A knock at the door shattered Mallery’s daydream.
“Inspecteur Mallery,” a uniformed officer called softly, hesitating on the threshold, “il y a un ticket pour excès de vitesse pour votre vehicule.”
Max was out of his swivel chair in an instant. What was that? A speeding ticket? Taking the proffered slip of paper from the fresh-faced policeman, the inspector nodded and bid him leave. “Merde, merci.”
Damn! That was all he needed, to be caught exceeding the limit in town. His dark eyes scanned the information, noting the previous Saturday’s date and the time of eight in the evening. The street location was close to a seafood restaurant in Bordeaux where he’d dined with Vanessa in a secluded corner.
Max wasn’t sure how matters were dealt with down here in rural France but any misdemeanours he’d had to deal with in Paris had always been ‘eradicated’ by the Commissioner without too much questioning. Since his transfer to Bordeaux in April, the inspector’s new boss had proven to be rather strict regarding protocol, yet always seeming to remain elusive when investigations required additional funding or support – not the ideal combination.
There was one further issue that truly bothered Mallery, too. He was unsure of Commissaire Ozanne’s relationship with his former superintendent and couldn’t even begin to guess whether the man had knowledge of Max’s indiscretion with Vanessa, Commissioner Chirac’s beautiful yet promiscuous wife.
Striding purposely back to the central incident room, Inspector Mallery stood at the door controlling his breathing before entering. Looking straight ahead, he walked over to the computer technician’s desk, neither turning his head to see if the other two detectives had noted his presence, nor pausing to converse with them. A mop of red hair popped up above one computer for just a split second before disappearing again, fingers tapping at keys as Jack searched for information. Gabriella remained indifferent to her boss’s sudden reappearance and continued to make scribbled notes with her head bent and eyes focussed downwards.
“Luc,” Mallery hissed, keeping his voice low and sliding the yellow paper onto his subordinate’s desk. “Pouvez-vous acceder aux cameras de circulation pour moi?” Can you access the traffic cameras for me?
Without hesitation, the computer wizard clicked a few buttons and typed in the reference number from the top of his boss’s speeding ticket. A few black and white frames jerked across the screen before a close-up of the sports BMW appeared quite clearly as it rounded a bend. Without waiting to be asked, Luc zoomed in. With one hand on the steering-wheel, Max had been caught grinning widely on the camera, next to him a glamorous woman in a low-cut evening dress. The inspector squeezed Luc’s arm and put a finger to his lips: “Silence.”
Mallery held the offending speeding ticket at arm’s length between two fingers, as though it contained some form of highly toxic contaminate. What was he to do now? He could either pay the fine, which would be hefty and may incur penalties in the form of a driving course or licence points, or he could bite the bullet and take his chance with Commissaire Ozanne.
The perfectly manicured, yet slightly hairy masculine hands tapped lightly on the desk, searching for the answer, unsure which path to take.
Finally, Max got to his feet and called the senior officer’s secretary to see if the man was free. He would take his chance. After all, if he were Commissaire Chirac, he wouldn’t want all and sundry knowing about his wife’s affair with a much younger and lower ranking police officer, so, if Max’ gut instincts were right, Ozanne might very well be out of the loop on internal Parisian gossip.
“Faisons cela,” he muttered, picking up a smart navy blazer from the coat-hook. Let’s do this.
CHAPTER FIVE – A VIOLENT DEATH
The melancholy chanting of the Benedictine monks of Saint Augustin’s echoed around the neighbouring countryside. A daily occurrence, local villagers were used to the dulcet tones of the seventy devoted men but, to a passer-by, the sound must have been quite unusual, an angelic tone that, coupled with the foggy November morning, powdered the monastery in a mystical glow. The landscape outside lacked colour except for the purple hue of a few wild foxgloves swaying gently in the icy breeze.
