I leant back in my chair, folded my arms, and gave her an encouraging nod.
“Did the other girls have boyfriends?” she asked, looking down at them.
“Two of them did,” I said. “But there was nobody in the other’s lives who were close enough to them to tell us that.”
“Then safe to assume that he uses the same tactic? Seduce them, lure them out, kill them. And do it somewhere nice and do it quickly. Like hunters,” she said, pointing her pen at me. “You know, when they kill a stag or something, there’s always a reverence to it.”
“Some of them say prayers for the animals they kill,” Sharp said, turning slowly in her, well my, chair. “In a weird way, I think Fry’s onto something here.”
Fry straightened up, looking proud, and I shot her a quick smile. She very well might be. It was careful killing, deliberate, patient, like a hunter. But he must have a reason for doing it, something that drives him. Something that makes him pick these women and put in the time it takes to make them trust him, then lure them out. Maybe it was a strange sort of devotion, loving someone to death. I’m sure there would be a poem or something of the very nature that Mills could quote offhand.
Like a hunter and a deer, patiently stalking the thing you find so beautiful and taking it out.
He made the girls stories, posed like the heroines of a romantic epic, not beaten, never assaulted. It was a peculiar mind frame for a person to have, but at least it was something. A faint image of the killer formed in my head, someone oddly worshipful, just doing it wrong, not a brute. Someone patient, someone who in their own mind probably thought they were kind.
How did he choose them then? Did he see them on the street and engage there and then? Did he meet them through another person, a dating app or site, through work or chance? How had he chosen Julia Brook?
Five
Mills
There was a look on Thatcher’s face that I had seen before, and I knew better than to get in the way of it. Whatever memories this case was resurfacing for him, he’d be better off with Sharp, and I was more than happy to trek out to the restaurant and stay in the present.
L’agneau was a small, family-owned restaurant down a quiet alleyway in the city, with its windows facing the street. I parked down the road and walked down, coat shielding me from the wind. There were a few other cafes and shops down the street, most of them still quiet, waiting for the spring to bring in more visitors. It was a nice enough place, the sort of street someone like Julia would feel safe walking up and down, and as I approached the restaurant itself, I noticed that they had their own staff parking behind the building.
They were closed until lunchtime, but I could see people inside, setting up tables, polishing glasses and silverware, so I rattled against the glass in the door until a man bustled over and tapped the opening and closing times. I pulled out my warrant card and held it up to the glass. He quickly unlocked the door and pulled it open.
“Monsieur,” he greeted me, letting me step in.
“Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police. Are you the owner, sir?”
“Yes, sir,” he said breathlessly, shutting the door. “Victor Chapelle.” He held out his hand, and I shook it. From the back of the restaurant, the rest of the staff wandered over. There were only four, with a woman in the lead. She walked over and gripped Victor’s hand. He only came to her shoulder.
“My wife,” he introduced me. “Sabine. Our son Antoine.” Victor indicated the young, tall and fair-haired man behind them. “And that is Lucas and Aiden.” Those were the other two lads, both studying me with furrowed brows, arms folded.
“How can we help?” Sabine asked.
“It’s about Julia Brook,” I told them.
“Julia?” Antoine strode over. “What about her?”
“Is she in trouble?” Victor asked.
“I’m afraid to have to tell you this, but Julia was found dead earlier this morning.”
Sabine’s hand flew to her mouth, a gasp escaping her as Victor started muttering in French. Antoine placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder and looked at me earnestly.
“Julia’s dead?”
I nodded sadly.
“How?” Lucas called.
“She was killed.”
“Mon Dieu,” Victor sighed, leading Sabine over to a table. “Sit, detective, sit. Aiden, fetch some coffee.”
He led us all over to a large table in the corner with a reserved sign in the middle, and I slid into the booth, with Victor, Sabine and Antoine all sitting opposite. Sabine was crying, grabbing a napkin from the table to dab her face with.
“You knew Julia well,” I said.
“She’s worked here for years now,” Victor said. “Part of the family.”
“How is her family?” Antoine asked, leaning against the table.
“They’re in shock, naturally.”
“Of course,” Sabine sighed. “We must take something round to them, Victor, something to eat.”
Victor, who looked uncannily like Hercule Poirot, patted his wife’s hand and nodded. “We will, we will. Can we be in any way useful, detective?”
“As it happens, I think you can,” I said. I broke off as Aiden walked over, sliding a tray of coffee cups onto the table and handed them out. They were the little kind, on saucers, the coffee inside thick and strong. He and Lucas then joined us, each grabbing a chair from a nearby table.
“We know that Julia left home yesterday to meet up with a man she was seeing. Only nobody in her family can tell us anything about him, other than that she met him here, about a month ago.”
“A man she met here?” Victor said, scratching his chin and turning to his wife. “Did you see her with a man?”
Sabine shook her head. “Julia was a very good waitress, always friendly and smiley. She got on well with all the customers. I think, perhaps, we just didn’t notice. We get very busy in the evenings, even at this time of year.”
