Deja Vu E-Book

AC Williams

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Cosy Crime
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 246

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Michelle was staying with her grandparents on the night when her mother was murdered by intruders, yet her nightmares are as vivid as if she had witnessed it all. Could the clues revealed in her flashbacks, along with the expertise of gorgeous gendarme André Laforce, unlock two decades-old cold cases… and Michelle’s bruised, defensive heart?

Leseprobe

DÉJÀ VU

by AC Williams

CONTENTS

Chapter 1 

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 1

I

awoke with a start. That childhood dream had returned with a vengeance. My forehead was perspiring, my heart racing and I felt my body trembling.

Only this time, I sensed that remembering that day when my mother died – murdered by a person unknown – wasn’t just a nightmare.

It was a premonition.

Something had changed in the world and my past was coming back to haunt me. Nevertheless, whatever had happened then to turn my life upside down, wouldn’t happen again. I was older and stronger than either of my now-deceased parents.

Tragedies do that. They either break a person in two or give them a gritty inner strength that endows them with self-confidence, making them ready for whatever life threw their way. And I was… I only prayed that it was enough.

* * * *

“Damn it, Michelle. Take a few deep breaths. It was simply a dream,” I muttered as I sat up. Still, my mind was confused.

Where was I?… When was I?

Fumbling around in the moonlit room, I found and switched on a bedside lamp and automatically donned my glasses.

There was a calendar on the wall. May 2018. That was the when… Almost. Right year, but wrong month. I concentrated. It was later. The seventeenth of September.

The where was harder. The room was familiar. I struggled to wake up properly. My grandparents’ house in Brittany? Yes, I was in France. Safe in their lovely home.

Fingering the pendant with my and my mother’s photos inside helped calm me. It was my solace to have her constantly with me, albeit simply an image near my heart. Twenty years since the night my mother was murdered, and ‘he’ was back.

Why now? The same recollections that troubled me every night for months after the killing had long since been pushed to the depths of my mind. The question now was, were they memories or my warped versions of that childhood bogeyman?

The strangest part was that I wasn’t actually in the house when Mum died. I was with my father’s parents. They’d passed away themselves soon after, more death for me to process. Nonetheless, I’d awoken, aware that an intruder had killed her before the police had been summoned by neighbours.

Granny Brenda soothed me as best she could, believing that it was merely a childhood bad dream. It was over an hour later that officers knocked on my grandparents’ door to break the devastating news. My dream became reality and my life was never the same. But thinking of my wonderful parents again as I lay here, I couldn’t help but say aloud, “I miss you and I love you, both very much.”

* * * *

The bedside light’s cosy golden glow gradually became brighter and whiter. My mobile said 03.52 but was that British or French time? I couldn’t recall if I’d reset it on the ferry yesterday. Whatever it was, it was far too early to get up.

Dawn would be hours away and the waning moon which shone through the skylight overhead didn’t help at all.

It would have been full on my face. Maybe that had reawakened the nightmares from that night over in Uppermill. They called madness ‘lunacy’ for a reason, after all, from the Latin word for Moon.

Alternatively, two large glasses of Australian Merlot and a half bar of minty chocolate were a more realistic explanation for my cauchemar, as the French called a bad dream. As my English friend at school would have said, “That’ll learn you, Michelle.”

It would too. One of them would have to go. It wasn’t a hard decision. Sorry about that, chocolate.

Understanding that I couldn’t return to the Land of Nod for some time, I drank from the glass of water on the bedside table before I stood up to choose one of Gramp’s paperbacks off the bookshelf in my room. Brad Meltzer, whoever he was. After an hour’s reading, I was ready to sleep again.

* * * *

Gran was already in the gîte kitchen as I made my way downstairs in the morning. My father and mother were both long gone, my dad’s parents also. But I still had Gramps and Gran in my life. They’d brought me up from the age of ten over here, in Brittany. I owed them so much.

I was showered and dressed in jeans and my favourite floral Marks and Sparks blouse; Gran was in her nightie and fluffy pink dressing gown. I wasn’t certain if it was the same one, I’d bought her for Christmas back in 2012 but, seeing the torn pockets, I resolved she needed a new one.

