“Hey, I hope you kept a beer for me,” Max called above the din of the merry voices. “I have good reason to celebrate, too, you know.”
Jack pulled out the spare chair next to him and then twisted the top off a beer from the bucket in the middle of the table. “Here you go, sir. The pizza is on the way, we’ve ordered a few different toppings.”
Mallery sat and surveyed the elated faces around him. There was Gabriella with her sleek blonde hair, perfect make-up and feisty attitude, Thierry with his wild afro, trendy t-shirts and laid-back approach, Luc with his unruly fringe, genius mind and sugar addiction, and then there was Jack, the red-headed Englishman with the perfect domestic situation and the nose of a bloodhound when tasked with unravelling the most complex of murder investigations.
“Sir?” Hobbs prompted. “You all right? You look miles away there.”
Max realised he’d been staring at his beer whilst lost in thoughts and lifted his head to meet his colleague’s eyes.
“Yes, Jacques,” he smiled, “I am perfectly all right. In fact, I am, what you might say, tickety-bump this afternoon.”
“Tickety-boo,” Hobbs chuckled, taking a swig of beer. “We’ll make a Yorkshireman of you yet, you mark my words.”
Max nodded in eager anticipation. “Challenge accepted.”
Having rewarded the team with a decent meal, Inspector Mallery took Jack to one side and made a final request.
“When does your wife return from her trip to Nice?” he asked in a low voice, aware of the other three detectives chattering in the background.
“Not until later on tonight, sir. Why?”
“Do you have time for one last visit to the monastery before she gets home?” Max pleaded. “We need to search Bénédict’s room for the other half of that map, then visit the churches again tomorrow.”
The Yorkshireman looked at his watch. It was half-past six. He still had three and a half hours until Angélique and Thomas needed to be collected from Bordeaux airport, but there were dirty dishes in the sink and more than a few beer bottles lying around the kitchen. A good clean-up before their return had been the only task on Jack’s mind for that evening. He made to respond, but the words tangled themselves up on his lips and instead, a few garbled sounds escaped.
“You know what,” Mallery smiled, “you’ll probably want to buy some flowers and something delicious for supper, oui? It’s okay, one of the others can come.”
Hobbs’ shoulders visibly relaxed. It had seemed like the longest time since he’d seen his wife and son and, despite the workload keeping him busy, Jack was looking forward to having them home again.
“Thanks, sir. It’s just that…”
“Hey, Jacques, no need to apologise. You put in your share of hours. Go home, Jacques, enjoy your evening and take this with you.”
Max lifted a bulging white envelope from his own pocket and deftly tucked it into Jack’s, leaving the younger man looking slightly confused.
“It’s non-refundable,” the inspector whispered, glancing nervously at the others seated at the table in the hope that they hadn’t noticed the exchange. “Take Angélique and be sure to enjoy yourselves.”
Hobbs was about to reply, but Max had already signalled for the waiter to bring their bill over and the moment for questioning had passed.
Minutes later, Jack stood on the restaurant steps watching Max and Luc settle into the comfortable leather seats of the red BMW before speeding off towards the highway on their way to Saint Margaux. Gabriella unlocked her Mini with a flick of her long blonde hair, and Thierry sat astride his motorcycle, adjusting the strap on his helmet before roaring off down the street at full throttle. The Ford Mondeo stood out like a sore thumb against his colleague’s vehicles and, in that moment, Jack Hobbs vowed to treat himself to an early Christmas present of a new car, no matter how much Angélique would complain.
Jack scrambled out of the cold wind into the waiting car and turned the heater to full. He sat waiting for the interior to warm up before heading across the city to his apartment and, while he did so, the detective slid the inspector’s gift from his coat and pulled out the invoice and leaflet from inside.
“Bloody hell,” Hobbs muttered to himself, his eyes registering the grand château and sumptuously furnished rooms that were being advertised in the glossy brochure. “This must have cost him an absolute blinking fortune!”
Slowly, he unfolded the receipt and gazed at the four-figure sum that had already been paid for the luxury weekend break. It was dated for two weeks’ time.
