Dead End in the Pyrenees E-Book

Elly Grant

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Take a respected female cop

Add a bunch of greedy people

And place all in a small French town

Throw in a large helping of opportunity, lies and deceit

Add a pinch of prejudice

A twist of resentment

And dot with death and despair

Be prepared for some shocking revelations

Then sit down, relax and enjoy

With a dash or two of humor

And plenty of curiosity

Follow Danielle, a female cop in a small town on the French side of the Pyrenees, as she tries to solve a murder at a local spa. This story is about life in a small French town, local events, colourful characters, prejudice and, of course, death.

Dead End In The Pyrenees is a standalone novel and can be enjoyed even if you haven't read other books in the series.

Leseprobe

Dead End in the Pyrenees

Elly Grant

Copyright (C) 2016 Elly Grant

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2021 by Next Chapter

Published 2021 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Art Evit

Edited by D.S. Williams

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

For my Friend Deborah Vass

Chapter 1

The blow to his head wasn't hard enough to render Monsieur Dupont unconscious, but it stupefied him. Blood poured profusely from a deep scalp wound, down into his left eye. He flopped onto the recently washed tiles at the side of the Roman bath, then floundered at the edge, frantically trying to stop his body from slipping completely into the pool. His upper torso overhung the edge, hands slapping at the water as he tried to right himself. He was aware of the metal chair, attached to a hoist to enable the disabled to enter the water, beginning to descend. As it lowered it trapped Monsieur Dupont, forcing his head and shoulders under the water. He struggled, his toes drumming the moist tiles, arms flapping uselessly, but he was hopelessly stuck. Soon he succumbed. Brimstone-smelling steam rose from the surface of the spa pool and silence returned.

When Madame Georges arrived for work, she was surprised to hear a low whirring sound coming from the pool area. She couldn't think what it might be. Surely the machinery and gadgets, designed to treat all manner of ailments, had been switched off at the close of business the night before? The last treatments were usually completed by 7pm, at which point everyone went home, leaving Monsieur Dupont, the caretaker, to lock up.

Following the sound, Madame Georges entered the majestic Roman spa. The double doors swung silently closed behind her as she made her way towards the pool. She was aware of her feet, still encased in outdoor shoes, making a slapping sound on the tiled floor. Madame Georges immediately noticed that the hoist chair was down and something was bundled up beneath it at the water's edge, but as her spectacles were steamed-up from the damp atmosphere, she couldn't tell what that something was until she was practically on top of it.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she said aloud, on realising that what had appeared to be a bundle of rags, was in fact, a man.

A wave of shock passed through her body, and she took off her glasses with shaking hands, cleaned them on the hem of her blouse and stared again. It was definitely a man. His body was still and what seemed to be blood gathered in a puddle on the tiles beneath it. Madame Georges could not immediately recognise the person, as the head and shoulders were under water. All the staff at les thermes wore pink track-suits and trainers to work, and the guests were usually attired in white towelling, dressing gowns and blue rubber pool shoes. This person was clothed in a dark-coloured suit and had formal shoes on his feet.

Regaining some of her composure, Madame Georges turned and ran back through the double swing doors towards the office. She used her key to let herself in then immediately pressed the button to sound the alarm. The alarm was a wartime relic, a former air-raid siren, still used to alert people to an emergency. It wailed out over the valley and across the mountains twice. People who would normally have gone back to sleep at the first blast were now fully awake. The queue of chattering shoppers, waiting in line at the boulangerie to buy their baguettes fell silent, each person straining to listen for approaching emergency vehicles. This double call was used only for the most serious of incidents.

Madame Georges sank into a chair, then she picked up the phone to dial the emergency number and report what she'd discovered.

“Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, a man is dead! I'm sure he is dead. There has been an accident, I think. Assistance, s'il vous plait, please come at once, please help me, I am alone here,” she said, when the call was answered. Madame Georges had seen death before many times. The spa attracted the sick and the old searching for cures for various ailments, and many of them spent the last days of their lives there – but this was different.

Like a well-oiled machine, everything flowed into action. Before very long the pompiers' – who are both firemen and trained paramedics – arrived, along with an ambulance and a local practitioner named Doctor Poullet. A crowd began to gather in the street outside. But prior to this whole circus kicking off, I was the first on the scene, accompanied by one of my trainee officers. We managed to calm down Madame Georges before securing the area and this is where my story begins…

Chapter 2

Many of you will have met me before and know that I am a senior police officer living and working in the French side of the Eastern Pyrenees; but for everyone else, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Danielle and I am thirty-three years of age. Solving several serious crimes in my region has propelled my career forward at a very fast pace – especially quick for a woman – to the esteemed position I now enjoy. I oversee a large area, covering my small town and several nearby villages and farms. I have people working under me and I answer directly to my superior, Detective Gerard, who is based in Perpignan. My ambition is to have his job, but for the meantime, I have patience, I can wait.

