Isobel Page 6

  ‘Merci, Monsieur Fabron.’ Max smiled as Maurice carefully wrapped up two warm tomato and brie baguettes to go. ‘Au revoir.’

  The Englishwoman had returned to the rear kitchen, eager to continue her work, but the woman’s absence wasn’t lost on Jack who called a farewell through the open doorway.

  ‘’Bye Miss. Gilyard.’

  ‘’Bye, Detective Hobbs,’ the voice shouted, although no face appeared at the door.

  Isobel busied herself with mixing a fresh batch of icing, while Maurice stood looking out of the window perplexed. His eyes followed the detectives as they walked over to a blue car.

  ‘Are you alright?’ Izzy asked, coming to stand beside him.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine.’ The baker nodded, without moving. ‘It’s just very strange, that is all. We have very little crime in Saint Margaux and when it’s family, well… I’m just shocked, that is all. Thanks for your concern.’

  ‘Perhaps you should take a break for a while… go and talk to your sister-in-law, perhaps.’

  Maurice considered the suggestion but dismissed it almost immediately, ‘I’m sure Cecile has had enough visitors for one day, with both the uniformed police and now the detectives. I will call her later. Hubert is there to sort matters out.’

  ‘If you’re sure.’ Izzy sighed, looking at the man’s tired eyes, ‘Try not to worry.’

  ‘So,’ Mallery quizzed, as soon as the Ford Mondeo engine had spluttered to life, ‘I think Maurice Fabron is sincere, nothing to hide. What do you think?’

  Jack gently manoeuvred around the village square, taking in the immaculately planted tubs of flowers, before replying, ‘I agree. He seems like a really decent bloke. Besides, if he saw and signed the document yesterday afternoon, why on earth would he break into the safe later on to look at it again?

  ‘Exactly! Now, pull into the station car park and we’ll enjoy our baguettes.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with that, sir, I’m absolutely starving!’ Jack grinned cheekily.

  Back at the station, Thierry had been running a background check on the Vidals’ business and their associates. The whole team were eager to get involved in some real detective work, given the currently diminishing caseload, and the room had buzzed with activity all morning.

  ‘The vineyard is clean,’ Thierry told Mallery and Hobbs as they entered the air-conditioned Incident Room. ‘Not even so much as a late Tax Return. No illegal sales, or dealings with underhand companies. Everything in order, all suppliers paid on time and with legal receipts. No history of any disagreements or court cases, either. They run a tight business.’

  ‘Send this to the lab to check for fingerprints,’ Mallery told Gabriella, passing the pretty young detective a plastic bag containing the Vidals’ folder. ‘Mark it as urgent, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir, right away.’

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ Max told the others, as they gathered around for an informal briefing. ‘What the hell is going on then?’

  ‘I’ve checked out the baker’s son also, sir,’ Thierry told them, his dark

  eyes gleaming at the thought of an exciting crime to get stuck into. ‘Not even a traffic offence. Telo Fabron is mildly autistic and has never left the country.’

  ‘What about that woman at the bakery? Isobel something?’ Max asked, turning to Jack. ‘Anything unusual? Luc, maybe you could run a check on her.’

  ‘I think that’s clutching at straws if you don’t mind me saying so, sir,’ Hobbs answered honestly, hoping his boss could catch the gist of his meaning, and then turning towards the computer whiz. ‘She was a bit stand-offish, but I can’t see any reason for her to benefit from looking at that agreement.’

  ‘Stand-offish?’ Thierry laughed. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Erm, a bit rude, not very forthcoming with answers,’ Hobbs informed him.

  ‘Ah!’ Thierry and Luc gasped in unison, feeling much enlightened.

  ‘You’re right,’ Mallery sighed. ‘She’s only just arrived in Saint Margaux according to Fabron and knows next to nothing of his personal affairs.’

  ‘That’s the impression I got, too.’ Jack nodded.

  ‘Luc,’ Max called over to the technical member of the team, ‘forget that for the moment, it could be a total waste of time. We have nothing to go on and no real crime to solve, for now we are at what our English Jacques would call ‘a dead end’, oui?’

