Grass Grows in the Pyrenees E-Book

Elly Grant

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Take one female cop

Add a dash of power

Throw in a dangerous gangster

Some violent men

And a whole bunch of cannabis

Sprinkle around a small French spa town

Mix thoroughly

And cook on a hot grill until the truth is revealed

The result will be scorching

In a small town in the Pyrenees, the death of a local farmer suspected of growing cannabis opens a Pandora's box of trouble.

After local police officer Danielle gets on the case, a race against time to stop the gangsters ensues.

Grass Grows in the Pyrenees is the second book in Elly Grant's Death in the Pyrenees mystery series.

Leseprobe

Grass Grows in the Pyrenees

Elly Grant

Copyright (C) 2016 Elly Grant

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 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.

Books by the Author

Death in the Pyrenees series:

Palm Trees in the PyreneesGrass Grows in the PyreneesRed Light in the PyreneesDead End in the PyreneesDeadly Degrees in the Pyrenees

Angela Murphy series:

The Unravelling of Thomas MaloneThe Coming of the Lord

Also by Elly Grant

Never Ever Leave MeDeath at Presley ParkBut Billy Can't FlyTwists and Turns

Chapter 1

For a moment he flew horizontally as if launched like a paper aeroplane from the mountain top, then an elegant swan dive carried him over the craggy stone face of the mountainside. There was no thrashing of limbs or clawing at air; he fell silently and gracefully until a sickening crack echoed through the valley as bone and flesh crunched and crumpled on a rocky outcrop. The impact bounced him into the air and flipped him in a perfect somersault, knocking the shoes from his feet. Then he continued his descent until he came into contact with the grassy slope near the bottom of the mountain, where he skidded and rolled before coming to a halt against a rock.

His body lay on its back, in an untidy heap with arms and legs and shoulders and hips smashed and broken. The bones stuck out at impossible angles and blood pooled around him. He lay like that for almost three days. During that time, the vultures had a feast. There are several species of these birds in the mountains of the Pyrenees and all had their fill of him. Rodents and insects had also taken their toll on the body and, by the time he was discovered, he was unrecognisable.

A hunter found him while walking with his dog and, although he was used to seeing death, the sight of this man's ravaged face, with black holes where his eyes should have been, made him vomit.

Jean-Luc still wore the suit that he'd carefully dressed in for his meeting three days before. It looked incongruous on him in his present condition and in these surroundings. His wallet was still in his pocket and his wedding ring was still on his finger, nothing had been stolen.

The alarm had been raised by his business partner when he failed to turn up for their meeting, but of course, no one had searched for him in this place. This valley was outside of town and on the other side of the mountain from where he'd lived. He wasn't meant to be anywhere near to this place.

His wife hadn't been overly concerned when he didn't return, because he often went on drinking binges with his cronies and he'd disappeared for several days on other occasions. She was just pleased if he eventually came home sober, because he had a foul temper and he was a very nasty drunk. Indeed, she knew how to make herself scarce when he was drunk, as more often than not, she would feel the impact of a well-aimed punch or a kick. Drunk or sober, he lashed out with deadly accuracy and he was quick on his feet.

When he was finally discovered all the emergency services were called into action. The pompiers, who were both firemen and trained paramedics, the police and the doctor, all arrived at the scene and an ambulance was summoned to remove the body to the morgue.

Everyone assumed he'd died as a result of his rapid descent from the mountain top and the subsequent impact on the ground below. But what they all wanted to know, was whether his death was a tragic accident, or suicide, or perhaps something darker and more sinister, and why was he in this place, so far from his home or from town? Many questions had to be answered and, being the most senior police officer in this area, meant that I was the person who'd be asking the questions.

Chapter 2

Forgive me, but I seem to have started my story in the middle, so I'll begin again. My name is Danielle and I am the senior police officer in charge of this valley. My jurisdiction is a small town in the French Pyrenees, together with all the surrounding villages, hamlets and farms. I've recently been promoted to this post after many years of being passed over in favour of my male colleagues.

Coincidentally, my promotion has come as a direct result of a previous death by falling. I successfully completed the investigation into that incident, when senior detectives from Perpignan could not. I was praised for my excellent detective work and then offered the opportunity to apply for this higher post with the full backing of my superiors. I passed the examination with flying colours and immediately promoted to my current status. In a short space of time, I have gone from being not much more than a traffic cop, to being the senior policewoman in the area, with responsibility for junior and trainee officers.

The previous incident I mentioned was the demise of a man called Stephen Gold, who fell to his death from the top floor balcony of an apartment block in the centre of town. He was a nasty piece of work and he had no redeeming features. Indeed, most of the people who knew him were happy to see the back of him. Everyone hoped that his Albanian widow would soon also move on. They'd been married for less than a year when he'd died and she inherited a fortune.

Stephen Gold was a business man who managed to make money from everyone and everything. From my investigations, I discovered he was involved in the illegal trafficking of cannabis that has been grown, and is still grown, in the mountains surrounding this town. For years, this type of farming has taken place and the drug has been sold in small quantities throughout the valley. Everybody turned a blind eye to the trade, as it didn't seem to harm anyone and it was never smoked in public or sold to youngsters.

