Brother Cédric pulled at the hood of his cassock, suddenly feeling a chill. “Yes, I’m sorry, of course. But with Abbot Arnaud so terribly ill, my thoughts and prayers have been elsewhere.”
“Are you able to tell us anything about the young man’s final hours?” Jack pressed, opening his hands in a friendly gesture.
The monk thought for a few moments, rubbing his bald head with a soft, pudgy hand. “I really can’t think of anything, detective. I didn’t spend much time at all with the young man. Perhaps you need to speak at length with Brother Alberon, he tends to all the infirmary patients.”
Hobbs nodded, stepping to one side to allow the rather rotund man to pass, but gave Mallery a frown over the top of the monk’s head.
“Merci, Monsieur,” Max called after the scurrying monk, in a much louder tone than necessary, as if to make a point.
“Hiding something?” Jack asked when the old man was out of earshot.
Inspector Mallery wiggled his dark eyebrows. “Oui, for sure.”
Brother Cédric stopped outside the abbot’s room, looking at the eighty-year old through the glass pane in the door. Thankfully the man looked fast asleep.
Perhaps the two policemen haven’t disturbed our Holy Father after all, he thought to himself, making the sign of the cross on his chest. It really wouldn’t do to have the old man worrying when he was so ill.
Just then, as though sensing someone watching, Abbot Arnaud opened his eyes and turned his head slowly towards the closed door.
“Frère Cédric,” he beckoned in a low voice, the French words coming out in a torrent, “there is something I need you to do.”
Brother Cédric listened with wide eyes as Arnaud instructed him to go to his room and look for something amongst the abbot’s personal belongings.
“And please, do not judge me,” he finished, patting Cédric on the shoulder. “I trust you to keep this secret and, when I’m gone, you will become Abbot of Saint Augustin’s, my dear friend.”
CHAPTER EIGHT – WILFUL MURDER
Mallery and Hobbs pulled up outside the stark concrete mortuary building, neither looking forward to the task at hand. Max tapped his cigarette packet, releasing a filtered smoke and raised an eyebrow at his colleague.
“Do I have time for one of these first?”
Jack nodded and held up a finger as he stood with the car door open, before reaching into the glove compartment. He pulled out the blue and green bottle of Vick’s Vapour Rub and tossed it to his boss. “Just in case.” He winked cheekily.
Max snorted, thankful that the English detective had thought to bring this magical potion with him, but slightly embarrassed that the younger man might be having a dig at the inspector’s inability to mask his repulsion at the smell of human intestines.
“Thank you, Jacques,” he replied curtly, placing the cigarette between his lips as he unscrewed the jar of menthol gel and rubbed some under his nose.
“Thinking on my feet, sir, always thinking on my feet.”
The senior policeman didn’t pause to ask for an explanation but finished his last drag and slipped the Vick’s into his own jacket pocket, just in case.
Paul Theron was hunched over his desk when the receptionist led them through to the Coroner’s office, his mind obviously concentrating on the information that filled the computer screen.
“Café?” the bespectacled middle-aged woman asked, pausing at the door.
“Oui, merci beaucoup,” Max answered immediately, realising that it had been at least two hours since his last caffeine hit, and he was starting to feel the effects.
“Ah, Max, Jack,” Paul greeted, turning to welcome the men and automatically removing his reading glasses and standing up. “Please come in, take a seat.”
“Thanks. Any news for us?” Mallery queried, shaking his friend’s hand and kissing his cheek.
The Coroner sighed, flopped back down in his chair and turned the screen towards the detectives. “The results are just in, I’m afraid it’s as I thought.”
Max squinted, reading the report and making a mental note of the wording.
Hobbs sat silently waiting for an explanation, which Theron was more than happy to provide.
“I’ve taken the liberty of translating the finer details into English for you, Jack.”
