Colours of the South

by Leah Hope

  Bridget couldn’t get out of the bar quick enough.

  “Oh Gil, that was one of the most embarrassing things that’s ever happened to me,” she puffed, still out of breath after her scramble on the floor.

  “What, worse than when you fell through that deckchair on the beach at Southend, or was it Margate, right in front of the foreign dignitaries who were all togged up in their finery for the twinning ceremony?” Gil said, doing his level best not to laugh.

  “Trust you to bring that up! Well maybe that was worse but I didn’t know where to put myself. I bet she thought I was drunk you know. I hope I don’t bump into her again,” she said, not realising the irony of her words.

  “Let me have your bag when we get in and I’ll try to fix the strap,” said Gil, trying to make amends for his lack of sympathy.

  “I was thinking I might buy a new one,” said Bridget, “maybe olive-green, I haven’t got one in that colour.”

  There were lots of colours that Bridget didn’t have handbags in. She owned three bags, one black, one tan and one navy. It was the navy bag that she had brought with her to France on the basis that it was the most “summery” colour of the three. It was made of good quality leather. Her mother had taught her that you got what you paid for with bags and you couldn’t beat quality leather. Or maybe a white one would be nice, she thought.

  *

  To Bridget’s annoyance, Gil started another marathon sneezing session just as they were on their way to bed. The pharmacy had been closed by the time they got there so he hadn’t been able to get anything for his hay fever.

  “Get me some tissues please Bridge,” he said weakly between sneezes.

  Bridget opened her bag and began rummaging about for the tissues.

  “Hurry up Bridge, my nose is running like a tap here,” said Gil impatiently.

  “Hold on, just a second,” his sister replied, but realising that trying to spot a little pack of tissues amongst the bag’s other innumerable items was like looking for a needle in a haystack, tipped the entire contents onto the coffee table.

  “Where did you get that from?” said Gil, as he looked down at a shiny, silver object which fell with a loud clunk onto the glass table top.

  Bridget examined the mobile phone which she now held in her hand.

  “Oh no, it must belong to that French woman, I’ve picked it up by mistake. I bet she’s looking everywhere for it! What a complete fool I’ve made of myself.”

  Seeing his sister’s obvious distress, Gil said, “Don’t worry, I’ll drop it off at the Mirabeau first thing tomorrow morning,” and then he added, “on my way to the pharmacy.”

  “Thanks Gil, you are an angel, I don’t think I could face seeing her again,” said a very relieved Bridget.

  Chapter Twenty

  “Did you hand the phone in ok?” Bridget asked Gil anxiously as soon as he got back from the village the next morning.

  “Yes, I gave it to Pete; he said he would return it to its owner.”

  “Oh I hope he doesn’t forget, you know what he’s like when he’s busy.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure he will, but I bet she’ll have worked out what happened to it and will be expecting you to return it, so she’ll probably ask him for it.”

  “Oh I didn’t think of that, let’s hope you’re right,” his sister replied.

  Gil spent the rest of the morning pottering about in the garden while Bridget set to work on planning the meal for the weekend. She had earlier spoken to Helen, she and Doug got back late the previous night and yes, they would love to come, so there would be six of them. “Oh, I can’t make my mind up about the main course,” Bridget muttered to herself. I really fancy salmon, it’s so summery, but that would mean we couldn’t have my favourite smoked trout mousse to start. She desperately thumbed through her collection of recipes which she had brought with her. We could have chicken for the main of course, with the trout mousse to start, yes that would work. No, chicken’s too ordinary, what about duck? Annoyed at her own indecision, Bridget threw down the blue folder that held the hundreds of recipes she had carefully collected over the years and wandered into the garden. Gil was bending over, de-heading the geraniums. He looked up when he saw Bridget.

  “I think I’ll ask Tony if I can borrow his mower, the grass needs a trim before the weekend.”

  “Good idea, I want everywhere to look nice. Doug and Helen’s garden is always immaculate and I don’t want ours to show us up.”

  “Yes, but they’re there all the time aren’t they, and I think they have someone in once a week to help out.”

  “Yes I know, but I’d like to make a bit of an effort.”

  “Have you decided what we’re eating yet?”

  “Don’t ask, I’m just getting more and more confused.”

  “That’s not like you.”

  “I know, I just can’t seem to settle today. I’m worried about that phone, I hope Pete’s remembered to give it back to that French woman. I think I might pop over after lunch and check that he has, I don’t want her thinking I stole it.”

  “Like those pickpockets you see in films you mean, where they deliberately bump into a toff and before you know it they’ve made off with his watch and his wallet, and the shirt off his back if they’re really clever!”

  “It isn’t funny Gil, I feel so bad about it all, I mean what if she wants to make some important calls?”

  “Well if it makes you feel any better, give Pete a ring.”

  “No, I’m going to go over there, he might just fob me off on the phone. I’ll go straight after lunch.

  *

  Bridget eventually decided to wait until after three before setting off for the Mirabeau, to give Pete time to finish the lunchtime service. At the last minute, Gil decided to walk to the village with her as he wanted to see if he could get his garden shears sharpened in the little hardware shop that was half way down one of the side streets behind the square.

