“All right. If you like, you can help me make them now. We can keep them warm in the oven while you bathe and get changed.”
Cassie went downstairs with the children, feeling a weird sense of separation from reality. As long as she lived in the moment, she was absolutely fine. As soon as she thought about what had happened earlier, or what was going to happen, her brain went into overload and she started to shake with fear.
She decided it would be better to stay in the moment, seeing it was safer and the right choice for her own sanity.
Down in the kitchen, the children genuinely seemed to enjoy the pancake making. Cassie guessed they didn’t have much chance to cook, with so many staff in attendance so much of the time. After she’d mixed up the batter and the cinnamon-sugar topping, she gave them each a job to do. Antoinette was in charge of pouring the batter into the pan. Then, when Cassie had flipped the pancakes, Ella was responsible for sprinkling the cinnamon-sugar mixture. Standing on a low chair and leaning on the large wooden table in the center of the kitchen, she seemed proud and contented in her role.
Then, finally, Marc was in charge of rolling the pancakes up and arranging them on a plate.
Half an hour later, the plate was piled with pancakes, and Cassie covered it with tinfoil and put it in the oven’s warming drawer.
She felt massive relief that she’d managed to redeem the day just a little, after its disastrous start. Now, she needed to get the children bathed and ready for supper.
Her thoughts strayed to what might happen later that evening, and Cassie shut them down. She wasn’t going to go there. No matter how the night turned out, or what she ended up doing, at least the children could all remember the fun of the cooking afternoon they’d had.
“I like your hair decoration, Cassie,” Ella said when she was in the bath.
“Thank you,” Cassie said. She couldn’t even remember what she’d put in her hair, or when. Perhaps she’d tied it back before starting to prepare the food, so it wouldn’t get in the way.
She put a hand up to her ponytail and felt the gossamer touch of silk. Pulling her hair to the side, she saw a trailing end of emerald green.
Anxiety knotted her stomach as she realized that she had absolutely no memory of fastening the silk scarf Pierre had given her into her hair.
*
Once the children were bathed, dressed, and downstairs in the dining room, Cassie asked Antoinette to read them a story before dinner. Realizing her clothes were stained and dirty from the day’s activities, she hurried back to shower and change before she joined them.
After pulling on clean jeans and a fresh sweater, Cassie headed back to her bedroom to put her dirty clothes in the laundry basket, and pick up the list of school supplies she’d made earlier that day. Now that the children were more cooperative, she could run through it with them over supper and see if anything was missing.
She put the clothes in the basket and picked up the list from the table. Then she turned back toward the door—and clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream.
Pierre was sitting in the high-backed chair near her bed.
Staring at him in horror, Cassie felt her heart accelerate. He’d been a move ahead of her all along. He must have come home while she was showering, gone straight to her room, and waited for her.
Perhaps he’d expected that she would sleep in one of the children’s bedrooms tonight and had made a preemptive move.
“Did I startle you?” he asked.
Too late, Cassie realized that she should never have smothered her scream. She needed to yell now, as much and as loudly as she could. If she could attract the children’s attention, she would be safe.
If she couldn’t, she was in a world of trouble.
But as she drew breath, Pierre put his finger over his lips.
“Quietly, now,” he remonstrated. “Don’t you know the rules? This evening’s game is not to make a sound.”
He stood up, advancing toward her as she backed in the direction of the bed.
“The children are happy downstairs,” he said. “They are eating their pancakes and told me they have had a good day. They seem to be coping well after the tragedy we have so recently experienced. It would be a pity to spoil their contentment when the unfinished business we have is only between us two, no? Although even if you screamed, the dining room is so far away that they would probably not hear you.”
Cassie sank down onto the bed, her legs weak with fear.
“No,” she muttered. “Please, Pierre, no.”
Pierre leaned over her. With his hand firm on her shoulder, he pushed her back. She heard the jingle of metal and realized, with a sense of unreality, that he was undoing his belt.
“I spoke to the police today,” he whispered in her ear. “They told me you, unfortunately, are still very much under suspicion. There are several issues that concern them. They asked me if you were trustworthy. What was I to say, Cassie?”
She looked up at him in silence, horrified by his words and the way he was coercing her into silence. His brown eyes were staring into hers. She could see the shadow of stubble on his face.
“I requested a meeting with the detective tomorrow. So you see, it is up to you now. Are you going to play my game and keep quiet, as quiet as a mouse, not a sound from you? If so, I will tell the police tomorrow that you are reliable and trustworthy, that I can personally attest to your character. But if you do not play the game, I will not hesitate to say that I believe you have already stolen from me, and that I have photographic evidence of you snooping in my bedroom, opening drawers and searching through my possessions. Which decision will you make, Cassie? What will you choose?”
He bent over her. His hair tickled her face, his strong fingers pressing her into the mattress.
Cassie realized there was no point in begging or screaming. Pierre had considered every possible scenario, and all of them were checkmate for her.
