by Katie Penryn
“I made a copy,” the shopkeeper said. “I need it for insurance purposes. You can look at it here now if you want.”
“That would be great,” I said quickly before he could change his mind.
He showed us into the back office and cued in the tape for Saturday night.
“Nothing much happens in this street on a Saturday night,” he warned. “It’s mostly small shops like mine that close at seven… and the bakery, of course.”
Felix being the technical one, fast forwarded the tape to eleven o’clock and paused it every time there was a gap in the traffic. Whenever a car drove past the shop or stopped in the street, Felix paused the tape and took notes of the registration number, time and make and model of the car. Five cars stopped briefly and seventeen drove past slowly between eleven and two in the morning. One vehicle drove past as if the driver was searching for an address. Minutes later it passed again and then approached a third time.
“That’s it,” I said in excitement. “I recognize Déchet’s car.”
It slowed to a stop outside the shop and parked. A man got out and walked away up the street carrying a bag. Fifteen minutes later he reappeared, got into his car and drove off.
“That’s him,” said Felix.
We thanked the shopkeeper and left the shop.
“We’ll pace it out,” said Felix.
Three minutes to the site of the bakery, making six minutes in all. Nine minutes to gain access and loosen the joint on the bread oven.
“He could have done it,” I said to Felix. “I wonder if Madame Fer-de-Lance will consider that sufficient to charge him.”
Felix shrugged. “We need the evidence of the key and we don’t have that yet.”
“We should go home. I can’t think of anything else we can do for the moment.”
On the way home my phone rang. Felix answered it because I was driving. It was Dubois.
“We’re interviewing Déchet at 2 p.m. Do you want to be present? You can watch the interview through the one-way mirror as you did last time.”
Felix relayed the conversation to me.
“Ask him about Madame Fer-de-Lance,” I said.
Felix nodded, put the question to Dubois, listened and shut down the phone.
“Well?” I asked him.
“He says she’s in Bordeaux for the day.”
“Good. We’ll go, of course.”
Chapter 37
We arrived at the gendarmerie early partly because we didn’t want to miss anything and partly because I was worried that Dubois might change his mind. Madame Fer-de-Lance might have returned to Beaucoup-sur-mer earlier than expected.
We were shown into the room with the one-way mirror. Déchet was already seated at the table with his lawyer beside him. Overnight Déchet had shrunk. His muscled biceps had deflated. His spine had curved downwards giving him a defeated look.
Dubois bustled in with one of his sidekicks and the interview began. The inspector took Déchet through his attempted murder of Felix first of all. Déchet tried to pretend he hadn’t known Felix was trapped in the container. He denied all knowledge of how Felix got there, denied he had abducted Felix and transported him in the trunk of his vehicle.
“How do you explain that your wife saw you attack Monsieur Munro and put him in your trunk?”
“Oh so, she’s given a statement against me?” asked Déchet dropping his chin on his chest.
“She had no choice under French law. You know that. Not that she was reluctant. So, answer the question. What do you have to say about your wife’s statement?”
“She’s lying,” Déchet spat out. “Lying bitch.”
“How did Monsieur Munro get from your house to the recycling center? His car was still parked outside your house?”
“He said he wanted to have a look around the center so I offered to take him?”
“In the middle of the night?” asked Dubois.
Déchet hung his head again. He was becoming flustered. “He was never in the container.”
“We have two witnesses as well as Monsieur Munro who say he was: Madame Munro and her brother, Samuel Munro.”
Déchet shrugged and lifted his hands in supplication.
Dubois snorted with triumph. “It just so happens we have examined the tape from the screen surveilling the container in which Monsieur Munro was trapped. You couldn’t possibly have not known you were about to crush him.”
Déchet raised his head and spoke, so softly we couldn’t hear what he said.
Dubois smiled. “Would you repeat that for the record, Monsieur Déchet?”
Déchet let out a deep sigh. “All right. I was trying to kill the man, but I didn’t succeed, did I? So where does that get you?”
Dubois shuffled his papers. “Let’s move on, shall we? What have you to say about the murder of Monsieur Tidot, the baker?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Both your wife and Monsieur Munro say you practically admitted that you had blown up the bakery knowing that Tidot was there.”
“Practically!”
“So you didn’t know your wife was having an affair with Tidot?”
“Of course, I did. I’m not as stupid as that one thinks I am,” Déchet answered with a toss of his head.
“Of course you’re not. You would have noticed things. Sensed a difference. Felt a distance.”
“Too right. I knew she was being unfaithful. I bugged the house. Heard all their phone calls. But I didn’t blow up the bakery.”
I nudged Felix. “Dubois doesn’t seem to be getting very far.”
“Give him a chance. He’s a good questioner.”
Dubois slapped his hand down on the table. “Monsieur Déchet, we have footage of your car passing up and down in front of the bakery that night. What were you doing there?”
“Thinking about it, but I didn’t do anything.”
My phone rang and I went out into the corridor to answer it. It was the key cutter from the supermarket.