  “I’ll come and find you,” said Bridget as she and Gil parted in the middle of the square, “this should only take a couple of minutes.”

  Bridget thought the best place to find Pete would be in the Mirabeau’s bar where lunchtime diners often gathered for a liqueur. She popped her head around the door to find it full of Gendarmes. Why aren’t they out there catching murderers, she thought and then graciously conceded that even Gendarmes had to have a break. Pete was still very busy with a bar full of customers, almost entirely male. On seeing Bridget’s discomfort at being almost the only female, Pete gallantly called over to her to have a seat and that he would be with her shortly. She looked for somewhere to sit down but, as luck would have it, the only empty table was the one which had been the scene of the previous day’s embarrassing encounter. Bridget decided to stand instead. The afternoon trade showed no signs of slackening off and after twenty minutes, convinced that Pete must have completely forgotten about her, Bridget decided to leave. As she walked into reception, Gil was just coming in from the square.

  “Are you still here?”

  “Obviously!” said a very annoyed Bridget. “The bar’s packed, I haven’t even spoken to Pete yet. How did you get on with the shears?”

  “They’ll be ready on Saturday morning. Look, let’s go back in and wait for him there, he can’t be much longer,” Gil said, as he took Bridget by the arm and steered her back in the direction she had just come from.

  After ten minutes, the bar miraculously emptied.

  “Really sorry about the wait,” Pete said to Bridget, “I’m on my own today, that useless Pom hasn’t shown up for his shift. What can I get you folks?”

  Gil ordered a beer and feeling the need for something stronger than coffee, Bridget ordered a medium white wine. Pete brought the drinks over.

  “Ok if I join you guys, boy, are my feet killing me. This is the first break I’ve had all day,” he said taking off his sandals and wiggling his toes. “Now I know what you’re going to ask me but I haven’t seen the woman who own
s the phone yet. In fact, no-one’s seen her today at all. She didn’t come down for breakfast and the chamber maid said her bed doesn’t look slept in.”

  “What?” said Bridget with alarm. “Isn’t that a bit odd?”

  “Not necessarily. I know her sort, dollar to a cent there’s a bloke involved somewhere, a bit of illicit shenanigans if you ask me!” said Pete, rocking back on his chair and rolling his eyes.

  “But why check into a hotel and not even spend the night. If she was here to meet a man, then why stay elsewhere?” Bridget said.

  “Because he’s married isn’t he!” said Pete, grinning widely and tapping the side of his nose.

  “Then wouldn’t a hotel be the most obvious place to meet?” asked Bridget.

  “I suppose so, but look, don’t listen to me rambling on, she’s probably some perfectly respectable woman here to visit her maiden aunt or something.”

  Just then, a chambermaid came into the bar carrying a bundle of freshly laundered white sheets. She exchanged some words in French with Pete who explained to Gil and Bridget that he had instructed her not to bother changing the sheets in room 21, the French woman’s room, as the bed hasn’t been slept in. “No point in making unnecessary work,” he added, clearly unconcerned about the woman’s whereabouts.

  Bridget looked pensive and then said, “Pete, would you mind asking the chambermaid something for me please?” said Bridget. “Would you ask her when she last saw the woman from room 21?”

  “What do you want to know that for?” Gil whispered as Pete obligingly put Bridget’s question to the maid, Nicole.

  “I don’t like the sound of this, no-one seems to seen her much after she checked in,” Bridget whispered back.

  “She says she hasn’t seen her since yesterday afternoon when she ordered a taxi for her,” said Pete.

  “A taxi? Where to, when?” Bridget asked frantically.

  For Bridget, the time it took for Pete to translate her question and relay back Nicole’s response was interminable. The maid shrugged several times and pointed out of the window. Bridget was on tenterhooks to know what the girl had to say.

  “Ok,” said Pete, who was now looking a little puzzled, but still largely unconcerned, “it seems as if the woman came down from her room at around two o’clock, Nick and I were busy with lunchtime service so she asked Nicole here to order her a taxi, which she did. No-one has seen her since.”

  “Did she tell Nicole where she was going?” Bridget asked.

  “No, I asked her that but the woman didn’t say.”

  “Do you know which taxi service Nicole would have rung?” said Bridget. “Maybe we could find out from the driver where he dropped her.”

  “I don’t need to ask her, she would have rung her dad, Marcel, he’s the only taxi firm around here. I tell you what, I’ll ask Nicole to ring him now.”

  Pete translated for Nicole who immediately dipped her hand into her overall pocket and pulled out her mobile phone.

  “Damn thing’s on voice-mail,” said Pete, “but she’ll keep trying him.”

  Pete told Nicole in French that she should get on with her work but that she was to let him know as soon as she heard from her father. Seeing Bridget’s worried face, he tried to lighten the mood.

  “Look, chances are we’re worried over nothing, she’ll probably come walking in here before long, large as life after a night of passion with lover-boy, you mark my words, I’ve been in this business long enough to recognise the signs.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right,” said Bridget who was trying very hard to convince herself that he was. “Let’s wait until we’ve heard from the taxi-driver before we decide what to do next.”