“She didn’t tell her parents about him?” Victor asked.
“She told them about him, but they never met… which means we have no clue who he is.”
“There are some regulars that come through,” Victor told me, “I keep their names, good customer service. I can get the bookings for you if you like.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Chapelle, that would be very useful.”
“I didn’t know she was seeing someone else,” Lucas said quietly.
“Someone else?” I repeated, sipping the bitter coffee.
Aiden nodded. “She broke up with her ex-boyfriend a few months ago. Before Christmas, I think.”
“Oh, she did. Perhaps it was nothing serious with this young man then,” Sabine said. “After everything that happened to him.”
“Was it a bad breakup?” I asked.
“It wasn’t ideal,” Antoine drawled. “He came by a few times, tried to get her to talk to him.”
Interesting. “Do you know his name?” I asked.
“Eljas,” Antoine told me. “Eljas Pentti.”
I made a note of the name quickly and looked back at them.
“What was Julia like?” I asked.
“Clever,” Lucas answered first. “Very clever.”
“Too trusting, though,” Aiden said. “Always gave people the benefit of the doubt, even if they were pig rude to her.”
I smirked slightly. “I don’t miss my days of serving rude tables, I must say.”
The lads nodded knowingly.
“She always did it so well,” Victor insisted. “Always polite and had a good memory. Any regulars walked in, and she knew them by name, knew what their drink order would be and what starter they would want.”
“The perfect waitress, by the sounds of it.”
“She was.” Sabine nodded enthusiastically. “She worked parties with us too. We had one the other night. Big booking, a few rowdy gents, and she stayed, calm and collected and patient as ever.”
“Did she ever talk much about her personal life?” I ask
ed.
“She talked about her sister,” Antoine told me fondly, “and her baby niece. Has a lot of photos of her too, but never much of anything else.”
“No mention of any friends or anything?”
“Not really.”
“She knew not to mix work and personal life well,” Victor said proudly.
Perhaps not well enough, I thought dryly, taking another sip of coffee. I was getting used to the bitterness of it now, far better than the instant stuff we guzzled down at the station.
“So, you don’t know of any friends of hers that she might have talked about? Someone she would have shared this with?”
“She wasn’t a very social girl, detective,” Sabine said. “I think she had her family, and she had us, and that was enough for her. Eljas for a time too, until it ended.”
I nodded, and Victor pushed his way out of the booth.
“I will get our books for you, detective,” he announced. “From the last month?”
“That would be great, thank you, Victor.”
“Lucas, I will need your long arms, my boy,” he said, clapping the lad on the shoulder. Lucas smiled fondly, drained the rest of his coffee, and got up to follow him through the restaurant.
“How long have you owned the place, Mrs Chapelle?” I asked.
She blew out a long breath. “Since before Antoine was born,” she said. “We opened it when we first moved to England.”
“That’s a good run for a family-owned place.”
“Well, we make good food, and we treat our customers well, which is all you need, no matter what the businessmen say.”
“Sabine!” Victor called. “Where have you hidden the key, ma cherie?”
Sabine sighed and cast me an apologetic smile, sliding from the booth. “That man wouldn’t find his head if it wasn’t attached to his neck,” she muttered, walking away.
I looked at Aiden and Antoine.
“You don’t like Eljas Pentti,” I said simply.
Antoine blinked, then shook his head. “Never did, really. Never thought he was good enough for Julia, but they were together for so long that I don’t think she noticed until they grew apart.”
“I’ve only worked here for a year,” Aiden told me. “So, I only saw him once or twice, but…” He trailed off with a shrug. “You know if Victor’s not keen on someone, then they’re no good.”
“Dad doesn’t dislike someone unless they’re worth disliking,” Antoine said. “He never said as much to Julia, though.”
“You were close,” I observed.
“She was family,” he said, picking at the napkin on the table. I wondered if that was all there was to it. Aiden looked as though he wondered the same thing, glancing Antoine over and lowering his head.
“Any idea where I could find him?” I asked. “Eljas, that is.”
Antoine scratched his ear. “He used to work at the golf club out Heyworth way,” he said. “Think he still does.”
“Thanks,” I said, just as Victor made his grand return, holding a leather book in his hand. He sat down, almost clattering his son over the head with an elbow as he did so, sliding the book to me.
“It’s the last six months,” he admitted. “But I can’t bring myself to tear out the pages.”
I smiled, taking the book. “May I take it away? I promise to bring it back in one piece.”
“Take it, take it,” he insisted. “Anything we can do to help Julia, and we will help.”
“Is there anything in her locker?” Antoine asked suddenly.
“Her locker?” I asked.
“We have little cupboards in the back room,” Aiden explained. “She might have left some stuff there.”
“May I look?” I asked.
“Bien sûr,” Victor said. “Antoine, show the detective.”
I rose from the table and followed Antoine through the restaurant to the office at the back, beside the kitchen. Nobody was cooking, but I could see onion and garlic hanging above the counters, and something smelled divine in there.
“Who’s the chef?” I asked as we walked.
