Inspector Mallery had taken the emergency call from the front desk himself, being nearest to the incident room communal phone, as the other detective’s heads remained bowed down as they typed in searches for more information about Noel Van Beek. Max hadn’t wanted the team disturbed, although he hadn’t really considered the location of the Dutchman’s family to be urgent, until now.
The inspector’s mouth fell open as he listened to the duty sergeant on the other end of the line. He could hardly believe what he was being told and sat down on an empty desk while the voice continued to explain.
“He’s dead!” Max gasped, jumping to his feet. “Who’s coming with me?”
“Who’s dead, sir?” Jack queried, turning in his chair to face the boss.
“The Dutchman,” Inspector Mallery replied urgently. “He’s had some kind of convulsion at the monastery, we need to go now.”
Gabriella was on her feet before either Hobbs or Luc could respond with “Me.”
With only seconds to grab her warm jacket and scarf, the female detective ran after the inspector, eager to get more information. They met Thierry on the outside steps, making his way back into the police headquarters, but didn’t stop to explain. Gabriella moved quickly to keep up with Max and shouted to her dark-skinned colleague that Jack and Luc would explain everything.
“What happened?” she asked, running around to the passenger door of Max’s sports car. “How did he die? Do you know?”
Mallery shook his head in dismay. “That’s what we need to find out. Shit, a foreigner’s death is all we need to contend with.”
Signalling for Brother Alberon to accompany their religious brother to hospital, Cédric turned to face the crowd that now gathered at the entrance door. Concerned faces looked at him expectantly, as if for guidance.
“Allons à la chapelle et prions,” he announced, clapping both hands together to express that they should hurry to the chapel and pray.
Almost at once, the Holy Order came together as a unit, bustling in silence to light a candle for each of their stricken brethren, and one for the recently departed young traveller, not a murmur amongst them.
Brother Cédric folded his arms, hands tucking up inside the billowing sleeves of his woollen cassock and followed the younger men to their most sacred of places, all the time wondering what on earth had just happened. He felt as though a bolt of lightning had struck the monastery, claiming two of their most respected and elderly residents. Cédric considered the implications of both Abbot Arnaud and Brother Bénédict not returning to the fold. It was an almost unbearable thought. It would leave the care of the Order in his own very capable hands.
Arriving at the Monastère du Saint Augustin in record time, Mallery left the BMW unlocked as he pointed towards the main door. The high-roofed sandstone building was eerily silent, given the number of residents, and it was several minutes before a fresh-faced young novice monk answered the detective’s incessant rapping.
A hurried explanation ascertained the reason for the distinct lack of activity inside the monastery and it wasn’t until the more senior Brother Cédric was called that Max could start getting some answers. Gabriella took it upon herself to act as scribe, jotting down every detail in shorthand, a talent that none of the male detectives possessed.
“Il a été emmené à la morgue,” Cédric explained, bowing his head to stress the severity of the situation, “et le Frère Bénédict est à l’hôpital.”
Inspector Mallery frowned, asking for more details. He knew about Noel Van Beek’s sudden and obviously fatal demise, but this was the first he’d heard about Brother Bénédict. And wasn’t it only a few hours earlier that Abbot Arnaud had also collapsed with a heart attack?
He waited patiently while the elderly monk added more detail in his own very fumbled and slow-paced recollection.
Some time later, Max and Gabriella were led to the infirmary. At first glance, it was obvious that there had been some commotion around the bed that the young Dutchman had occupied. Gabriella twisted her ponytail through her fingers and stepped forward, making a mental note of the dark-stained sheets before pulling out her phone and taking a few snapshots of the marks.
“Ses affaires?” Mallery was asking the monk, pointing to the nylon rucksack.
Brother Cédric nodded, affirming that, as far as he was aware, none of the Dutchman’s personal belongings had been touched.