  “What do you mean do next?” Gil asked, sensing that they could be getting out of their depth. “We’re not going to do anything. We’ll just pass on what we know to the police and let them deal with it.”

  “But we don’t really know anything, do we? All we know is that a woman who we’ve never met before didn’t spend the night in her hotel room, they’ll just laugh at us,” said Bridget.

  “Exactly, so why are you so worried? We’ve got no reason to believe anything’s happened to her!” said Gil.

  “I don’t know, I just have this awful feeling that she’s mixed up with the murders somehow. I think she could be in some sort of trouble and she hasn’t got her mobile phone, remember.”

  Turning to Pete, Bridget said, “Maybe there’s a clue somewhere in her name or where she’s from. I know you probably shouldn’t, but could you give us the details she provided when she checked in?”

  “I shouldn’t really, but as I know you two, I can’t see the harm, come on, follow me.”

  Pete led Gil and Bridget towards the reception desk where he sat down at the computer. “Right, let’s have a look, here we are, her name’s Dubreuil, Madame Agnès Dubreuil, she’s given her home town as Perpignan and she’s booked in for two nights.”

  “Perpignan, that’s down south isn’t it?” said Bridget.

  “Yes, it’s in the Languedoc, near the Spanish border, lovely part of the country.”

  A thought suddenly flashed into Bridget’s mind. “You say her first name is Agnès, not Marguerite or Colette?”

  “Nope, it’s definitely Agnès, but why did you ask?” Pete replied looking puzzled.

  “Oh nothing, just a hunch, but I was obviously wrong,” said a disappointed Bridget.

  Further conversation was interrupted as Nicole came running down the stairs, her mobile phone clasped to her ear.

  “C’est papa!” she said excitedly to Pete, handing him the phone.

  Pete spoke for a minute or two before handing the phone back to Nicole.

  “Agnès Dubreuil asked Nicole’s father to drop her at the lake, she didn’t want him to wait so he gave her his card in case she wanted picking up later. That’s all he knows, she didn’t say much and no, she didn’t say why she wanted to go there. He just dropped her off and drove back to the village.”

  Just as Nicole turned to leave, Bridget said, “Pete, can you ask Nicole what Madame Dubreuil was wearing.”

  “Why do you want to know that?” he replied.

  “Just ask her, please Pete,” Bridget pleaded.

  “An orange coloured dress and olive-green shoes,” Pete replied after translating question and answer.

  “Does that help?”

  “I’m not sure, it’s what she was wearing yesterday when she checked in, it hardly seems the sort of outfit you’d wear to visit the lake. Those shoes must have had three inch heels at least and the ground up there can be a bit uneven in places. And why go to the lake at all, there’s not much there for tourists is there?” Bridget replied, a deep frown appearing across her face.

  “So where does this get us?” Gil asked. “She went to the lake in high heels, what does that prove?”

  “That like most stylish French women, she wouldn’t be seen dead in trainers!” Pete said, chuckling at his own joke.

  “That’s not funny Pete,” said Bridget sternly. “Let’s go and sit down back in the bar and we can talk things through.”

  Gil and Pete gave each other a knowing glance which said they both knew it would be easier to give in than to argue.

  The bar was now empty and Gil and Bridget took their seats at a table near the window. Pete walked around the bar to top up their drinks before joining them.

  “Look, I think we’re all getting a bit carried away here,” said Pete, taking a sip of his lager. “I think we should wait and see if she comes back this evening. If she doesn’t show, ok, we’ll speak to the cops.”

  “I think that makes a lot of sense Bridget, don’t you?” said Gil.

  Bridget, who was deep in thought, didn’t answer. Her eyes were closed again and the frown on her face deepened even further. Suddenly, she opened her eyes.

  “I’ve got it, I know whose voice it was!”

  “What voice? said Gil. “You didn’t say anything to me about hearing voice
s.”

  Bridget gave a hurried account to Gil and Pete of the scene in Chez Mimi’s when she had overheard the French couple talking.

  “I knew there was something wrong but I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. The man’s voice I heard was Nick Webster’s!”

  “But I thought you said they were a French couple?” said Gil.

  “They were, or rather they were speaking fluent French.”

  “Well that rules Nick out then,” said Pete, laughing. “He can’t string a sentence together in French, you’ve heard him speaking to customers, he’s a real drongo! You must have been mistaken.”

  “Oh it was Nick alright, I recognise that little inflection in his voice, maybe he picked it up when he worked with you in Australia but it’s unmistakable, even when he’s speaking another language. Besides, I pride myself on being able to distinguish one voice from another, even if I can’t see the face, thanks to the amount of radio plays I’ve listened to over the years,” Bridget replied confidently.

  “I can vouch for that,” Gil said. “If Bridget says it was Nick, then I’d bet good money on it being him.”

  “But why would he pretend he can’t speak French when, as you say Bridget, he speaks it like a native?” Pete asked. “I mean, what’s he got to hide?”