One side was draped over her damaged arm in the sling, the other busy spooning coffee into two mugs. Following a phone call from them, two days ago, I’d left my home in Britain to return to their farm where I’d grown up.

“Morning, sweetheart,” she said with a smile. “I thought I heard you up and about. Sleep well?”

I rotated my hand back and forth in a wavy fashion before kissing her on both cheeks in the French fashion, at least here in Brittany. Then it was time to gently admonish her. “Gran. You shouldn’t be doing that. Your arm…”

“I’m not an invalid, Michelle. Despite what you all think. The only one who doesn’t try to stop me is your grandfather.” She pressed the power button on the kettle.

“That’s because he’s afraid of you, Gran. You can be a little bossy. Just like me.”

Were there such things as ‘bossy’ genes in our DNA? If we had one hundred thousand genes in every cell, there must be at least one ‘bossy’ one yelling ‘Get lost!’ to the others crowding around it.

I opened the cupboards and fridge as Mousie, Gran’s cat, decided to nuzzle up to me in his subtle cat way. He wanted to remind me that feeding cats was far more important than feeding people.

Gran shook dry food into his bowl. He miaowed an ‘about time’ version of ‘Merci’ as I placed the remaining of yesterday’s chocolate croissants on one of Gran’s Arcopol plates before checking if we should eat outside as it was such a lovely day.

“Pourquoi pas?” she responded.

“Why not, indeed? What about Gramps? Should we wait?”

“No. His arthritis. He’ll come down once he’s ready. And he won’t want the croissants; calls them French muck. He’s a toast and peanut butter person, through and through. I swear, one day he’ll turn into a giant peanut.”

Outside we made ourselves comfortable at the table on the south-facing terrace. The rose of the sky around the rising sun was splendid, reminding me of the micro-climate here as opposed to drizzly Greater Manchester.

Gazing down the slope of my grandparents’ land into the tree-lined valley at the end of their five-acre back yard, I decided it was the perfect morning to eat alfresco. On impulse, I took a few moments to step from the sandstone terrace before walking between the mauve hydrangeas and lavender, across the grass to the neatly trimmed laurel hedge.

Ahead lay the rented part of their land, planted with hypnotically waving leaves of corn in their lullaby world. In a way, it was a never-ending Mexican wave greeting me and awaiting my reply. Self-consciously at first then, with greater confidence, I raised a hand and signalled back.

“Who are you waving to, Michelle?” Gran was by my side, the dampness of the grass from last night’s rain, glistening on her shiny boots.

“The corn, Gran… To say ‘Bonjour’. You must admit, that this is not a bad sight to wake up to.”

“We like it. The cycle of life. They’ll harvest the corn in October and plant something like mustard over the winter. Summer is my favourite season though. All the bees and butterflies, especially the chartreuse ones. They love the lavender in the garden. Come on, Michelle. Drinks are getting cold.”

We wandered back to the terrace, arm in arm. There was no real hurry. This was Brittany, one hour ahead of England and thirty years behind in the best ways. Gran and Gramps had done the right thing in moving here all those years ago. Their British life had been hectic, making Gramps old before his time. Fortunately, they had sold the business at a massive profit, investing the monies well enough to give them an early pension and a much better lifestyle.

We tucked into our petit déjeuner, conscious of the coming events of the day. I needed to go shopping to restock the larder and Jean-Yves was coming later to appraise the situation regarding the drainage update for the fosse septique; a necessary part of rural life in France.

Gran wanted to press me on my recent life and loves back in the UK. My work-life balance was brilliant, romance not so much. I did have a date before Christmas but Mr Model Train Collector Kevin wasn’t my style. I preferred my men to be a tad more mature than to wear a jumper with The Flying Scotsman knitted in full colour, on our first and final date.

Instead, I chose to take the initiative.

“Gran. You mentioned a trespasser in the outbuildings recently. Have you checked this morning?”