“My assistant says she doesn’t recognize the man in the photo. She hasn’t been in Beaucoup-sur-mer long.”
Oh no, I thought. There goes our last piece of circumstantial evidence. It might just have thrown Déchet into confusion and made him confess.
“Madame Munro, are you still there?” he asked.
“Yes, you have more for me?”
“My assistant ran the key number through our records. That would normally only tell us that a duplicate had been cut and sold because we cut the keys there and then while the customer waits. However, we didn’t have the right blanks that day and my assistant had to order some. She photographed the key for our computer system and took the customer’s telephone number so she could call him when the key was ready.”
Wow! I held my breath.
“Do you want the number?” he asked.
“Of course. And please would you phone Inspector Dubois and tell him what you have just told me? And send him a copy of the order.”
He said he would immediately.
I hurried back to Felix and the one-way mirror. “What’s Déchet’s phone number?”
He pulled out his notebook and read it out to me while I checked it against the number the key cutter had given me. I knew it would match but the proof was good to hear.
“Got him,” I said.
We looked back through the mirror at the interview. The door opened. A policeman called Dubois out into the corridor. I went to join Dubois and waited while he took the call. He gave his phone to the policeman mounting guard outside the interview room and asked him to print off a copy of the order.
“Is it enough?” I asked him.
“It’s helpful but not conclusive, but it could be enough. Watch me.”
He snatched the printout from the returning policeman, turned and walked back into the interview room chest out, shoulders back. He threw the printout down on the table in front of Déchet and banged his fist on it.
“Why did you go to the trouble of
having a duplicate cut of your wife’s key to the bakery, Monsieur Déchet?”
Déchet leapt to his feet, picked up his chair and threw it against the wall. His lawyer tried to restrain him but Déchet was too strong. Dubois and the other policeman tackled Déchet pushing him to the floor. While Dubois knelt on him, the policeman cuffed Déchet. The two men then hauled Déchet to his feet. Dubois arrested him for the murder of Tidot and Déchet was led off to the cells.
Felix and I were congratulating ourselves when Dubois came in.
“Congratulations all round, I think,” he said.
For a moment I thought he was going to hi-five us both or give Felix a man-hug, but he thought better of it. He shook my hand and slapped Felix on the back.
“The Three Musketeers,” he joked.
Madame Fer-de-Lance appeared in the doorway scowling as usual. “Does that make me D’Artagnan or Cardinal Richelieu?” she asked.
We jumped apart like guilty school children caught with their hands in the cookie jar.
She cut through our polite greetings. “I suggest you go to the canteen and await my summons while I talk to Inspector Dubois.”
Poor Dubois. He stood aside to let us pass, giving me a sheepish smile.
As we walked down the corridor towards the canteen, Felix said to me, “What a boss. I’d much rather have you, boss.”
I was about to protest when I turned my head and caught his devilish grin, and so I punched him instead.
*
We bought a coffee and a cake each at the counter and sat down at a table looking out over the car park behind the gendarmerie. Even the bleak aspect couldn’t dampen my excitement at the end of a successful hunt for evil.
Felix drank half his coffee and put the cup down with a clatter. He looked round the room and when he noticed I was watching to see what had caught his attention, he gazed pointedly at each corner.
I rose to the bait as he knew I would. “What are you staring at?” I asked him.
“I’m looking for the elephant.”
“What elephant?”
“The elephant in the corner of the room.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked annoyed at him for being so abstruse.
“Penzi, don’t tell me that in all the excitement of pinning down Déchet for the murder of Tidot, you’ve forgotten the problem of the elephant called Madame Tidot senior.”
Felix’s question sucker punched me in the gut. My elation at the arrest of Déchet vanished leaving me feeling queasy. Felix was right. I had pushed the Madame Tidot/Sean Morrison conspiracy to the back of my mind. Father Pedro had done his best to give me the tools to make my decision of whether to report them or not, but I had yet to decide.
Felix reached for my hand. “I know you don’t want to do this, but one couldn’t find a better time or place.”
“What do you think I should do?”
Felix squeezed my hand. “Boss, it’s not my decision to make. You’re the white witch. You’re the one with the duty to protect society from evil.”
“Maybe, but it’s not my duty to pass judgment on a fellow human being.”
“Forget logic and the law. What does your gut tell you?”
I drank down the rest of my coffee to give myself time to come up with an answer. Although I hadn’t made a conscious decision, my subconscious had been struggling with the problem all the time. I dug down deep into my moral core and found my answer. Father Pedro had reminded me that often the hardest choice was the correct one.
The hardest choice was to send an old lady to prison, a retired headmistress who had given her life to the children she taught.
My gut told me to report the conspiracy and I told Felix that.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s your gut feeling. Now what does your head say?”
“You mean can I rationalize my decision to report them?”
Felix nodded.
“If Madame Tidot had killed someone to protect a child, there would be more moral weight against reporting her. However, although there was no intent to kill her son, her action was reckless. Other people could have been killed in the explosion even if her son hadn’t been there.”