Gabriella asked for a large plastic bin liner to wrap the bag in, as she didn’t want to risk anything falling out or being contaminated should it bear relevance to the traveller’s death. Brother Cédric obliged, although he seemed a little reluctant to leave the bedside and continued to stare at the attractive inspector.
“Tout va bien?” The young detective smiled, shaking out the bag and peering into Cédric’s tired eyes.
“Oui,” he snapped, as though stirring from a reverie. “Bien.”
Gabriella struggled to fit the rucksack inside the liner, noting that Cédric offered no assistance. She took several minutes to cover the item to her own satisfaction and then returned her gaze back to Mallery.
Max then explained that they would need to interview everyone who had been in contact with the deceased, but for now, he wanted to drive back to Bordeaux to see what condition Brother Bénédict was in.
Doctor Inderjeet Singh was a short, slight man with dark, glistening eyes. He was top of his game and enjoyed the challenges that being part of the medical emergency team threw at him, especially the complex cases where quick diagnosis and speedy intervention were required. He now stood looking down at the perspiring face of the latest patient to be admitted to the accident and emergency department, his face full of perplexity. It had been a long morning, with dozens of routine cases passing through the hospital doors. He wondered why people didn’t use their local medical centres as the first port of call, but then told himself that of course the resources were limited and the older generation in particular were prone to panicking when it came to twinges in the chest and suspected broken bones.
Here was a different case altogether, he pondered, taking in the religious man’s dress and smooth-shaven tonsure. The casualty’s lips were tinged with something dark, an unusual smell faintly wafting as he breathed. The doctor carefully replaced Brother Bénédict’s oxygen mask, taking care not to let the elastic strap snap into place, and beckoned to a junior consultant.
“Take a swab around the man’s mouth,” he directed in Indian-accented French, “especially his lips, and get it to the lab straight away.”
Satisfied that there was no more to be done until a toxin report was completed, Doctor Singh stepped out of the cubicle and raised a hand to Brother Alberon.
“Ici.” He beckoned to the pale old man who sat tugging at the hem of his tunic, pulling open the door of a nearby consulting room. There would be many questions to be answered that morning, in particular, how it had come to pass that Brother Bénédict had been poisoned.
As the two conversed, the more puzzled both became. Brother Alberon could think of nothing that Bénédict might have eaten or drunk that the rest of the Order hadn’t partaken of that day. He certainly hadn’t been unwell before their retirement to Abbot Arnaud’s office for coffee and both himself and Brother Cédric were feeling quite well, despite the stressful morning.
“Stressant?” the doctor repeated: stressful?
Brother Alberon nodded eagerly, rapidly explaining the death of Noel Van Beek and the absence of the abbot following his recent heart attack.
Inderjeet Singh pursed his lips and tilted his head to one side, the bright blue turban seeming out of place in the stark white room. Could the events possibly be connected? he asked, scribbling notes in a frantic effort to capture every last detail. Looking at Brother Bénédict’s erratic heartbeat and dilated pupils, coupled with the sour, toxic odour in his mouth, the consultant was certain that foul play was involved. He wanted to know more about the death of Noel Van Beek. Had Brother Bénédict perh
aps shared a water cup or eaten from the same bowl that morning?
No, not at all, the elderly monk answered, each medical emergency was totally separate, none had eaten together, although he did suddenly recall that the abbot had been talking to the Dutchman just minutes before he collapsed. He asked whether there might be some relevance in that fact. Alberon could see the doctor’s eyes flitting back and forth, rereading the pages of scrawled notes in order to trigger a connection in his mind. A lengthy forefinger suddenly stabbed at the paper.
“Le Frère Bénédict, at-il touche la bouche du jeune homme?”
Brother Alberon considered the question, mentally replaying events as though he were rewinding a film and then suddenly sat bolt upright in his seat.
Yes, he nodded, Bénédict had indeed been in contact with Noel Van Beek’s mouth whilst trying desperately to resuscitate him!