  CHAPTER FIVE - A TRIP TO BORDEAUX

  Sitting in her beloved VW Beetle on Wednesday morning, Isobel Gilyard inhaled the undeniably soapy aroma that lingered in the driver’s seat. There was another more fragrant smell, too and, as she followed her nose, she found it was centred around the passenger’s side. She quickly wound down both windows to allow fresh air to circulate before backing out of the rear courtyard. As far as Izzy was concerned, the car had stood untouched since Saturday, when Maurice had asked his son to drive it around the back and help unload her suitcases. She didn’t dwell on the matter for too long, however, as thoughts of another day in which to explore her new surroundings filled the young woman with excitement.

  Having now worked contentedly beside Monsieur Fabron in the bakery for two days, it had been agreed that Isobel should take Wednesday off, as she would be needed in the boulangerie on Saturdays, the busiest day of the week. It seemed that quite a few of the businesses in Saint Margaux chose to close their doors in the middle of the week and Izzy had asked Maurice why he didn’t follow suit, to give himself a break.

  ‘Everybody needs bread, every day,’ he had said, winking at her. ‘Just imagine poor Jean without his evening croissants, or Cecile, Simone and Dominique unable to take their afternoon tea with fondant fancies!’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ she’d told him, itching to do some shopping. ‘See you later.’

  As the shops in town would undoubtedly be closed on Sunday, her next day off, Izzy had decided to drive there to stock up on a few essentials.

  As it was still early, there were few cars on the road into the village as Isobel steered the Beetle down the winding main street of Saint Margaux, but she feared that traffic might be heavier towards Bordeaux. In a sudden flash of inspiration, Isobel was reminded of Maurice’s explanation that Bordeaux now provided a very efficient tram system in order to cut down on congestion, and she pulled into the station car park, deciding to take the train instead.

  Saint Margaux railway station was a quaint, antiquated building with red brick walls and ornamental railings running the full perimeter of the platform. A few people milled about, looking at their watches and checking mobile phones, just the way that human nature causes them to when waiting expectantly for a train to arrive. As Isobel stepped out of the car, a dark-coloured estate pulled up at the entrance and the male driver leaned over to kiss the female passenger. Izzy attempted to avert her eyes, but it was difficult, as she needed to pass the car to get to the station entrance, and she immediately recognised the woman as one of Simone Dupuis’ friends from the previous Saturday. Was it Dominique or Cecile? She couldn’t recall which one of them was the curly-haired blonde.

  As Isobel fumbled in her shopping tote for her purse, the blonde lady strode purposely around her to purchase a ticket and then went to stand underneath the station clock, her back stiff, a black designer handbag clutched tightly in both hands. Izzy raised a hand to be polite, but the woman ignored her, instead focussing all her attention on the railway tracks in front of her. The woman was dressed smartly in a polka dot dress and black jacket, looking as though she, too, was off for a day’s shopping.

  Isobel turned towards the ticket office, where a large middle-aged man was sitting bolt upright in his chair. She instantly recognised him as ‘Jean the cold croissant eater.’

  ‘Bonjour,’ he said, the deep voice steady and serious despite the flicker of recollection in his eyes. ‘Ou allez-vous?’

  ‘Bordeaux, s’il vous plaît,’ Izzy answered, proud at how easily the unfamiliar French words had fallen from her lips.

&nb
sp; ‘Sept Euro,’ Jean informed her, putting up seven chubby fingers to ensure that the foreign woman was clear about the price.

  Isobel unzipped her purse, counting coins, then huffed loudly when she realised that she didn’t have enough change. ‘Vous acceptez…’ she began, waving her bank card but not remembering the rest of what she needed to ask in French.

  ‘Non, le billet est sept Euro, payer en liquid.’

  Izzy counted out her ready cash again, scraping together a mere four Euros and fifty-three cents, cursing herself for not having been to the cashpoint over the weekend, all the while being eyed narrowly by the ticket office clerk. A middle-aged couple stepped up behind her, peering intently, first at the flustered Englishwoman and then at the coins in her hand.

