Deadly Degrees in the Pyrenees E-Book

Elly Grant

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The ghastly murder of a local estate agent reveals unscrupulous business deals, which have the whole town talking. Michelle Moliner was not liked, but why would someone want to kill her?

The story unfolds told by Danielle: a single, thirty-something cop based in a small French town in the Eastern Pyrenees. Danielle's friends may be in danger, and she must discover who the killer is before anyone else is harmed.

Deadly Degrees in the Pyrenees is the 5th book in the Death in the Pyrenees series. It's about life, local events, colourful characters, prejudice, and of course death in a small French town. This is a standalone novel and can be enjoyed even if you haven't read other books in the series.

Leseprobe

Deadly Degrees in the Pyrenees

Elly Grant

Copyright (C) 2017 Elly Grant

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Art Evit

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.

Chapter 1

When the woman first began to feel too hot, she tried to tough it out, convincing herself she could take it. Besides, the sauna was great for her skin, but after another few minutes she knew she'd had enough. Her face was flushed, her temperature raised and sweat was no longer forming in droplets on her skin. Definitely time to call it a day, she thought.

Pushing on the door, she was surprised to find it unyielding. Sauna doors are designed to withstand extreme changes in temperature. They do not warp. The woman put her shoulder to it. Still it didn't budge. Her stomach began to cramp and fear crept in. Why was the door stuck? How could it be stuck? She stared out of the tempered, safety-glass panel.

“Help, help!” she called, banging on the glass. “Is anybody there? Help, help me, I'm stuck in the sauna!” She paused, listening, but she heard no sounds, only silence.

Realising her plight, she began to panic and scream, long, keening animal-like sounds. Her temperature rose even higher. Painful spasms wracked her legs and hands. She became confused, throwing herself against the side walls of the sauna in an attempt to escape, then trying to kick her way out by pounding her bare heels on the wooden floor.

Eventually, she collapsed with exhaustion and heat stroke. She lost consciousness and fell into a coma before her body succumbed to shock.

Her corpse was discovered hours later, when her lover arrived for a romantic liaison. There was nothing romantic about what he found. The ghastly sight of the broiled woman with her red skin and bulging, bloodshot eyes would stay with him for the rest of his life.

Michelle Moliner's murderer had planned to kill her. This was not an accident, not a random act of burglary gone wrong. Her killer knew she'd be alone and vulnerable. Her killer wanted her to burn in hell.

* * *

It had been a beautiful morning. The sun was shining through a chink in the curtains. Michelle stretched lazily, spreading out her limbs in the comfortable, king-sized bed. Even though she and Jacques no longer shared a bedroom, she was pleased he had gone away with his club and she had the house to herself. Michelle planned to have a gloriously indulgent day. She had first stirred when Jacques banged about the house, getting ready for his weekend. He was a clumsy man and didn't make any effort to be quiet on her account. She heard the front door slam, the squeal of the hinges on the tall, electrically controlled double gates which enclosed the driveway, then his car revving before he drove off. Michelle knew that the front door wouldn't be locked as Jacques would have merely pulled it closed as he left, but she was surprised that there was no clunk from the gates closing. It amazed her that he'd installed the gates to stop any of his precious cars being driven away and stolen, yet the house with all her precious contents was left unprotected. It was clear where his priorities lay. Now she was fully awake having been able to grab an extra hour of blissful slumber once all had eventually become quiet once again.

Michelle had planned the perfect day. She'd made a list in her head of her regime for the next few hours, making full use of the trappings of wealth she enjoyed. There was her beautiful swimming pool, the hot-tub, the sauna and enough creams and lotions to satisfy the whole town. Everyone knew that her home was sensational, because Michelle constantly reminded them. She wasn't liked, many hated her, but all were rather frightened of her and that's the way she liked it.

Michelle Moliner enjoyed being rich. She loved the power of wealth. Apart from the mayor's wife, who she considered to be her equal, Michelle thought she was probably the most important woman in the area. But she didn't always hold the position she now enjoyed. As a child, being the fourth daughter of a local cheese merchant, she was way down the pecking order. But Michelle was smart – smart enough to realise the value of marrying well. Jacques Moliner was not as clever as Michelle, but he was an only son and his father was blessed with amazing luck and the ability to turn muck into brass. Jacques' father amassed a huge fortune then conveniently died young, leaving everything divided equally between his wife and his only son. Within one month of her husband's demise, Madame Moliner suffered a massive heart attack and was promptly buried beside him. Jacques didn't grieve for long however; his bulging bank account soon helped to dry his tears.

