reason for their visit, enquiring as to whether a young man did arrive at the monastery on Saturday night.
“Oui, en effet. Suivez-moi, s’il vous plaît.”
Mallery glanced at Jack and shrugged. “It seems he’s still here,” he whispered.
The Infirmary was a bright and airy trio of rooms comprising an office, a medical supplies room and a high-ceilinged ward containing half a dozen metal-framed beds. All but one of the beds were vacant and the fair-haired patient seemed in stark contrast to the other much older and disciplined residents here. Jack stood idly taking note of the dispensary cabinet and neatly-made cots, whilst Max chattered to a second elderly monk who sat in the sole office chair.
“So, Brother Alberon has been tending to the young man since his arrival on Saturday night. He seems to have caught a heavy chill in the rain,” the inspector informed his colleague, after confirming it with the two monks.
“They didn’t think to take him to hospital?” Jack queried, stretching his neck to watch the sleeping invalid.
“It is a fever, but not too serious,” Brother Bénédict explained, hesitant in his English. “He will be fine by tomorrow.”
Mallery spoke rapidly in French,
asking who the traveller was and if they needed help to locate the young man’s family. Rapid answers followed, causing Max to nudge Hobbs to take out his brand-new notepad.
“Noel Van Beek, 23rd April 1997, born in Amsterdam.”
Jack scribbled down his boss’s words, occasionally glancing over at the slight, prone figure in bed.
The policemen’s shoes echoed against polished stone tiles as they followed Brother Bénédict back to the main door. The place was eerily quiet given the number of residents inside, causing Hobbs to wonder if this were an Order of monks who had taken a vow of silence. Although, he considered, Brothers Bénédict and Alberon had spoken quite jovially with the inspector. What was it? An aura of sadness, perhaps?
“It’s very quiet,” he commented, as the elderly monk reached for the door-handle. “Is it always like this?”
“Abbot Arnaud is very ill, a heart attack, I think you would say in English.”
“Very sorry.” Jack winced, realising his own faux-pas.
“We are praying for him,” Brother Bénédict explained, “every moment.”
“Well? What is it?” Mallery queried, as soon as they were safely out of earshot.
Jack Hobbs, every bit the Yorkshireman, stood with both hands in his trouser pockets, turning his ginger head this way and that, to take in the long driveway and surrounding countryside.
“Well, sir, seems a bit strange to me. Young lad like that out here on a cold and wet November night, especially with him not being French.”
“Mmm,” Max conceded, scratching his head. “But at least Leo Bouchon was indeed telling the truth, which should satisfy his wife perfectly.”
Jack flipped open his notebook and looked once again at the name written there. “Odd,” he commented, letting out a sigh. “Isn’t Noel a predominantly French name?”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” the inspector replied, before using the fob to unlock the red sports car. “It means…”
“Christmas!”
Jack Hobbs sat in the warmth of his boss’s BMW as the inspector made his second fleeting visit of the day to the Bouchon’s cottage. Leaving them with the news of Leo’s hitch-hiker had certainly boosted the couple’s mood somewhat.
Max rapped gently on the driver’s window and beckoned Jack to get out.
“Come on, Jacques,” he grinned, “we can’t visit Saint Margaux without stopping for coffee and pastries at the fantastic boulangerie.”
Hobbs clambered out, not needing a second invitation. “Great idea! It’ll be good to catch up with Maurice and see how he’s doing after that fiasco.”
Mallery nodded and stood looking at the front of the bakery in the square as he waited for his colleague to extricate himself from the soft leather bucket seat.
A mix of fresh coffee beans, vanilla crème patisserie and warm baguettes assaulted the detective’s nostrils as they strode into Monsieur Fabron’s shop, causing Jack to lick his lips in anticipation of the delicacies to come.
“Bonjour,” Maurice smiled as they entered, “bienvenue a vous deux.”
The men reached forward to give the traditional French peck on the cheeks, before Max relaxed his grip of the baker’s hand to take in his full profile.
“Comment allez-vous, Monsieur Fabron?”
“Comme çi, comme ça.” Maurice shrugged and pursed his lips. So-so.
Mallery took in the deep lines around the boulangerie owner’s eyes that had been virtually nonexistent on their previous encounters. There were additional grey hairs at the man’s temple, too, not to mention the loss of weight.
“Please sit,” the baker fussed, remembering that the younger detective needed to communicate in English. “So, you are still with the Bordeaux police, Monsieur ‘Obbs. That is a very good thing, non?”
The ‘h’ was dropped from Jack’s surname in typical French pronunciation, which somehow endeared the Yorkshireman to Maurice even more.
“Aye, yes, I’m still here,” Hobbs smiled, his face reddening slightly, “thankfully. My wife would have my guts for garters if I wasn’t!”
He couldn’t bear to contemplate Angélique’s mood if he were to lose his fairly recent position. There was no way he’d be able to persuade her to relocate back to the North of England. As it was, both Max and Maurice looked confused.