Except one.
Reaching behind her head, scrabbling under the pillow, Cassie closed her fingers over the cold steel can of the poison spray she’d hidden there. Her finger found the plastic nozzle, and it felt solid and reassuring in her grasp as she slid it out from under her.
She knew which decision she would make, and what she would choose.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Detective Granger sat with Estelle Bret in the small lounge, which was bright with low autumn sunshine. Estelle owned a modest apartment in Senlis, an hour’s drive north of Paris, and she was the second of Pierre’s ex-mistresses who had agreed to be interviewed by him that day.
“Pierre and I had an affair for the best part of a year,” she said.
She fidgeted with a lock of her long, dark hair as she spoke. She was tall, slender, and very beautiful, perfectly made up and trendily dressed in ripped jeans and a fringed suede jacket.
“Please continue,” Granger said. Reassuring her again, he added, “This is entirely confidential, madame. I am writing a few notes but this is not being recorded.”
Granger had assumed that these interviews would be routine background research, just a box to tick in the investigation. The first interview had shocked him, and this one was heading the same way. Estelle had been very reluctant to talk. She had only agreed to the interview after he’d promised that it was for background only, and that what she said would not be disclosed to Pierre.
“I was married and living in the area. My husband traveled a lot and was away for long periods of time. I met Pierre in town; we were standing together in a bank line and he started conversing with me. He was flirtatious, attractive. He invited me to dinner. He told me he was married, but I was, too.” She shrugged.
Granger looked down as he made a note on his pad.
“Most people in the area think he is wonderful,” Estelle continued. “He is a prominent businessman who has been careful to protect his reputation. But there are a few who know otherwise, who have seen how he lies, and what he conceals. When I told a
friend that we were seeing each other, she warned me about him. I should have listened, but I chose not to believe her. Instead, I listened to his promises.”
She twirled a lock of hair tightly around her finger and stared through the sunny window at the bare tree branches nodding outside.
“What did he promise you?” Granger asked.
“He said he was in love with me, that he wanted me to leave my husband, that he would marry me. So, like a fool, I confessed to my husband that I was seeing someone else, and we separated. We divorced a year later. Meanwhile, Pierre continued as usual, seeing me once, twice a week. There were many compliments and many more promises. Eventually I realized he had no intention of leaving his wife. But I also started to see another side to him.”
“What was that?”
Granger was scribbling furiously in his notebook to keep pace with her.
“He was into kinky things. Strangulation, bondage.” Estelle looked down and Granger saw her cheeks were flushed.
“At first it was an adventure. He made it seem fun and exciting. Then, over time, he became more violent. He refused to stop when I asked. There were a few occasions where he really hurt me. Once, he strangled me so hard I actually lost consciousness for a while. I knew that for my own health—physical and emotional—I would have to end it with him. But that was easier said than done.”
“How so?”
Granger made sure to keep a calm demeanor, despite his conviction that the puzzle pieces were starting to fit together.
“He was furious that I wanted to end it. We had a huge fight. He threatened me with all sorts of things. There were a few personal details I’d told him in confidence—he said he’d make sure the whole town knew. And when I threatened to tell everyone about him, he grabbed me and shook me, and then shoved me away so hard I fell. I had bruises on my jaw and shoulder.”
“Did you take it further?” Granger asked.
“I went to the police and they asked me to get a physician’s report on the injuries as soon as possible, in order that the correct charges could be laid.”
Granger nodded.
“I went to the local doctor but I only found out afterwards that he was a friend of Pierre’s. After I told him what had happened, he questioned me about my sporting activities, which included horse riding and gym. He examined me and said my injuries were not severe enough, and the circumstances were not conclusive enough, for him to be able to write a police report and that I could have incurred the bruises after a fall from my horse. Then Pierre phoned me the next day, threatening me that if I didn’t drop the charges he would sue me for defamation, and that I was lying about everything.”
She spread her hands.
“By then I wasn’t sure if I even believed myself. I dropped the charges and moved away. I found a good job near here as an event organizer so I decided to restart my life completely. It was a horrific experience. It showed me how toxic a person he was, and how he’d stop at nothing to protect his so-called ‘good name’ in the area.”
Granger nodded slowly. This was telling evidence. Before speaking to these women, he would never have believed that Pierre had such a dark side to him, and had clearly gone to extreme lengths to protect his reputation.
He concluded the interview and thanked her for her time.
As soon as he’d left her apartment, he called Bisset to update her.
She sounded excited.
“I have just left Margot’s hairdressing salon. Alex, her stylist, was extremely helpful.”
“What did he say?” Granger asked.
“Margot was unhappy. She felt trapped. She wanted to leave Pierre but she was terrified of the consequences.”
Granger felt a chill at the words.
“Did he explain why?”