“Not yet, Michelle. The last time didn’t go very well.” She’d hurt her arm falling over a stone as she’d chased the intruder. Nothing had been taken; just messed up. Even so, it had been disquieting and was the reason that I’d chosen to drive over and stay with them for the foreseeable future. My work on the internet could be done as easily from here as from my home in one of the Saddleworth villages. At least here, I had people to talk to.

“I’ll go with you later. Whoever it is won’t be expecting to face a superstar crime fighter.”

We both laughed at that one. I was fit but far from strong. I was timid too, a legacy of what had happened all of those years before,

Gran seemed to be coping well with her arm but I understood she was putting on her usual brave face. When I dropped my knife without reason, she handed me another.

“I guess you of all people would be used to my clumsiness, Gran.”

There was no medical reason for it but it was a part of my life. ‘Butter-fingers’ was the term she’d used when I’d been younger. These days, her language was more circumspect.

Once we’d finished our meal, we took our dishes inside and began the long walk to the outbuildings of the former Manoir or Manor House.

Swallows and swifts performed their acrobatic swoops overhead, probably upset that Mouse was padding alongside us. The black and white cat wasn’t overly concerned, at least with us next to him.

One of the sandstone outbuildings was a workshop that Gramps had converted for his tools while he worked on the renovation years ago. Now it was his ‘man-cave’. There were two floors in the sixty square metre structure, though he’d never used the top one. It was accessed solely by ladder and his ladder was too short.

In any case, he had more than enough space downstairs with water and electricity too.

As we rounded a copse of overgrown apple trees, Gran pointed to the big corrugated iron sliding door.

“That doesn’t look promising.”

The door was open and, getting closer, we could see the basic chain which had been padlocked was dangling. Gramps might not have locked it, but he would have made certain the door was closed.

“Oh, my goodness. Alan’s tools.” Gran began to walk faster but I put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You wait here, Gran. I’ll check it out. He could be in there.”

The intruder must have heard our voices as the next thing we knew, he was bolting out of the door and heading for the forest and the tree cover. I had no chance of catching the teenager so I did the next best thing. I lifted my mobile out of my pocket and set it on telephoto video.

“Oi, you,” I yelled in English. He kept running. Then I shouted in French and he stupidly turned around.

“Gotcha, you little so-and-so,” I smirked while filming. There was a great image of his baseball hat and face. He’d fled empty-handed but at least now we had an idea about the mysterious intruder; about fifteen, jeans, trainers and dark brown hair.

I viewed my video footage quickly, not realising that Gran had gone on to inspect the damage. Once I did catch up with her, she was inside the barn staring at the mess of newspaper that was strewn all around.

“Where’s all this come from?” I asked. Her eyes surveyed the yellowing sheets as she raised her head to the never visited mezzanine floor a good three metres above our heads.

“I’m guessing from up there,” she said.

Chapter 2

O

ne glance at a few of the aged newspapers revealed they were French, from at least forty years before. I stared at my Gran’s equally perplexed expression.

“They must have been stored up on the mezzanine.” Huge wide floorboards made another floor, beginning about two metres into the barn. We noticed the glow of an electric light.

Gran flipped a switch on the wall next to an old wood-wormed French dresser, which would once have had pride of place in the house but was now packed with boxes of labelled bric-a-brac.

“Hmmm. Always wondered what that switch was for. Must be a light up there in the rafters; fluorescent like the one down here.”

We both looked around as the last of the floating pages settled like giant snowflakes.

The ladder leaned against a rough shelf unit stretching up to the mezzanine floor. It seemed impossibly dangerous but the rascal must have climbed onto the shelving planks, worked his way back to the edge of the upstairs floor them clambered up there. But to search for what? Old papers?

“He must have monkey genes,” I observed. “And a death wish. Those shelves could have given way. See how they’re attached to the stonework; two rusted clamps.”

Again, the question of what he’d been after reared its head. Presumably, he had been the same intruder as the other times. Each time it was as though he was searching for some particular item as there was no indication that anything had been nicked. Certainly, he’d legged it this morning, empty-handed.