After conducting a solemn gathering of morning prayers at dawn on Tuesday, Brother Bénédict slowly led the way to the refectory, where warm lumpy porridge and fresh fruit picked from the monastery orchard was laid out on long, polished trestle tables. The room was abuzz with the low hum of voices as the men ate heartily before going about their various assigned chores. He looked around for the familiar rotund form and rounded shoulders of Brother Cédric who, Bénédict noticed, had seated himself at the rear of the chapel and made a hasty retreat as soon as the service was over. The monk’s tired hazel eyes scanned the vaulted hall, searching corners, the crow’s feet creasing as he narrowed his weary lids.
“As-tu vu Frère Cédric?” he asked in a low throaty whisper of the nearest seated monks.
Each shook their head, mouths crammed full of oatmeal and apple.
Abandoning his breakfast bowl, Brother Bénédict rose and heaved his large form up from the bench. His two nearest neighbours visibly lifted slightly as the elder monk’s weight shifted from the long communal seat. For a moment or two he scanned the vast dining room again, searching for his friend and eager to hear how Abbott Arnaud was faring. It had been late when Brother Cédric finally returned from the geriatric man’s hospital bedside the previous night and the pair had yet to discuss daily matters in their Holy Father’s absence. Bénédict had heard the familiar purr of the communal minivan outside the dormitory window, but had failed to catch a glimpse of his comrade as Cédric hurried off to bed. No sign, he noted, and it was most certainly out of character for the other monk to miss a meal. If there was one certain trait that could be counted on, it was Brother Cédric’s appetite.
Brushing gently past a junior brother who moved carefully between benches with a hot tea urn, Brother Bénédict turned towards the door and scratched his balding head. Already there were worrying thoughts about the Abbot’s welfare racing through his mind and visions of Brother Cédric rushing back to the medical unit without consulting his fellow brothers, worried the ageing monk. They needed to keep their channels of communication open, especially without the modern technology of mobile phones, the only land-line being that in the abbot’s study which was used in strict emergencies only. There were rotas to draw up in Abbot Arnaud’s absence and the distribution of funds to take care of the monastery weekly supplies. There was little the monks relied upon from the outside world, priding themselves on self-sufficiency from the walled garden and plentiful orchard, but items such as toilet paper and cleaning products would still need to be procured from the village grocery store.
As he turned to leave, Brother Alberon came scuttling forth from the direction of the infirmary, his flabby cheeks puffing as he made his way to the dining hall. Brother Bénédict struggled with the temptation to let out a chuckle. Sometimes Alberon was the most wonderful source of amusement without realising, he thought.
“Ah, Alberon,” Brother Bénédict said, stopping to clasp the other man’s warm hands, “as-tu parlé à Frère Cédric?”
“Oui, il est avec le jeune homme.”
“Merci, Alberon.”
Only pausing to catch his breath, the infirmary assistant excused himself and padded on, eager to catch the last of the porridge before it became congealed and stuck to the pottery bowl. The elder monk watched him go.
Of course, Bénédict chided himself, it was only natural that Cédric would want to check on the young man. No doubt the abbot had asked about his condition, as he would be worried about the care of their unexpected guest.
Hurrying forward, Brother Bénédict headed for the Dutch patient’s bedside. Obviously, Cédric had relieved Alberon in order for the younger man to eat some breakfast. Such a benevolent monk, always considering the welfare of others before himself. The younger men in their Holy Order would do well to follow Céd
ric’s lead, Bénédict mused; perhaps a scripture on caring for thy neighbour might be appropriate for the following Sunday’s Mass.
Noel Van Beek was sitting up in bed, his head tilted to one side, looking confused. The stranger’s soft fair hair stood up in unruly tufts as though he’d been pulled through a bramble hedge and the monastery-issue striped pyjamas looked crumpled and loose around his slender limbs. The young man had an arm up to protect his eyes from the bright overhead lights and blinked rapidly as he struggled to focus. Dilated pupils squinted with the pain of the glare.
“Where am I?” he muttered, a slither of frothy white spittle sliding from his mouth. “Argh, that light, it’s so bright.”
The words were loosely formed and slurred, as though Noel had been drinking.
“Le Monastère du Saint Augustin,” Brother Cédric explained, brushing a hand over the stiffly starched sheets. “Don’t you remember coming here late last Saturday night, Monsieur Van Beek? It was during the heavy rainstorm.”