  ‘I’ll have to go to the bank,’ Izzy muttered, more to herself than the man in the booth. ‘Sorry, thank you.’

  She stepped away from the platform hurriedly, but just in time to hear the arrival of the eight o’clock train to Bordeaux being announced.

  ‘Damn!’ she cursed, heading back towards the car park. ‘I guess I’ll have to drive, after all.’

  Reaching the outskirts of the town, Isobel parked in a side street and headed for the nearest tram stop. As she pulled a one Euro coin out, ready to pay her fare, Izzy almost jumped out of her skin as four police cars with flashing lights tore past at an alarming speed, a red BMW sports following closely behind. Passers-by craned their necks to see where the vehicles were heading, such excitement obviously an uncommon sight in the town. As the sirens faded into the distance, so did people’s curiosity and as the tram pulled up, the humdrum bustle of mid-week shoppers continued.

  On reaching the town centre, Isobel headed for the nearest bank and then stopped at a small café, ordering coffee with a pain au chocolat for breakfast. She was lucky, having inherited her grandmother’s slender figure, and didn’t have to concern herself with calorie counting. There were already a fair number of shoppers out and about, buying bread and waiting patiently for the butcher, la boucherie, to open his doors. Izzy had selected a table outside in order to enjoy the morning sunshine and sat back with thoughts of Telo still weighing on her mind.

  Could Maurice’s son have used her car over the weekend? Perhaps he had a girlfriend and had taken her out for a drive. That would certainly explain the sweet smell inside the Beetle. Surely she would have heard the car being driven out of the courtyard, Izzy mused as coffee arrived, but the thought of Telo being in her car without permission grated upon her. He didn’t frighten her, exactly, but it was the way in which he conducted himself that spooked Izzy slightly, sometimes just a knowing look here or a gesture there, imparting glances that said he understood far more about the conversations in English between her and Maurice than he let on.

  Having set herself up for a stroll around the shops, Izzy left money under her saucer and waved to the waiter before navigating the cobbled pedestrian areas of the busy town.

  Bordeaux possessed everything that a woman might desire. There were shoe shops, boutiques, delicatessens, a leather handbag store, dozens of restaurants displaying tasty lunch menus and bookshops selling everything that a literary junkie might ever wish to read. Izzy noticed that a couple of the stores sold foreign reading material, too and she picked up a couple of thick volumes to tide her over the long summer evenings. She then crossed the street and stared longingly in a boutique called ‘Etienne’s’, where her favourite 1950s styles were displayed in an array of modern multi-coloured fabrics, the perfect combination. Isobel pushed open the door and headed to the nearest rail. A pale pink tea dress with shoulder ties instantly grabbed her attention and she lifted the hanger to admire it properly.

  ‘C’est très chic,’ the sales assistant commented, coming up behind Isobel as she flattened the dress against herself.

  ‘Oui, très chic,’ she agreed, turning to face the mirror.

  It was at that moment that the price tag fluttered into view, almost as though it felt the need to warn Izzy of its hefty cost. Three hundred Euros.

  Stifling a cough, Isobel swiftly pushed the garment back onto the rail and casually pretended to peruse a table of silk scarves before thanking the shop assistant and heading for the door. No matter how beautiful the dress, she wouldn’t spend even half that amount on such an extravagance.

  Time passed fairly quickly that morning and, after treating herself to a lunch of bread, mixed cheeses and a glass of red wine, Isobel Gilyard was ready to make two final stops before heading back to her car. The first was to buy a few boxes of hair dye to cover her protruding dark roots, and then on to the grocery store to stock up on essential food supplies. As she finally reached the Beetle, sitting sadly alone in the deserted street, Isobel noticed that the area seemed unrestricted, as nobody had left a parking ticket on her windscreen, a rare treat in a busy town. This saved her a few Euros and put her in a pleasant mood for the drive back to Saint Margaux.

  Feeling relaxed and having enjoyed her day off, Isobel felt it reasonable to enter the boulangerie through the front door in order to speak to Maurice. During the day, she had forgotten about the sweet smell inside her car, but the drive back had set her mind racing again and she was determined to get to the bottom of the mysterious odour. She didn’t intend to confront Telo, but perhaps the baker would be able to shed some light on whether or not his son might have taken liberties with her vehicle.