He'd always liked Michelle, although on and off he'd dated her sister, Helene. In fact, everyone expected him to one day marry Helene. Michelle was petite and pretty, and being rather shy, Jacques appreciated the cute young woman who found him so fascinating. She persuaded him to end things once and for all with Helene, then tempted him with the promise of dirty sex – but only after they were married, of course. Helene was not pleased but there was nothing she could do. Michelle had hooked Jacques, as easily as if he'd jumped on the line and played dead.

Everyone suspected that Michelle found the money more attractive than the man. They all said – those wagging-tongued, jealous bitches – that it wouldn't last and many prayed for the opportunity of stepping into Michelle's shoes. And they were partly right. The sex didn't last and neither did the promise of love ever after, but they underestimated Michelle's tenacity. There was no way she would leave Jacques, not while one single centime remained in the bank account they shared. So the couple continued to live together, yet apart, in the fabulous house they jointly owned, and while Jacques frequently travelled away with the vintage car club, Michelle entertained her current lover and spent more and more of their joint cash, while all of her own earnings were being saved in a secret account in Spain.

But none of that mattered any more. Michelle was beyond caring. One callous act, one murderous act had ended her life and everything she'd worked for.

* * *

When I received the call from the dispatcher, I responded immediately. Accompanied by my assistant Laurent, I left the office and we drove to Michelle Moliner's house. Laurent was excited to be going with me. He, like many others, had speculated about Madame Moliner's home. Only a privileged few; her inner circle, her employees and her husband's close friends, had ever been invited to enter through the large iron security gates and be welcomed at the castel.

But, forgive me please, I am rambling on before we have been formally introduced. Allow me to rectify that. My name is Danielle and I am the senior police officer in charge of this region. I oversee my small town, which is situated on the French side of the Eastern Pyrenees. I also look after several villages and farms, quite a large area, in fact. I'm smart and in my thirties – still quite young – but it's been a struggle to reach the esteemed position I now enjoy. Women do not usually reach the higher echelons here and in particular, women who are young and unmarried.

I live with my friend Patricia in a lovely home on the edge of town. It is close enough for me to walk to work, but far enough away from the gossipers and the prying eyes. Not that I have anything to hide, our friendship is that of sisters even though Patricia is a lesbian, but you know how people like to talk.

Anyway, I am rambling again. Apart from Guy Legler, who was Michelle's lover, Laurent and I were the first to arrive at the scene. We found Monsieur Legler in a state of deep shock and no wonder, the sight that greeted us was ghastly. I have never seen a person cooked before and I hope I never witness such a thing again. Within a few minutes the medical emergency team arrived, closely followed by the pompiers, who are both firemen and trained paramedics. There is nothing anyone can do. Michelle has been dead for several hours.

I arrange for Monsieur Legler to be taken to the clinic for treatment and send the medical emergency team away. I tell Laurent to return to the office. He is not happy about being dismissed, as he'd like time to look around this house, but that's too bad. I am the boss and he must do as he is told. Besides, he is a bungler, a bit of a buffoon and he irritates me.

I wait at the house with my old friend Jean, who oversees the pompiers. We have attended many scenes of death before, and apart from the unfortunate circumstances of our meetings, we enjoy spending the time together, passing a few hours chatting. We must wait now for a medical examiner to attend the corpse before we can move on. My old friend, Doctor Poullet has been summoned, but we have no idea when he will arrive.

Jean and I sit in the landscaped garden in the sunshine and discuss the pétanque club's forthcoming barbecue and the cycle race which is being held next month and the poor condition of the main road through town and indeed, anything else that springs to mind as we await the good doctor's arrival.

Chapter 2

After some time, Poullet's Renault Mégane Estate comes into view and Jean and I reluctantly rise from our comfortable chairs. We watch, cringing, as Poullet manoeuvres his car along the near-empty driveway and parks haphazardly, narrowly missing a large plant pot.

“The silly old fool still can't park, I see,” Jean says. “Do you see that bump on his door? He did that at Céret market on Sunday when he tried to squeeze into a space beside a metal bin.”

“I have to agree with you there, Jean,” I reply. “I always recognise his car when he's in town. It's the one abandoned at a crazy angle. At least his driving is alright. To my knowledge, he's never had an accident.”