Wondering about what to do next, I was certain the local police had better things to do than search for a thief who didn’t steal.

We locked up before heading back to the house. Even here, in rural France, there were people intent on mischief.

Gramps greeted us on our return. He was doing breakfast. No croissants and freshly brewed coffee for him. Despite living here for well over a decade, he’d refused to embrace the French food or way of life.

“Michelle, Kathy. Good moaning. How are my two favourite ladies?” Gramps continued to use the phrase from the ‘Allo ‘Allo TV series, even though it was past its use-by-date well before I’d been born. It was typical of the loveable, kind man who was a dead ringer for Magnum thirty years older, right down to the moustache. Gran maintained he was a follower of fashion who’d never quite caught up.

We told him about the latest incident and the hoard of newspapers that had been up in the rafters. Ever the optimist, he suggested seeing if they were worth anything on eBay and if not, Gran would need plenty of newspaper to help start the wood-burner over the coming winter months.

He continued to explain a little of the history of the longère in which we lived, as well as the other buildings of the former Manor.

“Michelle. It’s been a few years since you’ve stayed with us. During that time, I’ve been doing research about the old place with the help of the local librarian. There have always been rumours of hidden riches around our property. Ever since that Robber Baron, Vicomte de Ploufaleen, built this place way back when. Whatever wasn’t nailed down, the old beggar stole and claimed it as his own. He was a member of the noblesse d’épée, nobles of the sword, an inherited title. He wasn’t a very nice guy according to the sketchy history of his life.”

My grandparents had uncovered some inkling as to his penchant for acquisitions throughout the house, the most notable of which was an extremely heavy cast iron plate at the back of the walk-in fireplace in the main salon. It was forged with the date 1373 and the name of a monastery near the famous Abbey de Bon Repos, a good thirty minutes drive away.

Since the two-storey stone Manoir hadn’t been constructed until centuries later, it seemed that the Viscount had fancied the look of the fire-back and chosen to have it himself. His home was still a magnificent building, the so-called gîte (or holiday rental part) having been renovated less than twenty years before.

La Killain was two interconnecting houses, linked through their respective laundry doors. Each had a salon, kitchen, a full bathroom or two, and five bedrooms in total plus other rooms. Simply speaking, it was huge and the use of the more modern gîte for holiday visitors had been a dream that hadn’t taken off. Essentially La Killain, its gardens and outbuildings were far too large for two ageing people with health issues.

I left Gran and Gramps chatting about the day’s agenda while I went up to my bedroom to download the video footage of our visitor onto my laptop.

I checked my emails too. I was lucky that the wi-fi in the gîte lounge area downstairs extended to my room. Two-thirds of the house was out of range of the French Livebox. Solid eighty-centimetre-thick sandstone interior walls and wi-fi were not a great combination.

There was comforting news. Not only had I been paid for recent work for a large English business but they wished to use my services in the future. The length of contract and rate already agreed would keep the proverbial wolves from the door for at least the next few months. I emailed them back with my DocuSign signature, secure in the knowledge that I could stay here as long as I wished and work via the internet. There was nothing at home in my parents’ old place; no boyfriend, no friends to speak of and not even a cat.

I’d come here to help Gran yet, in truth, this was the sole place I’d ever felt at home. It surprised me that it had taken returning to France to realise it. Thank goodness for Gran’s damaged arm, I thought, suspecting that Gran felt the same way. We’d been apart for far too long.

Then I heard my grandmother calling.

“Just a mo,” I replied, going back downstairs. There was a spring in my step and, after telling them the good news of my new contract, I gave them both a loving hug with a kiss on each cheek.

“What on earth was that for, Michelle?” Gran asked, nursing her arm that was giving her discomfort.

“Can’t a granddaughter be happy to be with her best friends? Now, what did you call me for?”

“Oh, yes. I did, didn’t I? My memory, these days. I swear that one day soon, I’ll wake up and forget your grandad’s name is Alan.”

Gramps piped up, an expression of shock in his eyes. “Alan? Who’s Alan? My name’s Clint.”

That brought a smile all around.