“I agree. She was irresponsible.”
“And on top of that is the pure malice, the spite. She’s living in a retirement home, in an enclosed society of vulnerable old people. What if she has a feud with one of the old dears and decides to teach them a lesson and it goes wrong?”
“And Sean Morrison?”
“There are some extenuating circumstances and it is up to the courts to take those into consideration. I have to report him. And you see, I can’t report the one without the other, anyway.”
I sighed letting out all my breath at the relief of having decided what I had to do.
My phone rang. Madame Fer-de-Lance would see us upstairs in the interview room.
*
It was clear from the moment we walked through the door and saw Dubois seated next to the prosecutor with a hangdog look on his face that we were in for a rebuke.
“Sit, please,” Madame Fer-de-Lance began.
I hadn’t even pulled my chair in properly before she began her tirade.
“Madame Munro, I thought I told you to keep your nose out of police business. Here you are again meddling where you are not wanted. May I remind you once again that you are a guest in France, especially since the results of the referendum in your country.”
Dubois opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off. “No, Dubois. Police business is for the police.”
She turned back to me. “You make us look foolish, Madame Munro. It is not good for the public to see their police outsmarted.”
I had to break in. “Madame, with all due respect. Felix and I have told no one how we have helped with your inquiries. You must know that the mayor, Monsieur Bonhomie, asked us to run a private investigation.”
“I grant you that, but I do not like it. You must stay out of our investigations in the future. Is that understood?”
I wanted to say yes. After all Felix and I hoped there would never be another murder in Beaucoup-sur-mer. But I had to tell her and Dubois about Madame Tidot senior and Morrison.
“Madame, we thought we had found the murderer a couple of days ago—”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
Dubois looked up in surprise. “You had another culprit in mind?”
With a few interruptions from Felix I told them both the sad story.
*
Later that evening Dubois phoned me to tell me he had news for me.
“Do you want the good or the bad?” he asked.
“Good first.”
“Forensics tested the tools found in Déchet’s car. They have proof that his wrench was used on the pipe leading to the oven, so we are sure to get a conviction.”
“And the bad news?”
“Sean Morrison is missing. It’s possible he’s fled to England.”
“And Madame Tidot?”
“In custody. She said she didn’t report Morrison for the theft of the silver cup all those years ago because he was the school’s best tennis player and they needed him for the next tournament.”
“How sad. If she had reported him then, she wouldn’t have been able to blackmail him now and her son would still be alive.”
“When you are a policeman, Mpenzi, you know a pebble tossed in the water can send ripples down through the ages.”
“That’s profound, Dubois,” I said.
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking me a buffoon because you get to the solutions before me. I sometimes think you must have magic on your side.”
I laughed. “Magic? Now that would be something.”
“Dinner?”
“With pleasure, any time,” I said trying not to laugh again as Felix dug me in the ribs.
Chapter 38
With the evildoers locked up, the town of Beaucoup-sur-mer longed to settle back into its life as a holiday town. An item of u
nfinished business remained. For obvious reasons we couldn’t have a burial service for Monsieur Jerome Tidot, the baker. Father Pedro and the mayor, Monsieur Bonhomie, arranged a memorial service to be held in our local church at 6 p.m. the following evening.
His widow Beatrice had not exaggerated his popularity. The small church was full half an hour before the service was due to start. Father Pedro had set up loudspeakers in the cobbled square in front of the church. By six o’clock even this standing room had gone. Our extended family had taken care to arrive early and had been lucky to occupy the second row on the left of the aisle, the first being reserved for the widow and her family, notably the mayor and his wife.
It had been one of the hottest days of the year. The ceiling fans attached to the ancient roof trusses barely turned the air. The heat and the plumes of incense combined to produce a drowsy congregation who struggled to their feet as Father Pedro entered from the vestry and took up his place before the altar. But everyone woke up, and all heads turned towards the back of the church when Nicole Déchet entered and hesitated beside the benches inside the door. By now everyone knew the full story of the death of Tidot, who had killed him and why. Now the cause stood in full view — la femme. There wasn’t a seat to be had inside the church. A hollow silence fell upon us as everyone froze with a mixture of embarrassment and schadenfreude.
I heard a stir behind me and looked round to see Beatrice Tidot rising from her seat in the front row. She walked with grace up the aisle, drawing the gaze of the congregation, until she reached Nicole. She held out her hand to Nicole who took a step backwards anticipating a blow, but Beatrice insisted. Pulling Nicole towards her, Beatrice linked their arms persuading Nicole to accompany her down the aisle back to the front row. She made everyone move along to free a space for Nicole.
The mayor frowned and whispered, “What are you doing? Are you mad?” He was not pleased.
Beatrice whispered back, “We have both lost our husbands, and we both loved the same man. Perhaps we need each other.”
The mayor subsided and said no more. The widow and the prison widow prayed together for the man they had lost. Neither of them had children and they would be lonely. If they could comfort one another who were we to judge?