“Shit,” Jack said out loud, biting his lip and stressing at the amount of money that had been paid out for the treat; it was far too generous a gesture for him to accept from his boss. And then the penny finally dropped.
“Aw, heck. Max was planning to take someone away to this fancy mansion and it hasn’t worked out. The mystery woman that keeps calling him, I’ll bet!”
Heading home around the outskirts of Bordeaux, with bustling commuters and an increasingly darkening sky, the Yorkshireman drove with mixed emotions. Angélique would be ecstatic at the thought of a luxury weekend away, but where did that leave the boss? Just as everything seemed to be going right in Jack’s personal life, Max’s was going down the pan.
Huddled on his side, with the thick woollen cassock providing more warmth than the police-issue blanket, Brother Bénédict’s eyes were firmly fixed on the stark white ceiling of his sparse cell. One night here, he told himself, and then a transfer to prison until the trial. He had no idea what to expect within the judicial system; bullying perhaps, delegated to the worst imaginable chores, certainly no special treatment. The monk doubted whether he could survive.
Bénédict felt an inexplicable relief at having told his story. In truth, he hadn’t been able to stop himself once the words started flowing. Everything trickled out of him like a running stream until finally, with every last detail accounted for, the detectives had left him alone. It was no consolation that Arnaud had died. He had wanted the old man to live, to suffer, to see how it felt to pay the penalty for being a sinner. He was a disgrace to the brotherhood in Bénédict’s opinion, unworthy of such a high ranking at Saint Augustin’s after his misspent youth.
The monk’s gnarled old fingers felt their way along the length of the roped belt on his cassock, prising the knot apart with a deftness that belied his age, slipping the threaded cords out of their loops and into his trembling hands.
Bénédict was sorry for what he’d had to do to Noel Van Beek. The young man was a pawn in a very complex game, but without him, Arnaud wouldn’t have been sufficiently punished for his ungodliness. Brother Cédric had behaved despicably, too, he considered, in explaining to himself and Alberon that the Van Beek woman was well-educated and must easily have turned the abbot’s head, but in Bénédict’s eyes the sin was unforgiveable and warranted due penance.
Seating himself upright, the old monk considered the thickness of the old lighting cord that held a single pendant from the ceiling of his cell. It looked strong, but not robust enough. The length of its cable reminded him of the ancient leather whip that he’d thrashed Brother Ernest with. Still, the boy would recover; he’d only meant to frighten him but had got carried away in a frenzy.
Sliding the metal-framed bed over to the window, Brother Benedict clambered up and threw the cassock belt up to loop over the topmost latch. It caught on the first attempt, causing the old monk to feel a flash of pride in his agility. He knotted the frayed end and fed it upwards so that the rope was pulled tight against the frame.
How surprised Cédric and Alberon would be when news got back to them, Bénédict mused. He’d tricked them all, although he bore a fondness for the two men who had been constant companions during his time at Saint Augustin’s, never a cross word spoken between the three of them.
This wasn’t the first time that Bénédict had attempted to take his own life. On the day of Noel Van Beek’s demise, he’d been right there, giving mouth to mouth r
esuscitation in the hope that some of the poison would be transferred to his own lips. As it was, the monk grumbled, it hadn’t been enough, and one night’s observation at the hospital was the meagre result.
Working the free end of the cord into a loop, the monk fashioned a noose and tested its strength before sliding the coil up and over his own head. Wasn’t this the coward’s way out? Bénédict asked himself. Perhaps, but he simply couldn’t bear to spend his remaining – what, ten, fifteen years perhaps? – cooped up with robbers and sex fiends. No, this would do, he concluded, kicking away the bed from under his feet, feeling the noose tightening as it worked its duty.
“Lord forgive me,” a voice croaked, “for I have sinned.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN – FAREWELL TO ARNAUD
Before Max and Luc were even halfway to Saint Margaux, an urgent call came through for them to return to the police station, causing Mallery to pull the BMW off the main road at the first exit and double back into the city. The duty officer had sounded flustered, his voice on edge as though his job might be hanging in the balance. Max demanded to know why his presence was required, but the man simply pleaded that the Inspector return without delay.