CHAPTER SIX – TRACING A STRANGER
Jack Hobbs stood up and stretched, the muscles in the base of his spine feeling tight after a morning sitting at the computer. He reached for a marker pen and then retrieved a sheet of paper from the shared printer.
“We’ve got the details from police in Amsterdam,” he told Luc and Thierry, waving the document in the air. “I’ll write it all up on the board.”
“I’ve made an enlarged copy of Van Beek’s passport photo,” Luc replied, pushing back his chair. “Put it up there too. Gives a face to the name.”
He passed Jack the A4 printout and the Yorkshireman sighed. “Hope we get something back from the Coroner’s office soon. He was such a young lad. It’s highly unlikely that he died from natural causes.”
Thierry turned away from his screen and waited for Hobbs to write up the profile before commenting, his dark eyes scanning the information. “Next of kin is his grandmother? What happened to the parents then?”
Jack looked down at the details sent through from the Amsterdam police. “It seems they died in a car crash three years ago. I’ve asked the Dutch guys to contact the lad’s grandma, Annalise Van Beek. I’m guessing she’ll want to fly down here as soon as possible.”
Thierry sat staring at the board. “Poor woman, this is going to be a big shock. If Noel Van Beek was back-packing through France, it’s not a good advertisement for the National Tourist Board!”
Arriving at the formidable Hospital Saint-André in Bordeaux, Inspector Mallery was taken aback by the grand architecture of the building, with its curved Gothic arches and perfectly maintained gardens. Grey flagstones paved the way to the entrance and gave the detective the impression that the structure had been here for many centuries.
It didn’t take Max and Gabriella more than a few minutes to locate the recently admitted monk, as it seemed most of the nursing staff had gathered around the front desk to discuss the arrival of Brother Bénédict. They were ushered down a long corridor whilst the duty doctor was alerted to the police officers’ presence. A couple of minutes later, a smiling Indian wearing a blue turban poked his head around an office door and beckoned them inside, his bushy beard softening the man’s features.
The first thing that Max noticed was Brother Alberon sitting uncomfortably in a plastic chair, his heavy-set thighs far too wide for the tubular-framed furniture.
“Bonjour,” he nodded, “comment va Frère Bénédict?”
Doctor Singh beckoned the detectives to sit whilst he explained the situation. Although the monk was not in any immediate danger, it seemed that he had definitely been poisoned, possibly by touching Noel Van Beek’s lips with his own in an attempt to save the young man’s life.
Mallery frowned, looking for a more in-depth explanation.
“Avec quoi était-il empoisonné?” he queried. What was he poisoned with?
Doctor Singh splayed his long fingers. “Je ne sais pas.” I don’t know.
The consultant went on to explain that tests were being run, and that he would prefer Brother Bénédict to rest for a while before the police conducted their necessary interviews. Mallery agreed that there was no need to exhaust the poor man right now; he could come back later in the afternoon. However, something needed to go on record as soon as possible and seeing as Brother Alberon was already here, Max decided to request him to join them back at the station for an hour or so.
“Je marcherai,” Gabriella called to her boss as Max and Alberon headed for the gleaming sports car, and proceeded to walk briskly back towards the police headquarters, her arms swinging as she set off down the busy street.
The elderly monk stood peering through the car window at the low bucket seat in the BMW, wondering how on earth he was going to fit himself inside. Max breathed heavily through his nose. Obviously he hadn’t thought about the implications of a larger than usual passenger when he’d purchased the car; it was going to be a tight fit. Once Alberon was inside, blatantly aware of his rounded physique, arms tucked tightly in his lap, Mallery slid into the driver’s side and prepared himself for a short but uncomfortable ride.
“C’est une toute petit voiture,” the monk commented, looking at the complex dials on the dashboard and wondering what their various purposes could be.
The inspector grinned. It might seem small to Brother Alberon but this car was his pride and joy, despite its snugly shaped seats.
Having parked in the police compound, Mallery was quick to secure an interview room in which to question the religious man. He also put a call through, requesting Jack Hobbs to join him. The younger detective might have information regarding Noel Van Beek by now, he thought.