“Michelle. Could you get a few things for later? Intermarché closes at twelve.”

“Still?” Welcome back to France, I realised, where everything shuts down at twelve for two hours of lunch, a bottle of vin rouge and goodness knew what else. I would have thought there’d be some movement towards the twenty-first century but not in rural Brittany, it appeared.

Gran clearly couldn’t drive and although Gramps was able to, his hands weren’t good today. I could tell.

“OK. List, please.”

It was what I was here for, to help out. I’d planned to do spag bol today but with the land drainage guy coming this afternoon, it would be better to get the ingredients earlier rather than later.

In France, you didn’t bother to dress up to go to the shops. That suited me although I did wonder if the paint-splattered jeans might be a step too far. I decided not to worry. I’d spent years living here, only leaving to return to England to do my Uni degree. After that, I’d moved back to Uppermill to the family home.

I spoke French reasonably, as well as my native language. My car was British but had the legal requirements for driving over here, head-lamp adaptors, yellow safety vests and the rest. No concerns if I was stopped by the gendarmes.

The car interior was still untidy with scattered bits and pieces I’d brought over on the ferry, but hadn’t unpacked as yet. Outside it was a typical sunny day though a little warm for my liking. I pulled out of the drive, following the rural Tarmac road down through our local village.

With a human population of six hundred and forty-two along with five million cows, there were few amenities; an old church with recently unearthed fresco paintings on the wall, a bar/tabac (like a bar and coffee lounge for the locals), a garage and a traiteur for selling processed meats and sausages. Oh, and let’s not forget the Mairie; every town has a mayor in France. As a volunteer of standing, he was the first port of call for administration and getting documents certified.

There was no supermarket though… or post office, chemist or doctor. Those all required visiting the next village, a veritable bustling metropolis by comparison. It had almost two thousand inhabitants, quite a few ex-pat Brits included.

Trégast, my grandparent’s village, had the same population now as it had done a hundred and fifty years ago. Rural Brittany had never been one of France’s richest areas. Its history showed a long independence from France and it only became a part of that country in 1532. Before that, it had Celtic links with the British Isles. The French name for Great Britain was Grande Bretagne and for Brittany’s was Bretagne.

With the increased use of cars, however, the need for a local hub of the Trégast community had diminished considerably. It was rare to find anyone walking around the ‘centre-ville’ except on funeral days when the streets by the church were packed with parked cars.

Consequently, I was a little surprised to turn the corner in front of the church and see a police car parked on the side of the road. A uniformed officer of the Gendarmerie waved me down. It was clearly not for speeding; I’d hardly turned the corner.

I pulled over and he approached the left-hand passenger window. As he glanced in to see an empty seat, I had to smile. I was seated on the right. He should have realised that from the number plate.

Slowly he moved around to my side, trying to appear nonchalant despite his faux-pas. He bent down to address me through my open window.

“Bonjour, Madame.”

“Mademoiselle, s’il vous plait, Monsieur l’agent,” I replied brusquely, a little offended that he had chosen to infer I was married. It was more polite to assume the opposite as to be called ‘Miss’ made many married women of my age feel good that it was assumed they might be younger than they were.

“Vous parlez français?” You speak French.

“Un petit peu,” I responded, fingers crossed. I was quite articulate in French but it was better to pretend otherwise.

“Very well, Miss. I will speak in the English.” I was shocked. There was a strong French accent.

“Merci a lot,” I replied in mixed languages. “How may I help you, Monsieur adjudant?” It was a dangerous game playing cat and mouse with the French gendarmerie who were noted for their aloofness and lack of sense of humour. The fact that they carried revolvers didn’t help that image.

His expression remained stoic though I noticed a grin from his colleague, a youthful and petite female gendarmette. The male officer gave her a dirty look before resuming our discussion.

“I am impressed, Miss. You recognised my rank as adjudant from my badge. What do you call it in English? Warrant Officer. I suspect that you speak French a little more than you said.” He removed his cap and brushed back his short brown hair.

I gave him a Gallic shrug and a broad grin.