The Dutchman shook his head. “I… no… how did I…?”
“Don’t worry.” The monk smiled wearily. “You haven’t been well, so a little memory loss is normal, I suppose. Lie down and rest now.”
The patient gripped at the top sheet with white knuckles before throwing his head back and vomiting foul-smelling dark bile onto the fresh linen coverlet.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Brother Cédric grimaced between gritted teeth, his pallor turning red. “Now please, lie down while I clean this up.”
Witnessing the exchange as he approached softly, the open-toed sandals hardly making a squeak on the highly polished floor, Brother Bénédict increased his pace and frowned at the look of disgust on his fellow monk’s face. It was quite unlike his Brother to lose his temper. He was usually such a passive man.
“Cédric,” he called out, “que se passe-t-il?
Brother Cédric looked like a rabbit caught in headlights, his mouth falling open at the realisation of being witnessed.
Before the monk could reply, Noel Van Beek began gasping for breath, pulling to open the cotton pyjama top with frantic fingers, his face visibly changing from white to blue as the air refused to release itself from his lungs. A loud retching sound came from the young man’s throat as he fought to stop the terrible suffocation that threatened to squeeze the life from him.
As Brother Cédric stood rooted to the spot, his colleague stepped forward, reaching for the youngster’s wrist, eyes wide in panic.
“Aller chercher Alberon rapidement,” Bénédict instructed, desperate to save the man who now writhed in agony in his arms. “Cédric!”
The monk turned at the sound of his name, suddenly realising that he needed to force his unwilling legs into action and raced out of the infirmary as fast as his stout body would carry him.
Brother Bénédict gasped as Noel convulsed, his back arching into an unnatural spasm, and then slumped in the monk’s arms before Bénédict attempted mouth to mouth resuscitation on the virtual stranger. Press down, one two three, he told himself. Now gently blow air in through the mouth. Slowly, I must keep the breaths regular. Oh, why hadn’t he paid more attention when the first-aid training had been given all those years ago? The process was clumsily repeated, going on and on until the sound of running footsteps told him that help had arrived. A hand touched the old monk’s shoulder, forcing him to submit, to leave Noel Van Beek to Brother Alberon’s dedicated and experienced hands.
Brother Bénédict leaned away from the bed, allowing Alberon to attend to the dying man. He could hardly believe his eyes or ears when the young man gave a last judder before falling limp, eyes rolling back in his head.
“Il est mort,” the infirmary attendant croaked in disbelief, after several moments of searching for a pulse. He is dead.
Half an hour later, the covered body of Noel Van Beek was being wheeled out of the monastery on a portable metal gurney, rubber wheels rotating quickly as the dead man was rapidly removed from the infirmary. Brother Cédric couldn’t help but liken the shrouded figure to Christ the Redeemer, a young man taken far too early, such a seemingly innocent and kindly soul. He felt exhausted, in need of sweet tea to assist with the dreadful shock, but most of all Cédric was confused. How on earth could a young man in their care suddenly be taken so fatally ill? Only the day before, Noel Van Beek had been sitting up in bed drinking Brother Bénédict’s famous broth and had seemed, by all accounts, well on the road to recovery.
Monks lined the entrance hall as paramedics strode quickly past in neon uniforms, pushing the Dutchman out into the dim sunlight for his journey to the morgue. They had been far too late, unable to offer a last-minute reprieve to the dying man. Each Brother performed the sign of the cross as the body moved on towards the open oak doors, every man blessing the dead youngster and wishing his soul a successful ascent to Heaven.
The trio of senior brothers, Bénédict, Cédric and Alberon, followed behind the squeaking trolley in disbelief, each tormented by his own thoughts and unanswered questions about the young man in their care. Younger men searched the eyes of their elders, faces stricken that such a tragedy could have happened under their roof, here in a house of God.