Mallery fetched a bottle of mineral water for the elderly monk and then settled himself in a chair on the opposite side of the table. He asked Brother Alberon if they might speak in English for the benefit of his colleague, but the man shook his head.
“Pardon, je ne parle pas anglais,” he answered apologetically.
On Jack’s arrival, Mallery began to question Brother Alberon about the morning’s events, occasionally pausing to translate the monk’s replies into English for the Yorkshireman’s benefit. The Benedictine monk had the tendency to ramble off topic and Max tried to hide his frustration by gently cutting him off mid-sentence with the raising of a palm.
“It seems that Noel Van Beek was sick and then taken by convulsions before he died, almost as though he were having a fit,” Max explained, “and now, with the doctor certain that Brother Bénédict had poison in and around his mouth, it would be natural to presume that the young Dutchman was also poisoned.”
Jack considered the information, tapping two fingers on the table. “So, are we to assume that Noel Van Beek was intentionally poisoned, while Bénédict was accidentally poisoned by trying to resuscitate him?”
Mallery dipped his head. “It would seem that way. Doctor Singh told us that there wasn’t enough poison around the monk’s mouth to kill him, but it made him vomit, thankfully. Maybe that’s what saved his life.”
Brother Alberon looked from one detective to the other before adding a few sentences in French. Mallery replied with a frown on his face.
“What is it, sir?” Jack urged.
“Brother Alberon says that Noel Van Beek was making a very good recovery last night. He ate some supper of chicken broth and his fever was going down. But this morning he was sick, and the contents were very dark.”
Hobbs stroked the fine ginger hairs on his stubbly chin. “I wonder what that might be? Was it the soup that contained the poison?”
“I guess we’ll have to wait for the toxin results,” his boss sighed, “although Gabriella was on the ball and took a couple of photos of the stained bedsheets.”
“Foul play?” Jack asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Oui, Jacques, I would say that there’s definitely something suspicious going on.”
Having secured Brother Alberon a lift back to the hospital to be with his colleague, and to no doubt visit Abbot Arnaud, too, Mallery and Hobbs headed upstairs to the incident room. Thierry was just putting down the telephone on his desk, one hand r
ubbing at the dark, downy afro hair on his head.
“That was the Amsterdam police,” he said, spinning around to face the duo. “Noel Van Beek’s grandmother is coming here. She’ll be on the first flight into Bordeaux on Thursday afternoon.”
The door to Abbot Arnaud’s side room pushed open with a faint squeak, the nurse’s face stern as she beckoned the plump monk to come inside.
“Ne reste pas trop longtemps,” she warned, noticing that the patient was now sleeping soundly. “Il est endormi.”
Brother Alberon nodded. He hadn’t intended to stay too long, anyway, only enough time to ensure that their Holy Father was doing well. The others would be eager for some news. Goodness knows they deserved to hear something positive after the chaos that morning. Recent events were unbelievable.
Tracing the back of Abbot Arnaud’s liver-spotted hand with one finger, Alberon looked around at the beeping machinery and shook his head. He didn’t know what any of these monitors were for, they could have been searching for alien life forms for all the monk knew, but without doubt the abbot was in the best place. He watched the old man’s eyelids flutter, half expecting him to wake, but the patient slept on, oblivious to everything around him.
“Mon Père,” Alberon whispered softly, “guérissez bientôt.”
Back downstairs, Brother Bénédict had been transferred to a side ward. He lay encased in the brilliant white sheets, confused, his ageing mind unable to fathom where he was or how he’d got here. A dry tongue flicked out against parched lips and he suddenly remembered the foul taste in his mouth, something sharp and acidic that had made him retch. Bénédict scanned the room for familiar faces, but saw only curious strangers looking back, each with their own medical reasons for being there. One nurse proceeded to attach a blood pressure band to the elderly man’s arm, while another shone a light into his eyes.
Noel Page 7