“Anyway, Monsieur. How may I help you and your colleague?” I asked in English.

He called over his subordinate. “My fellow officer’s English is not as fluent as mine yet it is necessary for her to learn with all of you British living or visiting our beautiful country.”

The dark-haired officer stepped forward. “Miss. It is necessary for you that you to give a breath test for alcool.”

“Alcohol?” he corrected patiently.

“Al ... co ... ol,” she repeated. Unlike her superior, her French accent was stronger.

“A breath test? OK.”

She produced the portable breathalyser and instructed me in faltering English what to do. After she checked the reading, she showed it to her superior.

“Zero. Tres bien, Miss. Very good. Mer ... thank you for your cooperation. May I see your permis, if you please?”

“Certainly.” I gave her my British licence and she showed it to the man who explained the relevant details to her in French. It was a training exercise and sadly, I realised that my fellow countrymen and women would often fall foul of the drink-driving rules here. A lot of holidaymakers thought it was fine to have a drink or three while on vacation. Those Brits who lived here often regarded it as Christmas all year round in a country where you could buy a half-decent bottle of wine for around two euros.

“You may continue, Miss. Have a nice day,” she said. I winced at the American expression even if it were the literal translation for the usual French words when leaving, ‘Bonne journée.”

Accelerating away slowly, I checked the dashboard time. I’d have to be quick in the supermarket after reaching the next village. Thinking back to my encounter with the officers, I was surprised about my relaxed, yet self-confident attitude. It was different from my reserved demeanour in the UK and I hadn’t realised that until now. A personality transplant? Hardly. But there was a change as though a cloud had moved away. Life in France was far less stressful.

To be honest, I hadn’t come back to France since leaving my French school for Uni in Great Britain. A few days of holidays here didn’t count as, by the time I’d settled in after arriving at my grandparents, I was on my way back to Blighty. This had been the first visit where I’d planned to stay a few weeks, maybe longer.

The laid-back lifestyle here was contaminating me, but in a great way. My parents’ old house overlooking the canal in Uppermill had always been foreboding. Maybe that was because of that night twenty years ago when Mum had been murdered. It was understandable. Dad had been loving but when I was just ten, he’d died in a car accident. In truth, my father had lost the love of his life when Mummy died and had never recovered. I’d lost him as well that tragic night and that loss was made worse by the knowledge that the mysterious killer had never been caught.

After the traumatic loss of both parents within five short years, that had left me with no choice than to be brought here to a strange land with an even stranger language. My grandparents had done their best but I missed Daddy’s jokes and stories even now.

I’d become withdrawn despite my grandparents’ love and encouragement, being barely tolerated at school for my inability to say anything in French. It took a while to adjust but even then, I was often in trouble for correcting the French teachers who’d taught English. I couldn’t win.

Now I was twenty-five, a person who belonged in neither country and who was only now coming to terms with her past tragedies and topsy-turvy life. That very strange conversation with the President Macron look-alike I’d just met had exposed a new aspect of my inner self. Realistically it felt good.

* * * *

Fifteen minutes later I was on my way back. It came as no surprise to see the gendarmes were still in our quiet one-horse village. This horse was wooden and used by young children to rock back and forth.

There was no one in sight, just two blue-uniformed French police blocking the road to wave me over ... again. I sighed in exasperation. What now? Surely, they couldn’t imagine I’d had a skinful in my few minutes of absence. This time I pre-empted the situation by getting out of my car.

“Bonjour encore, Monsieur. What’s the reason for being stopped again?”

He stared at my jeans disapprovingly. Perhaps I should have changed them. Blobs and spots of different coloured paints were hardly ‘haute couture’.

“It is simple, Miss… though a trifle… How do you say… Embarrassing?” He actually blushed. “We need the practice. Believe it or not, yours is the first car we’ve seen since the last time. Could you confirm your name, please?”

For some reason he was taking the lead this time.

I crossed my arms.

“Michelle. Michelle Michaels.”

“Bien. And are your grandparents Alan and Kathy Michaels?”

A chill ran through my body.

“Yes? Has... has anything happened to them?”