Ten minutes later, the red sports car reversed into a parking space and the two detectives jumped out. The first thing Mallery noticed was the black saloon car parked next to his. It belonged to Paul Theron, the Coroner.
“Inspecteur,” the duty officer cried, “c’est Frère Bénédict, il est mort.”
Mallery balked at the last word. Dead?
Racing down the corridor to the open cell, they were just in time to witness two well-built police officers lifting the monk down from his vertical position, carefully unhooking the rope from the window-catch and heaving the man into a prostrate heap on the bed. Paul Theron stood watching, a grim look on his face, occasionally sighing and giving out directions. The scene was surreal. Only a couple of hours previously, Max and Luc had questioned Brother Bénédict and would have sworn on their own mothers’ lives that the man wasn’t contemplating suicide. He’d been so self-assured when relaying his reasons for seeking revenge on the old abbot.
Theron bent down and felt for a pulse, already aware that it was too late as a blue hue had coloured the large man’s face, but still it was his duty to check.
“Pourquoi?” Luc whispered at the inspector’s side, his face as white as the stark cell walls, but Mallery had no answer and couldn’t begin to explain why such a thing might have happened.
Examining the rope around Bénédict’s neck, the Coroner turned to the detectives and asked why the dead monk had been allowed to continue wearing the item that he’d obviously used to hang himself. Unfortunately, Mallery had no definitive answer, but simply explained that the man had insisted on keeping his cassock on until he was transferred to jail the following day. It hadn’t occurred to any of them that the offensive item would be used in this way.
Theron understood, it was an oversight on the officer’s part, but one that would evidently bring repercussions for Max and his team.
At home, Jack Hobbs was busily cleaning his small two-bedroomed apartment in expectation of his wife and son’s return. He’d planned to get the place looking shipshape before jumping in the shower, donning clean clothes and driving to the airport to collect them. However, before Hobbs had even got the kitchen looking acceptable, his phone buzzed, and a panicky Luc was talking nineteen to the dozen on the other end.
“Jack,” the computer geek panted, “Brother Bénédict has hanged himself.”
“What? Seriously? Shit!”
“Monsieur Theron’s here. The monk is definitely dead.”
“How the hell did that happen?” Jack sighed, recalling the strict protocol that he’d had to follow in his previous job on Leeds Crime Force. They’d always had to ensure that anyone in custody removed belts, ties, even shoelaces, just in case they had suicidal tendencies. It was hard to believe that anyone under Mallery’s radar could be allowed to keep items that could harm them in their cell. Someone’s head would be on the block when Commissioner Ozanne got wind of the suicide.
“He used the belt, from his… erm… his, how to say, the tunic?”
“The cassock belt – oh, crikey! The Commissioner will play merry Hell. Does Mallery want me to come back in now?”
As the words fell from his lips, Jack glanced around the tiny kitchen. He still had a good half an hour of tidying up to do in the living room before the place would look decent.
“Non, he said it’s okay. I’m just calling everyone to update them on the situation. I think there will be a lot of questions tomorrow. There’s nothing anyone can do now. We’ll face the consequences in the morning.”
“Too right there.” Hobbs recalled Ozanne’s sour face earlier that day, when he’d walked into the Incident Room looking as though he was sucking on a pickled onion. “I’ll be in early.”
“See you tomorrow, Jack.”
“Sure. Thanks, Luc. Take care, mate.”
Before removing Brother Bénédict’s body to the morgue, Paul Theron checked the pockets of the monk’s clothing for any personal effects that he might need to hand over to the police officers. The first was empty, yet the second yielded a clean cotton handkerchief and a square of folded paper.
“Ici,” Paul said to Max, handing over the piece of parchment.
Mallery’s spine tensed as he unfolded the stiff, yellowing paper. Here was the very scrap of the map that they had been heading to Saint Augustin’s to retrieve.