Instructed that the police and city Coroner would be informed, the three monks simply nodded. They would have expected an inquest at the very least. Perhaps the Dutchman had an underlying medical problem, Brother Alberon suggested. The ambulance driver shrugged. It was certainly possible, he informed them, but nothing would be known until the autopsy had been completed. Doors closed with a bang as Noel Van Beek was driven away, his presence at the monastery still a mystery and his family unaware of the sudden death that had squeezed the last breath from the foreigner’s young body.
Sitting in Abbot Arnaud’s sparse office a short while later, the three old men sipped absent-mindedly at their cups of coffee, a plate of digestive biscuits lying untouched on the table between them. Each looked at the other for an explanation, but all were reluctant to speak their opinions out loud.
“There is something very wrong about this,” Brother Alberon finally murmured in French, cupping his chin with soft, pulpy hands. “It was only a chill. I know he was making a good recovery yesterday.”
Brother Cédric nodded his agreement, his face ghostly white. “Yes, there is. It is very strange that he was getting over the chill and now suddenly to collapse like this! Could it have been a fit, epilepsy perhaps?”
Alberon sighed and clasped his hands. “I haven’t seen anyone have a fit like that before, not the way he spasmed and could not breathe. However, I am sure we shall find out soon enough.”
The monk sighed and put down his coffee cup, turning to look at his friend who had made a groaning sound. “Bénédict, are you unwell?”
The old man had slumped forward, a deep belching noise coming from his throat before the recently drunk coffee landed with a splat on his soft brown woollen cassock.
On Ward Three of Bordeaux’s Saint André’s Hospital, the door of a side room creaked open as one of the duty nurses tiptoed inside, careful to avoid waking the patient inside. Abbot Arnaud had suffered a restless night and now, finally, slept soundly, his fine white hair lying in thin strands across the pillow like a delicate spider’s web, hence the young woman’s reluctance to disturb him as she sought to check his vitals. Sliding a thermometer into the old man’s slightly hairy ear, she looked across at the heart monitor and made a mental note of its steady beeping rhythm before completing the patient’s chart at the bottom of the bed.
“Eau,” a croaky voice begged, pointing a crooked finger at the clear glass water jug on its stand.
“Monsieur,” the nurse smiled, meeting the kind, watery blue eyes as she reached for a small plastic cup, “ici.”
The abbot drank eagerly, allowing the nurse to bring the cup to his mouth, just enough to quench his thirst and wet parched lips, before falling back exhausted against the over-stuffed pillows.
“Merci,” he thanked her
, before resuming the deep, dreamless slumber that beckoned, “merci beaucoup.”
The nurse clicked her pen and clipped it back onto her pristine blue uniform pocket, watching the abbot as he drifted back to sleep. For a man of eighty, he was making a remarkable recovery, she noted, watching the patient’s chest rise and fall quite gently. If pressed for an answer, she’d bet that there were plenty of years left in the old abbot yet.
With a second ambulance dispatched, Brother Cédric paced the abbot’s office whilst Alberon struggled to keep the ailing Bénédict conscious. Tilting the monk forward, he checked the man’s airway and took the brunt of his weight while they waited for help to arrive.
“Que lest son problème?” Cédric asked desperately, brows deeply furrowed. “Alberon?”
“Je ne sais pas.” The medic shrugged helplessly. I don’t know.
Brother Cédric moved towards the door, ready to direct the paramedics to the study the moment they arrived. He was distraught. Bénédict had been here almost as long as he himself and the two were the closest of friends. To think they might lose him was unbearable.
Finally, a commotion in the hallway signalled the arrival of medical experts and the senior monk beckoned them to come quickly inside. He glanced at Brother Alberon’s tearful face as he held Bénédict’s limp body in an upright position to stop the man from choking on his own vomit.
Time seemed to slow to almost a standstill as the paramedics worked on the old monk, clearing his throat and placing an oxygen mask over his deathly white face. Only when they were satisfied that the chance of cardiac arrest or stroke was over, did they begin to move the man out towards the waiting ambulance. Grief-stricken faces watched, unable to comprehend the third emergency team arriving within as many days. Never had Saint Augustin’s been so alive with activity.
Noel Page 6