“Me,” Antoine said proudly. “Dad and mum help, and Aiden’s handy with a knife, but mostly me. It’s why the menu’s so small, set dishes make it easier. But we change it up every few months.” He pushed open the door to the office.
There was a large desk against the wall with a truly ancient-looking computer on the top, more leather books like the one Victor had given me on a shelf to the side, stacks of paper casually tossed about. A big notice board was on the wall behind it, with menus tacked up, a staff rota and lots and lots of photographs. There were pictures of a young Sabine and Victor, of baby Antoine, of the staff all standing outside. I spotted Julia in a few, beaming widely, her arms looped through Sabine’s or draped over Antoine’s shoulder.
A large rug lay across the floor, a few coats and chef clothes hanging on pegs and on the other wall, a set of wooden cupboards. Antoine tapped on the one with stickers on the front.
“This is… was… Julia’s,” he said, grabbing a small key from the drawer, handing it over and leaving the room.
I looked at the cupboard. I’d seen similar stickers in her bedroom at home, plastered haphazardly. I put the key in and twisted it open, with a water bottle immediately falling out and hitting me on the foot.
“Ow,” I muttered, reaching down to pick it up and put it back inside.
It was strangely full. There was a toiletry bag in there that I opened to find some makeup and sanitary products, deodorant and blister plasters. A spare cardigan, a small umbrella, some socks and gloves. She was ready for anything. There was a notebook wedged in there too that I pulled free, not wanting to lose a toe to the water bottle and flipped it open.
It seemed to be recipes, food reviews, or ideas. I flicked to the last page and read.
Antoine made some ridiculously fancy duck thing today and made me eat it on my break. So here I am, eating duck. And annoyingly, it’s terrific. Maybe a little more salt next time, Antoine, but whatever you’ve done with these plums should be illegal. I’m glad for a big meal if nothing else, since it looks like we’ll be here a while with this party, all stuffed into the booth at their usual table. Antoine, make some fresh bread to go with this. It’ll help, trust me. I shall have to lick the sauce off the plate, but I think the customers are a little fancier than me. Also, carbs are always a good idea.
Savoury soufflé – vegetarian option for the summer.
French wine, not Italian for boys at table.
Book holiday day to babysit.
She had an amusing way of writing so that I could almost hear her voice as she rambled on. Trying a recipe for Antoine, noting her suggestions, making up ideas, and jotting down things to remember about customers. I could imagine her here on her break, sitting at the desk, eating fancy food and making notes.
A mention of the party again, only this was dated a week or so ago. Perhaps they were regulars themselves, and that table was constantly reserved for them. Local French food enthusiasts or something, there were clubs for everything these days. I took the notebook, wondering if a deeper dive would reveal any more little tidbits that could help us find this man and closed the locker, making sure the water bottle was safely tucked in, not about to fall on the next person who opened the cupboard.
With her notebook and the restaurant’s book in hand, I took another good look at the photos on the wall. There were few shots of Victor standing with random people, regulars perhaps. And in one, in the background, I could see people sitting at the booth table, their heads bent low to the table. No doubt I’d find something about them in the bookings, I thought, leaving the office and pulling the door shut behind me.
I walked back out to the restaurant and shook hands with Victor.
“Thank you for all your help,” I said, fishing one of my cards from my pocket and handing it over. “Please get in touch if there’s anything you think of that I should know.”
Victor pressed the
card to his lips before putting it safely in his pocket.
“I shall, of course, detective. Thank you for letting us know. We will be closing for a while, out of respect.”
“That’s a nice thing to do,” I said, bidding them all farewell and walking back out into the street, down to the car. I sat there, debating heading back to the station, but a lead was a lead, and given that he was likely nose deep in old case files, I didn’t think Thatcher would mind me heading out to the golf club on the chance that Eljas Pentti might still work there.
Six
Mills
The golf club was across the city from the restaurant, a great patch of green in the city, picturesque trees lining the green, most of them still sadly without leaves. I pulled into the carpark, quickly checking my phone and letting Thatcher know where I was.
He replied with a straightforward, “Good luck”, so I climbed from the car, swinging the door shut and strode over towards the reception.
It looked rather empty, and I imagined that come summer, the place would be crawling with golfers, hopefully in the funny trousers most of them seemed to wear. I’d never had the patience for it myself, could barely make it through a game of cricket, let alone golf. But the place was open, and when I walked through the door, a bell dinged above my head. A young woman sat at the desk, her head bent over a book, and she looked up, surprised to see someone walk in. She quickly slid her book aside as I walked over, putting a welcoming smile on her face and tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. The gesture reminded me of Fry. Only her hair was darker, shinier and…
I shook my head, smiling back at the woman.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Morning,” I replied, flashing my id. “Detective Sergeant Mills, North Yorkshire Police. I wonder if you can help me?”
Her eyes widened as she looked at my car and pulled her sleeves over her hand. “I can fetch my boss?” She offered.
I gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m just wondering if Eljas Pentti still works here.”
Vicious Cycle (A DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crimes Book 9) Page 5