The next morning, Jack, Thierry and Gabriella arrived before eight and stepped into an empty office.
“Where are they?” Thierry asked, turning to his colleagues, but then raised his eyes upwards as a thunderous shout came from the room above. It caused a vibration across the floorboards and all heads turned upwards.
“They must be with the Commissioner, I reckon,” Jack stated. “Sounds like he’s having a right go at Mallery and Luc’s probably caught up in the middle.”
“Better we stay clear then,” Gabriella warned, pulling off her black winter coat and bright pink scarf. “Anyone want a cup of coffee?”
The men nodded, their ears still straining to hear what was being said upstairs, although the voices were muffled and very little could be fathomed out. Whatever was being communicated definitely wasn’t pleasant.
“I guess nobody won the bet then?” Thierry shrugged, winking at Jack. “We were both wrong.”
“Better luck next time,” the Yorkshireman countered. “You can’t win them all.”
Shortly afterwards, Max and Luc joined the rest of the team. The inspector’s face was tense, his jaw set rigid, while Luc’s ears burned red from the roasting he’d just witnessed. Mallery was the first to speak, his voice dry and gravelly.
“So, you all know what happened last night. It was most unfortunate, but thankfully Brother Bénédict signed a declaration to say that he was unwilling to surrender his own clothes, so technically we’re in the clear, although you can guess how pissed the Commissioner is, right?”
“I take it Ozanne’s like a raging bull right now,” Gabriella commented, setting a mug of black coffee down on the desk next to her boss. “We could hear the shouting from down here.”
“He’s just pissed because he’ll have to deal with the journalists,” Max replied tersely. “How could any of us have known that it would end this way? The most important fact here is that we arrested Noel Van Beek’s murderer so, despite the unfortunate conclusion, we can close the case. Jacques, want to drive out to Saint Augustin’s with me to speak to Brother Cédric?”
Jack coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sir, it’s Abbot Arnaud’s funeral this morning. Perhaps we’d better leave it until later this afternoon.”
Mallery looked at a faraway spot above the Englishman’s head, thinking quickly before answering, “Okay. Then let’s visit Madame Van Beek and update her. I take it she won’t be able to attend the service?”
“N
o, it’s a Benedictine interment, so only those of the Brotherhood are allowed to be present, although Brother Cédric has invited her to go later to lay flowers on the grave. If we take my car, we can drive Annalise over there after lunch. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”
Max rolled his eyes at the red-haired detective. “What an unfortunate phrase.”
Jack flushed pink, as he was prone to do after one of Mallery’s sarcastic quips and hid his face in the mug of lukewarm coffee.
“Ah!” the inspector cried, changing tack and pulling a plastic bag containing the square of parchment paper out of his pocket. “I almost forgot.”
Four pairs of eyes lit up, but it was Thierry who spoke first.
“Is that the missing piece?”
“It certainly is, so while we take Madame Van Beek to Saint Augustin’s, perhaps the rest of you can try to work out where the grave of this Bianca… what was her name?... is.”
“Bianca de Fontanges,” Luc supplied, proud of his photographic memory. “Mistress of Louis Cliquot.”
“Okay, anyway, see if you can get a definitive location for the grave, and then apply to the necessary bureau to get a permit to dig.”
“Seriously?” Hobbs spluttered. “You’re going to dig her up?”
“Why not? If Abbot Arnaud was correct in his belief that this woman was buried with some kind of gold, or treasure, then we need to know about it.”
“To whose benefit? Can’t she just be allowed to rest in peace?”
“Maybe it’s for the nation’s benefit.” Max shrugged, a glint in his eye. “Perhaps there are jewels that belong in a museum, oui?”
Knowing how passionate the French were about their museums, Jack Hobbs decided to keep his lips sealed while the other detectives talked amongst themselves about the prospect of unearthing something valuable. He wasn’t about to get himself in hot water over the desecration of a grave, but the thought of decomposed flesh and rotting teeth turned his stomach. The best he could hope for was that he wouldn’t be the one wielding the shovel.
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