The driver's door is pushed open and two plump legs appear, feet planted firmly on the gravel driveway. Then gripping the side of the car, Poullet hauls his bulk out and stands. He has never been a thin man, but he is now fatter than ever. Poullet's wife owns a patisserie and it is clear that the good doctor has over indulged in her wares. He waddles towards us.

“I see, once again, you two are enjoying a break sitting in the sunshine while the rest of us work,” he says grumpily. “Please, don't let me disturb you. In fact, why not return to your chairs and we can all sit in the sunshine? Perhaps we can have some iced tea or a pain-au-chocolat. I'm sure my next patient won't mind waiting,” he adds sarcastically.

I am about to protest that there was nothing we could do until he arrived, but it is a waste of time and effort. Poullet always believes his time is more important than everyone else's.

“Well now,” he continues. “What's this all about? I've been asked to attend, but nobody has had the courtesy to tell me what's happened. We all know Michelle very well. Has there been an accident?”

Jean and I exchange glances. The doctor is meant to tell us what has occurred, not the other way around, but in this instance, we already know Michelle has been murdered. There can be no other explanation.

“Come inside,” I say. “It will be easier once you see the situation of the body.”

Poullet stares at us, and purses his lips as if he has a bad taste in his mouth. “Humph,” he utters, then shaking his head with annoyance, he marches towards the front door of the house, his heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel.

We enter the house and make our way towards the back where the sauna is situated. It is conveniently placed to allow its user to step out of the wooden box and in a few paces, exit through a glazed door and plunge into the swimming pool.

Although the heat has been switched off, there is an overwhelming stuffiness in the air and a pungent smell, a mixture of sweat and excrement and something indefinable, but reminiscent of cooked pork. Michelle's skin looks shiny and plump, as if all the creases have been ironed out.

“Oh, mon Dieu,” Poullet says. He looks shocked. “Poor Michelle, what a terrible way to die! She must have been terrified.”

He stares at a sturdy, forked, wooden pole which is lying on the floor.

“Someone wedged that under the door handle,” Jean explains. “There was no way she could push the door open. It was held fast.”

“Then the killer turned up the heat,” I add. “The dial was at one hundred and forty degrees Celsius when I arrived. The murderer fried her brains. He or she wanted Michelle to suffer. I'm pretty sure this wasn't a random act.”

“Who would want to do such a thing?” the doctor asks.

“Come, come, Poullet,” I reply. “You and I both know Michelle was not liked. There will be many people delighted to see the back of her. The list will be as long as your arm.”

“Yes, that's true,” he agrees. “Many would want to be watching and knitting as the guillotine fell, but who would be angry enough or desperate enough to release the blade, I wonder?”

It is now quite late in the day and I cannot do any more here, so I say goodbye to Jean and drive back towards my office. Someone must inform Jacques Moliner of his wife's death, but first we'll have to locate him. Doctor Poullet told me that Jacques is a member of the vintage car club and they are holding a rally this weekend and he is not expected to return until late on Sunday evening. I telephone ahead and set Laurent the task of finding his mobile phone number. I ask my other assistant, Paul, to call the clinic and see if Guy Legler has recovered sufficiently for me to question him. As he found the body, he and Jacques are the prime suspects for Michelle's murder. Personally, I don't believe they had anything to do with the killing, but nevertheless their alibis must be checked out.

From what has been rumoured, Jacques knew that Michelle had a lover, but turned a blind eye to the affair and the several she'd had in the past. I can't understand what men saw in Michelle. She was scrawny, had a pinched face, a narrow little mouth full of sharp rat-like teeth and a tongue that could cut you with one phrase. I disliked the woman intensely and I was not alone.

Being the local estate agent and a close friend of the notaire she was in a very powerful position. Many people accused her of ripping off her clients, particularly the ex-pat community who are vulnerable and easy pickings, although nobody really cares about them. More disturbingly, there have been several dubious deals recently, involving local people. Conspiracy theories have been suggested and knowing Michelle and Pascal Boutiere, the notaire, I'm afraid they might well be true. I am not looking forward to interviewing potential murder suspects, as I think they could form a very long list.

Chapter 3

When I arrive back at the office, Paul and Laurent are amusing each other by telling sick jokes about Michelle's death. For some reason, ghastly events always inspire such humour. I enter my office and within a couple of minutes Paul brings me a coffee and news about Guy Legler and Jacques Moliner. Paul is a handsome devil with a cheeky smile, and he's smart, much smarter than Laurent. He places the coffee on my desk along with a slice of apricot cake.