I live with my best friend, Patricia, who is a lesbian. But don't make any incorrect assumptions please. She is like a sister to me. We do love each other, but there is no sexual side to our relationship. We have been friends since elementary school, where we were both treated as outsiders and shunned – she for being a tomboy and me for being dressed oddly by my strange and venomous mother.

Patricia and I reside in a beautiful house with our dog Ollee, and a lazy cat called Mimi. She treats us like hoteliers. Our home is situated on the edge of a village across the river from the town. It is near enough for me to walk to work, should I wish to do so, but far enough away from the gossipers and the prying eyes.

Patricia produces pies and preserves, which she sells commercially. Her food is delicious and she has customers as far away as Paris. As well as this, she is a talented artist with her work being displayed and sold in several galleries. With Patricia's business and my job, we live very well. We are comfortable and have no money worries. You will learn more about my life and my friends, but for the meantime, let me tell you what is happening in the here and now.

I consider Doctor Poullet, who has just arrived at the spa, to be my friend. We have both attended the scenes of several crimes involving death and he has become the official medical examiner on call for the area. He is a cantankerous old devil, and he used to scare me with his sharp tongue and sarcastic quips, but I am used to him now, and more importantly, he is used to me.

“Ah, Danielle, bonjour,” he says, unable to hide an annoyed scowl. “What a time to be called to this God-forsaken place. My wife had just put my coffee on the table. This room is like a sauna. Can nobody turn on some air conditioning? How can I be expected to work in these conditions?”

“Good morning, Doctor. I'm sorry, but this is a spa and spas are supposed to be warm and steamy. Just think how good it will be for our skin,” I reply with a smirk. The doctor is always moaning about something, but he makes me laugh and I can't resist having a dig at him.

“Hmph,” is his response. “Danielle, you are not funny. My shirt is stuck to my skin with sweat and I'm not getting any younger. What will you do if I have a stroke? Who will give you a report then?” His plump face is red and a river of perspiration is running down his forehead and dripping off his nose and chin. He loosens his tie and pulls at his collar, undoing the top button.

I back off. I forgot how irritated he gets early in the day. Doctor Poullet does not do mornings. With help from the pompiers, the chair is lifted and the body pulled onto the edge of the pool for the doctor to examine.

“He has been hit on the head, probably by the chair; there is a large gash, but I don't think that is what killed him. I think this man drowned. It is Monsieur Dupont, by the way,” Poullet says.

“Dupont? The caretaker? Why is he dressed in a suit? Why was he here after hours?”

I turn in the direction of the male voice and see that Monsieur Claude, the owner of the spa, has arrived.

“Will one of you help me up?” Doctor Poullet snaps, struggling to lift his rotund frame from his squatting position beside the body. As my assistant endeavours to help him up, Poullet says, “If we knew all the answers, Claude, I could be enjoying my cup of coffee at home, Danielle could be taking a walk around town in the fresh air and Jean here,” he nods towards the senior pompier, “Could be sitting on his arse, waiting for some idiot to set fire to something.”

Claude visibly shrinks at the outburst, dropping his chin and staring at his feet.

“I'm sure this man drowned,” Poullet continues. “It was probably an accident.”

“I'm sorry to disagree, Poullet,” Jean says, “but this equipment is unlikely to malfunction. I can't see how a person could accidentally hit their head on the chair, then switch on the mechanism to lower it. He might have been murdered. It needs investigating.”

Poullet and I exchange glances. Monsieur Claude covers his face with his hands.

“Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” Claude says. “This is the second unusual death in a week. Madame Carruthers, the English lady, came for her treatment, tripped on the stairs while entering the building and hit her head. She died immediately. We've only just completed the paperwork for that incident, and now this.”

My old friend Jean turns to me. “You should inform your boss about this one, Danielle. I cannot agree that his death was accidental. I'm sorry, but the pompiers are responsible for checking that these machines are safe. All the spa equipment was given a clean bill of health, less than a month ago.”

“It's true, I have the certificate,” Claude adds.

“You people sort yourselves out,” Poullet says. “I'm going home for my breakfast. You'll have my report on Monday, Danielle. I'm taking the weekend off, for a change.” And without as much as an au revoir, the good doctor heaves his sweating form towards the exit. “Oh, and you can move the body now,” he adds, without turning his head.