He passed a piece of notepaper across the table. It wasn’t lost on the young detective that the Coroner had pronounced his name perfectly, suggesting that Mallery’s insistence on calling him ‘Jacques’ might be purposely to wind him up. He’d have to speak to his boss about that, he mused.
“Digitalis?” Jack read. “I’ve heard of that before. From the foxglove plant?”
“Well done, I’m impressed.” Paul smiled. “It is indeed from the foxglove – as we say, fleur de renard – a very pretty wildflower, used in modern medicine, but also deadly if you know how to use it for poisoning purposes.”
The door opened and a pot of coffee was delivered whilst the detectives digested the new information. As soon as the receptionist exited, Max took a deep breath and slapped his left hand on the desk.
“Damn. So, we are definitely looking at a murder case?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Theron countered, pouring out the dark beverage into three blue china cups. “It takes someone with expert knowledge to dry the leaves and create a compound. In Noel Van Beek’s case, the dosage was fatally high.”
“Would there have been some kind of antidote if he’d been taken to hospital in time?” Jack pondered.
“In some circumstances, with lower doses, a mixture of charcoal can be used to cause vomiting and therefore get rid of the poison,” the Coroner explained, “but sadly, this young man was given such a high dose that it would have caused a slowing of his heart rate and then cardiac arrest.”
Max raked long fingers through his thick dark hair before reaching for a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee. “This has to be one of the monks, doesn’t it? They’re the only ones resident at Saint Augustin’s.”
“Which makes it even more complicated,” Hobbs commented dryly.
“How do you mean?”
“There are sixty-nine Benedictine monks and the abbot, which makes seventy. We’re going to have to interview every single one of them, sir.”
“Merde,” Max grumbled. “Thanks for pointing that out, Jacques!”
“When are the young man’s relatives arriving?” Paul asked, steering the conversation away from the detective’s difficult predicament.
“Apparently there’s only a grandmother,” Jack supplied. “Both parents died three years ago and there are no siblings. Mrs Van Beek’s flying in from Amsterdam tomorrow afternoon.”
The Coroner rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have the young man’s body prepared for her to identify him. The poor lady must be distraught.”
Mallery drained his coffee and looked up. “Now we also have the job of telling a grieving old woman that her beloved grandson was murdered by someone in one of the most religious and sacred professions on earth.”
“Not an easy task,” Paul murmured, clicking the computer mouse to close the open file, “and you might also want to question her about something else.”
Both detectives looked at one another and then followed Paul Theron out of the office and into the spacious examination room. The tall, muscular man pointed to a prone shape on the stainless-steel table and beckoned them forward.
Hobbs noticed that the inspector held back for a moment and could feel discreet movement behind him as the Frenchman quickly dabbed more Vick’s rub underneath his nose. Jack desperately wanted to point out that the cadaver wouldn’t have the same odour as when it was opened up, with the organs on display, but thought better of it and held his tongue. Mallery would find out for himself soon enough.
The Coroner was pulling back a green cloth, exposing Noel Van Beek’s naked body to the cool, air-conditioned autopsy room. The Dutchman had been positioned on his front, head turned as though looking to one
side.
“Here,” Theron flicked his wrist towards the bare buttocks, “look at this.”
In swirled black Italic lettering, a creative tattoo had been inked across the base of the young man’s spine. Jack leaned forward to read the inscription.
“Advocatus Diaboli.”
“Devil’s Advocate,” Theron translated, “Latin and, perhaps, significant.”
“How so?” Mallery enquired, studying the neatly scrolled phrase.
The Coroner traced a gloved finger across the taut white skin. “I have a feeling that this young man was heading to Saint Augustin’s on a mission.”
Returning to police headquarters, Max stood in the centre of the incident room, his face worried and unsmiling as he explained Coroner Theron’s findings.
“Thierry, what’s happening with the graffiti?” he asked, on completing his assessment of the murder investigation.