“I thought you'd probably want something sweet after your baked lunch,” he says. I grimace and he relents. “You look a bit pale, Boss. I imagine it was pretty awful.”

“Not a pretty sight,” I agree. “But I guess Michelle wasn't especially beautiful at the best of times,” I add.

Paul smiles. “Let me update you,” he says. “Michelle has a studio apartment that she rents in town. Guy Legler has a key to this apartment and some of his belongings are kept there. His main residence is in Cadaqués, over the border in Spain. He calls himself a property agent, but he's not registered or legally connected to any agency as far as I can see. I suspect he's more like an introducer than an agent. I think he homed in on Michelle because she was successful and had money. Legler is considerably younger than her and much better looking. The clinic has released him, but he's been treated for shock and we can't question him for at least twenty-four hours. He's been told to stay in town and this is his address.”

Paul hands me a piece of paper and I am surprised to see that the studio is in a building jointly owned by Monsieur Claude, our esteemed spa owner, and my dear friend Patricia. I had no idea Michelle was renting an apartment there and I'm sure Patricia doesn't know either. The building was meant to provide high-priced, luxury accommodation for `curists' having treatments at the spa. It will be interesting to see how much Michelle is paying for its use, but I'd bet it's not nearly enough.

“Jacques is in Figueres with his car club,” Paul says. “He's been informed of his wife's death by the local police, but none of his group are able to drive tonight, because after they arrived there and booked into their hotel, they spent the rest of the day drinking. He's planning to return tomorrow afternoon.”

“There's no point sending a car for him, as there's nothing any of us can do today. I think we can take tomorrow off as normal and speak to Guy and Jacques on Monday when they are in a better state of mind.”

“I agree, Boss. We can't interview a drunk.”

“So, Michelle's lover came up from Spain as her husband travelled down,” I say. “How convenient. I'll send a one-liner by email to Detective Gerard in Perpignan to advise him what's happened, then we'll finish up here. Laurent is on call tomorrow and I see no reason to change that arrangement.”

We are discussing the rest of the list of people we'll need to interview when we hear a rabble of voices coming from the main office.

“We'd better see what's going on,” I say to Paul. “It's nearly close of day and we can look at this again on Monday when we're fresh. It's going to take a bit of planning.”

The noise is getting louder and when I open the door I see several familiar faces, all of them acquaintances of Michelle. Bad news travels fast, it seems.

“Messieurs et Mesdames, can I be of assistance? Is there a problem here?”

They all begin to speak at once.

“Is it true? Is Michelle dead? Has she been murdered? Did Jacques kill her? I heard she was burned to death in a fire? What will happen to her business, she's holding a deposit for me? Is it safe?”

I hold up my hands in a placatory fashion. “Please,” I say. “I can't hear you when you're all speaking at once.” They stop talking and I begin to explain. “Michelle Moliner was found dead earlier today. She died in the sauna at her home. We suspect she's been murdered, but we'll know more when we get the doctor's report. There was no fire. I cannot comment on her business. You'll have to speak to someone in her office about that. There is nothing more I can tell you now, and as we are about to lock up, I'd be grateful if you would all leave.”

They begin to mutter once again, showing no signs of leaving.

“Please,” I say. “Have you no homes to go to?” Reluctantly, they shuffle through the door chatting to each other, and I'm certain they all have a theory. All except Monsieur Claude – he alone is silent and when the others leave, he remains.

“Yes, Claude,” I say. “Is there something more? Can't it wait until Monday?”

“I suppose it will keep, Danielle, but I think you'll want to speak to me. I have some information, one or two things that might be important.”

Paul looks pointedly at his watch. “Can Laurent and I leave now, Boss? There's a meeting of the pétanque club tonight and we're already late.”

I look at the clock. We should have left ten minutes ago.

“We'll all leave,” I say. “I'll walk with you as far as my car Claude, and we can agree on a time to have a chat, but let's leave it until Monday afternoon please. I plan to spend what's left of the weekend with Patricia and Monday morning is always busy.”

I am curious to hear what he has to say about Michelle, but I feel no sense of urgency on Claude's part, so it can wait. In the end, he chooses not to walk with me because he too, is attending the pétanque meeting and I watch as all three men race away towards the riverside venue.

I find it difficult to come to terms with having to deal with yet another death in my area. This used to be such a quiet place. Maybe it has something to do with global warming, I speculate. Maybe people are simply becoming more volatile and hot-headed.