Jean and I exchange the usual pleasantries, asking kindly about each other's family and work as his men prepare the body for removal.

“I suppose you'll have to interview rather a lot of people. I apologise for causing you more work, but you do understand my position, don't you, Danielle?”

“Of course, Jean; of course I understand – but I still believe this could simply have been a terrible accident.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he concedes.

“I'm not sure what to do next,” Monsieur Claude cuts in. “We'll have to empty the pool, there's blood in it.” His mouth is puckered, as if there is a bad taste on his tongue. “That would normally be Monsieur Dupont's job. I'll have to call Albert in to do it now. And I'll have to cancel the 'curists', they'll be arriving for their treatments at any moment and my staff are all waiting outside.”

“If I might suggest something,” I say. “Why don't you set up a small table and chair at the entrance, and if Madame Georges is up to the task, have her sit there with one of my officers and turn people away as they arrive. She can note their names and explain what has happened. My officer can advise them that they may not leave town until we have their statements. The spa is due to close next week, for the winter break. You can shut down early and sort out the cleaning then.”

Monsieur Claude purses his lips. “Yes, thank you Danielle. That makes a lot of sense. Most people have already finished their treatments by now. There are only a handful of them left completing their third week. Surely, I won't be expected to refund all their money when they've used our services and had most of the benefits by now? Perhaps I'll just return the fees for the final week or maybe I'll tell them to make a claim on their insurance. After all, why should I be out of pocket? It's bad enough that I'll be paying the staff for taking time off.”

Jean and I exchange incredulous glances. A man is lying dead and all Claude can think about is how much money he will lose. He is one of the richest men in town, but one of the poorest when it comes to compassion, it seems. He scuttles off to find Madame Georges. Whatever her state of nerves, I'm sure she'll be pressed into working today.

Finally, Dupont's corpse is secured in a plastic body bag and loaded onto a trolley, then trundled through the door to the waiting ambulance. One wheel of the trolley is slightly wonky and the whole contraption squeaks and squeals as it is pushed along.

“That could do with being replaced,” Jean says, nodding at the worn-out piece of equipment. “It's not very old, but obviously well-used.”

“I'm afraid many people die here,” I reply.

Jean gives a shudder, “Let's get out of here,” he says. “For some reason this place always gives me the creeps.”

Chapter 3

I now have the unenviable task of informing Bertrand Dupont's wife of his death. I've been told that she has been visiting her sister in Barcelona, but is due home at any time. They have one son, Emil, who lives and works in nearby Perpignan. With a heavy heart, I climb the hill behind the spa to the purpose-built apartments which sit in an elevated position above town. They are practically empty, as most of the visitors have now departed and only a very small number of these apartments are occupied all year round.

It is a cool, crisp morning and the bright sun dazzles me as I make my way. December is usually a dry month with clear, blue skies and lots of sunshine. Many visitors are returning to the north of the country, which is much wetter, and we are glad to see the back of them. It is a relief to have our town return to a slower pace of life as everyone and everything winds down and gets ready for the coming seasonal holidays.

I reach the building and take the lift. It vibrates alarmingly, so I make a mental note to descend using the stairs when I'm done. As the doors open at the fifth floor I see the hallway is in darkness. I search for a switch to activate the communal lighting, feeling my way along the corridor in the darkness and accidentally press the doorbell of an empty apartment. When I finally find the right button and the light comes on, I exhale my bated breath. It takes me only a moment to locate Dupont's apartment and I ring the bell. The door is immediately opened by a plump, middle-aged woman. Her dyed blonde hair is arranged in sausage-shaped curls and she is dressed all in black.

“Madame Dupont?” I speculate.

The woman shakes her head, stepping aside to usher me through the hallway and into a lounge. The room is full of large pieces of furniture, and the walls are lined with shelves stacked with an assortment of religious icons and ornaments. It is dismal and oppressive and reminds me of my mother's house. A rail-thin woman is sitting on the over-stuffed sofa. She constantly dabs at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. It seems bad news travels fast and it's obvious she's already been informed of her husband's death. Still, I must advise her formally.

“I am very sorry, Madame, but I must inform you that we have found a body at the spa which has been identified as your husband, Bertrand Dupont.”

Her shoulders heave with sobs as a wave of despair overcomes her. There is a moment of awkward silence.

“My name is Madame Da Silva,” the plump woman says, breaking the tension. “I heard about Bertrand, so I met Collette when she got off the bus. It's a terrible business. How did the accident happen?”