“All finished, sir,” the detective replied immediately. “The headmaster has identified both of the boys. They’re only thirteen and fourteen, so it will be up to the parents to consider a suitable punishment. The boy’s teacher already has them out cleaning the paint off the wall after school hours.”
Inspector Mallery nodded. “Okay, so, can you take Luc out to Saint Augustin’s and get a concise list of every single resident? Perhaps ask for Brother Cédric or Brother Bénédict, they seem to be the most senior in the abbot’s absence.”
“I don’t mind going,” Gabriella chimed in cheerily, “I’ll even drive.”
Mallery shook his head. “Not today. I think it would be better that the monks are faced with two men. It might make them more open to giving up information.”
The blonde detective folded her arms and shrugged. “Okay, if you think so.”
“However, you can work with Jacques to build a fuller profile of Noel Van Beek, find out who his friends are, if or where he was working or studying, that kind of thing. Let’s hope that tomorrow, the grandmother will be able to fill in the details of what he was doing in France. We’ll need some luck on this case.”
Hobbs was already at his desk logging in to the computer, head cocked as he mentally noted the inspector’s instructions.
“Talking of luck, all the best, guys,” Jack called to Luc and Thierry as they clambered into their warm coats. “Trying to find a killer in that monastery will be like looking for a needle in a haystack, you mark my words.”
Both detectives turned, confused expressions on their faces.
“Please, don’t tell us what you’re talking about,” Luc laughed. “It will give us something to think about on our way to Saint Margaux.”
With the team busy, Mallery slunk away into his office for a shot of espresso and a cigarette before putting both feet up on the desk and dialling the extension number for Commissionaire Ozanne’s secretary. The call was answered on the first ring and a couple of minutes later, Max was making his way up to the top floor.
“Ah, Mallery,” Ozanne called out through the open door, “un café?”
The inspector declined, worried that another caffeine hit might push his already shattered nerves over the edge. Not only was the speeding fine matter unresolved, but now he was here to report that the Bordeaux police had another murder case on their hands. Involving a foreigner yet again, too!
Max got straight to the point, outlining what they’d discovered that afternoon from Paul Theron, and then gave the Commandant a rundown of the instructions he’d issued to the investigating detectives. Ozanne listened in silence, sucking in his breath as the severity of circumstances surrounding Noel Van Beek’s death was laid before him.
“I may need some uniformed resources,” Mallery finished, his polished French alerting the senior officer to his rather superior education, “as there are seventy monks that need to be interviewed. Quite a workload, don’t you agree, sir?”
“Seventy?” Ozanne repeated, splaying his fingers. “Surely some of the men can be discounted if they had no contact with the Dutchman?”
“I don’t want to take any chances, sir. It would be just our luck that the culprit was someone whom we failed to interview. I don’t want that kind of responsibility on my shoulders.”
The Commissioner considered his response for a few seconds, then reached for a notepad and pen. “As you wish. I will see to it that you have some extra help.”
Max got up to leave but was stopped in his tracks.
“Inspector Mallery.” Ozanne beckoned, pulling out the top drawer of his desk and retrieving a second copy of the speeding ticket. “Well done, you’re doing a fine job. But this… this indiscretion of yours, it must stop. Do I make myself clear?”
Max stood rooted to the spot, torn between agreeing with his boss and telling him to go to hell. Either way, there was an instantaneous choice to be made.
“Yes, sir.”
The words were out of his mouth before the inspector even had time to form them in his mind. Max knew he’d regret it later.
“Good, I’m glad we understand each other. I’ll see to it that no further action is taken on this fine. Good luck with finding the murderer, Inspector Mallery.”
Breathing deeply through his nose, Max gave a curt nod to Commissioner Ozanne before making his way back downstairs, in need of a stiff drink.
Jack Hobbs deftly pushed the apartment door closed with one foot whilst balancing a full bag of groceries in the other. He sniffed the air, anticipating supper cooking in the kitchen, but all he sensed was a waft of Angélique’s floral perfume and the lingering aroma of antiseptic baby wipes.