“Coffee and something sweet?” the baker asked, stirring the redhead from his thoughts. “Cappuccino with two sugars, if I remember correctly, and strong black espresso for Inspector Mallery.”
“That’s some memory you have!” Max laughed. “Watch out, Jacques, Monsieur Fabron may be after your job.”
The duo settled into their seats as cups were prepared and plates distributed. Today’s specialities were réligieuses, double height, cream-filled profiterole balls smothered in chocolate and stuck one on top of the other to resemble nuns. Immediately understanding the significance of the pastries, Mallery explained to his colleague. The irony of religious cakes after their visit to the monastery wasn’t lost on the pair and both detectives chortled.
“Something wrong?” Maurice asked politely, bringing coffee to the table.
Max briefly explained, causing their host to add his own laughter to the mix.
“I see, well that is so… perfect!”
A clatter from the rear kitchen announced the presence of Telo, the baker’s son.
“My Telo,” he sighed, “he is not the most natural baker in the world, but we are making progress.”
Hobbs thought back to the summer months when the boulangerie had been filled with the aromatic delicacies produced by Englishwoman Isobel Green, but it was Max who ventured into grey waters.
“Have you, erm, been to see either of the prisoners?”
A heavy dark cloud seemed to descend upon the shop owner at the mention of his former friends and both shoulders slumped forward slightly.
“Non, I have not. I can never forgive them for taking the life of our beloved Cecile. I hope they are both punished severely and locked away indefinitely.”
Mallery nodded, sipping at his espresso to avoid intimate eye contact with the baker. Perhaps it had been foolish to ask with the murder still so fresh in everyone’s minds.
“I believe the sentencing date has been set for the end of this month,” he said.
“November the twenty-eighty,” Maurice confirmed. “I will be there to ensure that justice is done. I believe you will also be at the court to witness the verdict.”
“And Isobel, have you heard from her?” Jack ventured, a pang of guilt rushing through him as he recalled the wrongful arrest of the boulangerie assistant.
Finally, Monsieur Fabron smiled, not widely, but with a slight twinkle in his eye. “Just once,” he replied softly, pointing to a brightly coloured postcard taped to the wall. “She’s in Spain, at least for now.”
Back at police headquarters, Max gently placed a box of pastries on Luc’s desk, “Share them!” he teased.
Gabriella immediately jumped up from her chair to peruse the sweet offerings. “So, how are Monsieur and Madame Bouchon?” she asked. “You’ve been gone three hours!”
Mallery winked mischievously at Jack before responding.
“Very well, they will be fine. However, we now need to find the family of a young man taken ill at the Monastère du Saint Augustin.”
The inspector beckoned Hobbs to read out the details from his notepad as the rest of the team listened eagerly. It was Luc who spoke first.
“Should be easy,” he pointed out. “We have name, date of birth and nationality.”
“Did you not speak to him yourself?” Gabriella asked, frantically pushing a blob of oozing cream into her mouth with an index finger.
“Non.” Max sighed. “He was sleeping deeply and has a high fever.”
“So, what do we need to do?” Thierry interrupted, returning from the coffee machine. “I don’t understand, what is the problem?”
Inspector Mallery raised his eyes upwards and silently counted to ten.
<
br /> “We need to inform Monsieur Van Beek’s family that he is safe and well. They may be worried that he hasn’t been in contact.”
Jack coughed and stepped forward. “It’s a bit odd, though. Leo Bouchon said he picked the Dutchman up near Salbec station, yet he was heading for the monastery at Saint Margaux. Why didn’t he simply continue on the train to the next stop?”
Mallery gave his colleague a playful punch on the arm. “Listen to Poirot here!”
“Come on, it’s a good point,” Gabriella considered, now licking her sticky fingers. “And why go there so late at night? Is he a religious… erm, pilgrim?”
“Well,” the senior officer said before turning to leave, “I’m sure that the sooner you find Noel Van Beek’s family, the sooner we will have our answers.”
Pausing at the door, Max waved his arm at Thierry. “And the graffiti? Anything on CCTV?”
“Oui, sir, they were wearing local school uniforms and their faces were clear on the imaging, so the headmaster should be able to identify the boys who did it quite easily.”
“And yet, you are here,” the inspector noted, looking dramatically at his watch. “First thing after lunch, I want you at the school, Thierry, okay?”
There was a good-humoured tone to his boss’s voice that Thierry understood to be one of jest, but he wasn’t about to push his luck and reached for his jacket.
“Yes, sir. I’m on it, right now.”
Back in the confines of his comfortable office, Max Mallery lit a cigarette and pulled out the mobile phone from his tight blue designer jeans, checking the screen for messages. Nothing from Vanessa yet, he noticed, but in truth they’d only been apart for six hours and the reception on the train back to Paris was probably quite limited. He closed his eyes for a second, recalling the heady floral perfume that he’d inhaled on his lover’s neck as the couple had kissed on departure. Their secret tryst had been the best thing to happen to Max in weeks and he was keen to repeat the weekend.
Noel Page 5