  With this in mind, Izzy parked the Beetle underneath the carport at the rear, collected her shopping and headed around the side of the bakery, a smile pasted on her face, ready to greet Monsieur Fabron and any customers who might be inside taking afternoon tea. However, when she got inside, she found that something very odd was taking place.

  Ten or twelve people were clustered around the glass counter where Maurice displayed his bakes, all of them silent and staring at a portable television set that was tuned into a local news channel. The volume was turned up and a reporter spoke animatedly. Isobel dropped her shopping next to a table at the rear of the group and strained to make out the foreign words.

  ‘Le matin… la femme… la voiture…’ she caught, desperately trying to translate the French accurately into English: ‘Morning… woman… train carriage.’

  The three words alone didn’t make any sense and Izzy gently caught the sleeve of an old, wizened man who was at the rear of the group.

  ‘Excusez-moi?’ Izzy whispered, ‘qu’est-ce qu’il y a? What’s the matter?’

  The pensioner grunted and put a gnarled finger to his lips, gesturing her to be quiet until the news report had finished. ‘Écoute! Listen.’

  Several minutes later, the news item was over, and Maurice Fabron switched off the television set, his eyes downcast and solemn. As he looked up, the baker caught Izzy’s eye and beckoned her to join him behind the counter.

  ‘Ah, you are back safely.’ Maurice laid a hand on her arm and gave a deep sigh. ‘It is such a terrible thing that has happened today.’

  ‘Oh? What is it, Maurice?’

  ‘A woman has been murdered,’ he said, in a low, desperate voice. ‘On the train this morning, travelling to Bordeaux from Saint Margaux.’

  Instinctively Isobel’s hand flew up to cover her own mouth. This was shocking news. A murder!

  ‘Did you take the train, Izzy? Or did you drive?’

  ‘No, I, er… I drove,’ she mumbled, meeting Monsieur Fabron’s startled look.

  ‘Thank goodness.’ He sighed again, seeming genuinely relieved.

  ‘Who was it, Maurice? Someone you know? Somebody from Saint Margaux?’

  The tall man shrugged, splaying his hands wide. ‘We do not know yet, the police have not released a name, but this is such a small place that we are sure it will be somebody with whom we are all familiar.’

  Isobel turned to where the baker was nodding, towards the locals who were still talking in hushed tones, checking that each knew the whereabouts of the women in their families. It was some time before the crowd dispersed
and, when they did, Maurice Fabron pulled a bottle of brandy from under the counter and poured himself a large measure, one eyebrow lifting enquiringly.

  ‘Will you join me?’ he asked. ‘I have had quite a shock.’

  Isobel nodded in acceptance. ‘Just let me drop my shopping upstairs. I’ll be two minutes.’

  Maurice watched steadily with an ashen face, as his employee gathered up her bags, aware that Isobel could very easily have been a victim on the train that morning, had she chosen not to drive. He carried the small shot glasses to a table and then turned the Fermé sign to close the shop.

  ‘Things like this, murder, they never ever happen here,’ Monsieur Fabron told Izzy tearfully as the brandy warmed their throats, ‘It’s just… how to say… unheard of? We are such a tight community.’

  Isobel sat holding her glass, wondering if Maurice was going to tell her all that he had learned from the news programme. Patience was one of her better traits.

  ‘It seems the woman boarded the eight o’clock train from here, after buying a ticket to Bordeaux. She must be local, leaving so early in the morning,’ he surmised, glancing up at Izzy. ‘The reporter said that the poor woman was stabbed to death.’

  Isobel sucked in her breath at the thought, and then realised that she was there, at the station, when the train was pulling in, but there was no need to tell Maurice this trivial detail, she thought; he was distressed enough without her wittering on about her own narrow escape.

  ‘Do you have any idea who she might be?’ Izzy finally asked, her head a little fuzzy from the strong liquor.

  ‘Not yet,’ the boulangerie owner admitted, ‘but I don’t think it will be long before someone reports a loved one missing.’