“Hi honey, I’m home,” he called, mocking the film whose name he could never remember. “I’ve brought supplies. And some pizza for dinner.”
A beautiful, heart-shaped face framed by dark curls appeared around the corner of the living room door, soft lips pouting, eyelids fluttering.
“Hello, darling,” Angélique smiled, “how was your day?”
The red-headed detective shrugged. “Oh, you know, the usual. Busy.”
“Did you bring a bottle of wine to go with supper? It was too cold for me to take Thomas out today, I was worried he might catch a cold.”
Jack continued on into the bijou kitchen, only pausing to kiss his wife tenderly before dropping the grocery bag onto the counter and looking around. Two plates, two mugs and an empty cafetière sat in the sink unwashed.
“Did you have a visitor?”
The slender young woman crept up behind her husband and slipped her arms around his waist. “Only Marianne, from next door.”
“Oh, that’s nice that you’ve had a bit of company. Did she stay long?”
Jack could feel his wife stiffen behind him and her hands loosened around his middle. He turned, not quite knowing what to expect, but his skills of detection sensed something negative was going to be forthcoming.
“What?” he probed, picking up on his wife’s change of demeanour.
The Frenchwoman blushed. “Marianne took care of Thomas for a couple of hours while I went out to get my nails done.”
The young man looked down, seeing bright pink talons, perfectly painted. “They look great. Hang on….”
Angélique raised her eyebrows, knowing what was coming.
“Yes, okay, I went out to the salon,” she whined, “but I couldn’t go to the supermarket afterwards as my manicure would have got ruined.”
Jack tensed but kept his mouth shut, instead focussing on unpacking the food.
Across town, Max Mallery was standing under a red-hot shower in an effort to loosen the muscles that had seemed to gradually tighten during the day. He’d called at the gym on the way home, expecting to exert himself and get rid of the black cloud hanging over his head, but he had failed miserably and was now ready for an early night with a bottle of something rich and strong.
Padding into the bespoke kitchen with no more than a towel wrapped around the lower part of his body, Max lifted a bottle of Burgundy from the wine rack and opened the top drawer t
o retrieve a bottle-opener. Knives, forks and spoons lay neatly in the cutlery tray but not the implement for which he searched. As the detective pulled out the drawer further, reaching to the back, his hand touching upon something silky and soft.
“Ah, Vanessa, ma chérie,” Max whispered, lifting his lover’s scarf up to his nose to inhale her scent, casting his mind back to the previous weekend.
There was a low hum, followed by the vibration of Mallery’s mobile phone as it began to blast out an old Abba hit. He recognised the caller identity immediately and abandoned the task at hand.
“What would Jacques say?” He laughed out loud. “Speak of the Devil!”
Sitting across the table from one another, nibbling at shop-bought pizza, Jack and Angélique Hobbs were feeling rather tetchy towards one another. On the Yorkshireman’s part, he was annoyed at himself for expecting his wife to behave like his mother. Growing up, there had always been a tidy home, a hot meal on the table for the men of the house and cupboards stocked as though his parents were expecting war-time rationing to begin. To him, his mum had always seemed glamorous with her once-a-week shampoo and set and department store twin-set cardigan and top. He could hardly expect Angélique to behave like that, though. Things were different these days, and in France they seemed as far from rural England as the Gobi desert, he grumbled inwardly.
Angélique flicked at her long, dark hair, moving it off her shoulder as she ate, picking pieces of mushroom off the pizza topping with the other hand and then pecking at them one by one like a baby bird. Jack watched her with interest.
“I have a surprise,” she suddenly announced, flashing her large brown eyes at Jack. “I’ve booked us a weekend break in Nice. My parents are going to look after Thomas. Everything is arranged.”
“That’s fantastic, love!” Her husband smiled, momentarily forgetting why he had felt so annoyed on arriving home that evening. “Can’t wait. When?”
Noel Page 10