“She was planning to go back to modeling; it was all she knew. Her involvement with Pierre had cut short a promising career. The problem is that it’s a high-profile job. She would be in the public domain, and questions would be asked about her past. She told Alex that she was desperate to leave Pierre, but she knew how difficult he would make it. She was extremely depressed.”
“My interview with Estelle went along similar lines,” Granger confirmed.
“There’s something more,” Bisset said.
“What’s that?”
He hoped she would be quick; his cell battery was running low, and he’d forgotten his charger cable at the police station.
“Technology. You know we complained there was a lack of it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Margot left her cell phone at the salon. Alex said she was using it throughout her appointment, and she forgot to take it with her when she left. He called her landline the next day, but another woman answered the phone. He decided it would be better to disconnect and wait for Margot to contact him. He wasn’t aware at that stage she’d died.”
“You think the cell phone might contain important information?”
“There’s definitely proof that she was looking at restarting her career. Alex said she made a few calls to her modeling connections while she was in the salon, reestablishing contact with them.”
“That’s great. We’ll follow up on those phone calls. Pierre has not been in touch?”
“Not at all,” Bisset confirmed.
Granger disconnected and continued driving.
The previous interview, his first of the day, had told him a similar story. The relationship had begun with flowers, jewelry, seduction, and promises. Then it had deteriorated. Kinky sex had turned violent. Promises had become threats. Romance had soured, and ended with more threats.
The only difference was that in the first case, Pierre had broken off the relationship, but the same silencing methods had been used.
Granger noted that neither of these mistresses had high-profile jobs. As a well-known model, Margot’s decision to leave could have represented more of a threat to Pierre.
Granger decided he pitied any woman who got herself involved with Pierre. Every relationship seemed to end in heartbreak or worse.
Pierre’s wife, Diane, had been speeding when she’d lost control of the car and rolled it. She had been killed instantly and the car had caught fire in the horrific crash.
Granger doubted that the car had been tampered with, even though it had been destroyed to an extent where this could not be sure. But he had discovered that just two minutes earlier, Pierre had received a speeding ticket along the same road.
Diane had been following him, late at night, pursuing him along the main road that a few miles later, passed Coubert.
It might be just coincidence that Margot had, at the time, been residing in Coubert.
Granger sighed in frustration. Despite the amount of character evidence provided, they needed something more in order to make an arrest. What they had uncovered today was almost enough, but not quite.
He was three-quarters of the way home, and heading into afternoon traffic, when Bisset’s next call came through.
“Granger!” She sounded excited.
“What is it? Talk quick; my phone’s about to die.”
“I’ve just got back. There’s been a new development involving Pierre. You need to get here quickly. The woman working at the chateau—”
He lost the rest of her words as a truck driver next to him, stuck in the same traffic, blasted his horn impatiently.
“What is it?” he asked, feeling his pulse start racing, but he was speaking to a dead line. Which woman, and what had happened? Granger guessed this must somehow involve the au pair that he’d initially suspected. She had seemed to him to be emotionally unstable, on the point of snapping. Her extreme nervousness and her vague recall of recent events had got all his instincts prickling. He had no idea whether she always behaved this way, or whether the inner fragility he sensed had been exacerbated by severe stress.
Stress that could, of course, have been caused by the fact she’d played a role in Margot Fabron’s murder.
With an empty battery, it would take another thirty frustrating minutes for him to get back to his headquarters and find out the latest twist in this complex case.
*
Half an hour later, Granger pulled into the parking lot and raced to the front door of the police station. Calling out a quick greeting to the officer on duty, he headed upstairs at a run. Scenarios were spinning through his head. For all he knew, they might have been heading off in entirely the wrong direction by investigating Pierre, despite the weight of evidence in that direction.
Bisset’s office door was open.
“What’s she done?” Granger asked, rather breathlessly.
“She came here earlier. She took the afternoon off work especially to come and see us.”
Granger stepped inside and closed the door.
“Who? The au pair? Cassie Vale?”
He remembered again her frightened face, how her gaze had slid away from him when he’d tried to make eye contact and how she’d then hastily stared back at him, wide-eyed, as if realizing he’d noticed what she’d done. He recalled the nervous habit she had of digging her fingernails into her cuticles. The way she’d changed her story about whether she’d left her bedroom on the night of Margot’s death. She’d seemed genuinely shaken by her own inability to recall what she’d done, and that made Granger wonder what else she might—intentionally or otherwise—have forgotten.
He expected Bisset to confirm his suspicions, but instead she shook her head.
“No, no. Not her. The housekeeper who works at the Dubois residence came to see us. Her name is Marnie Serrurier and she’s waiting for you to interview her. She came to the station earlier and she brought us a piece of evidence she found.”
“Important evidence?”
He could hear the excitement in Bisset’s voice as she replied.
“Most definitely yes. I’ve spoken to her already. This changes everything, Granger. With the evidence and her testimony, I believe we have sufficient grounds to make an immediate arrest.”
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