“We do not know yet exactly how he met his death,” I reply cautiously. “But it appears as if he may have drowned. We'll know more in a couple of days. In the meantime, I need Madame Dupont to formally identify the body – if she's up to it, of course.”

Madame Dupont shuts her eyes and nods her head.

“I'll go with her,” Madame Da Silva offers.

I am most grateful for her offer, as it saves me from having to hang around.

“Thank you, Madame,” I say. “I'll send a car to collect you both and one of my officers will accompany you. Once again, I am very sorry for your loss Madame Dupont.”

I turn to leave, anxious to get back into the fresh air.

“He told me there was a problem at work when I telephoned him from Barcelona yesterday. You don't think…” Madame Dupont cannot bring herself to finish the sentence.

“I am sure, Madame, he didn't take his own life,” I reply, giving her the answer she needs to hear.

“Thank you, Officer,” she replies, her voice little more than a whisper.

I take the opportunity to make my exit and race down the stairs and out of the building, before either woman has a chance to detain me further. It's such a relief to be back in the sunshine. As it's now nearly lunchtime, I return to my office, make a couple of calls, then pick up my car and drive towards home. I want to take some time out and talk to Patricia before I must face what is likely to be, a very busy afternoon.

When I pull up outside my house I'm surprised and disappointed to find Ollee doesn't hurtle down the garden to greet me. Patricia must be out and she's taken the dog with her, I suspect. I constructed a special dog flap in the door, to enable Ollee to come and go as he pleases when we're not at home and he always responds when he hears my car. Then I remember Patricia saying something this morning about meeting my father at the orchard. By this time of year, most of the pruning and tidying up is over, but they were planning on planting a couple of new fruit trees and I know they were due to be delivered sometime this week. I glance at my watch, decide to make myself some lunch, then stop at the orchard to say hello before I return to work. That way I get to eat and see my family for a few minutes as well.

Chapter 4

My office was always rather cramped, but recently, we've taken over the shop next door so we finally have space for every permanent member of staff to each have their own desk. The original tiny cloakroom with toilet is now for my personal use only, but a larger facility, which was part of the shop, may be used by all staff. When I emerge from my cloakroom after hanging up my coat, Paul, my most senior assistant officer, places a cup of steaming coffee on my desk.

“You're going to need this, Boss,” he says. “The trainee you left at the spa has returned with a list of twenty-three names and he says more client's names may yet need to be added.”

I groan. “Surely we don't need to interview them all? Hasn't he identified the people who had access to the pool area after the spa closed for the evening? I expected him to give me the names of the staff who have keys and the people whose treatment finished late in the day, not the entire list of 'curists' as well. Where is he now?”

“I sent him for lunch,” Paul says. “Laurent has gone over to the spa to try and get the information we actually need. He's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but at least he knows the right questions to ask. You better sit down and have this with your coffee,” he adds, placing an almond croissant beside the cup. “The sugar will give you strength.”

I stare at him quizzically.

“I took the liberty, Boss,” he explains. “I know how stressed you get when you have to speak to Detective Gerard and he's already been on the phone looking for you.”

I groan again. “How on earth did he find out about this so quickly? Who told him?”

“Nobody, apparently – that is, not until he phoned looking for our monthly stats and Laurent let the cat out of the bag.”

“I thought we emailed him that information two days ago?”

“Apparently not. Laurent accidentally emailed it to our own office instead of Gerard's.”

“How is it that you and Laurent started here at the same time, yet you've advanced to being a cheeky smartass, while he's still marking time?”

Paul smiles and winks at me. “I don't know, Boss. Maybe it's because I'm a handsome devil and Laurent's a plod.”

Maybe I'm being unfair, but I worked hard to get a permanent posting here for Paul because I rate his work so highly. Laurent, on the other hand, is slow on the uptake, but he's the son of an official in Perpignan and he was foisted on me.

I shake my head and rub my hand over my eyes. “You'd better get Gerard on the phone for me,” I say. “But do me a favour and wait until after I've eaten my croissant.”

I have no sooner finished my coffee when an angry Monsieur Claude arrives at the office. I can hear him shouting at Paul, so I go to investigate and when I open my door a very red-faced Claude turns on me.

“What right do the police have, going through my clients' and staffs' personal files?” he demands. “That information is very sensitive. Some of the employees of the spa are important medical personnel.”

“You'd better come in to my office, Monsieur Claude. I'm not sure what you're talking about. My officer is simply seeking a list of key holders. Please, sit down and we'll try to get to the bottom of this.”