Unfortunately, Monsieur Gold's involvement changed things. He forced each grower to sell him their entire crop, and indeed, to increase their production, which he in turn, trafficked to Eastern European gangsters working in northern Spain. This action made us vulnerable to outside influences and forced the people of the valley into contact with gangs from over the border.

Often I would enter a restaurant only to find a table of strangers sitting with Monsieur Gold. They were always dressed in dark suits, no matter what the temperature. They flashed rolls of banknotes and would never order the plat de jour, favouring instead something exotic and expensive from the a la carte menu. The patron of the restaurant foisted leftover food on them and charged them a fortune for the privilege. And who could blame him, as they deserved no better. They stuck out like a sore thumb and, had they been tourists instead of gangsters, local people would have made jokes about them. But sensibly, everyone was guarded and wary of them and that was understandable.

They made me feel uncomfortable and I knew that their business was illegal, but I didn't challenge them as common sense told me they were too dangerous. I might be an officer of the law, but I'm not stupid and I don't have a death wish. Instead, I reasoned, that as long as they were plying their trade in Spain and not here, then they could do what they liked. Let the Spanish authorities tackle the problem as it affects their citizens and not mine.

When Stephen died, everyone thought the names of the growers and the locations of their farms died with him and, for a couple of months, everything returned to normal. We had, however, underestimated his widow, Magda.

At first, everybody assumed she would move away. We didn't really care where she moved to, as long as she was gone. However, Stephen had a daughter living in England who contested his will, and that put a hold on the sale of the marital home until a ruling could be made in court. So, much to everyone's disappointment, Magda remained.

During my investigation into Stephen's death, I discovered that prior to being married to him, Magda had been working as a prostitute in northern Spain. I should have realised that she'd become involved in the drug business with her contacts. She was smart enough to figure out the locations of the suppliers, from the information she'd gleaned from her husband before he'd been killed. The business was too lucrative for her to pass up.

Chapter 3

It is the fourteenth of July, Bastille Day. The sun is so strong, I have to wear my sunglasses so I can see to write the parking ticket, which I place under the windscreen wiper of an illegally parked Mercedes. The car has a Spanish registration and looks very expensive. I assume its owner is wealthy and doesn't think our local parking laws apply to him. I can't help smiling at the thought of some spoilt foreigner returning to find my ticket waiting for him.

My town will celebrate Bastille Day with a small parade to pay homage to our military personnel. The parade will be led by the Mayor and accompanied by our local band. It won't be anything like the celebrations in Paris, where the President leads members of the armed forces and visiting dignitaries along the Champs-Elysees in a grand spectacle, but it will be a proud time for all who take part. Our parade will be led by young cadets, followed by armed forces personnel who are home on leave, then finally, any retired old soldiers who live locally.

After the parade there'll be a street party. Restaurant and bar owners will arrange tables and chairs along the main street to supply food and drink for the partygoers. It's a Fête Nationale, so all of France will be celebrating today. At nine o'clock tonight the Mayor will lead the revellers to a clearing near the river, then the street lights will be extinguished and we'll be treated to a spectacular fireworks display.

Tomorrow, most of the townspeople will head for the nearby town of Ceret, where there's to be a festival, beginning with the running of the bulls through the streets and followed by much partying and celebrating. There'll be market stalls and sardane dancing and, in the bullring on the edge of town, the colourful and exciting spectacle of bull fighting will take place. Bull fights are not to everyone's liking, but in this area of Catalonia, which has both French and Spanish influences, they're a celebrated tradition. The bull fights will be attended not only by locals, but also by many tourists who'll bring money to the area and create a great boost to the local economy.

I'm looking across the road towards the Café, where the patron, his wife and their staff are busy preparing the outside tables for the celebrations, when I become aware of someone standing behind me. They're too close, and I sense my personal space is being invaded.

“I believe this belongs to you,” a voice says and I turn to see a tall, muscular man proffering the parking ticket I've just written.

It's thirty degrees in the shade, but this man is wearing a black suit with a shirt and tie. He is immaculately dressed, as are his two companions. He has startling, pale blue eyes that are narrow and piercing and he's very fair-skinned. A long, thin scar runs the length of his face, from his cheek bone to his chin, but it doesn't detract from his fine features. His hair, which at one time was probably naturally blonde, is obviously dyed and has bleached highlights. His colleagues share similar looks. Their jackets seem to bulge around their muscular bodies and I wonder if they're carrying guns. They don't have a hair out of place and are eerily calm and menacing. I'm instantly frightened. I'm hemmed in by them, with my back to the railings which line the pavement at the edge of the road and they're in front, surrounding me. There's no way I can move without pushing my way between them.

“Is there a problem, Monsieur?” I ask. I make myself stand as tall as I can and keep my voice firm, because I think any sign of weakness will have them falling on me like a pack of wild dogs.

“You placed this ticket on my car,” he replies, his voice flat and cold. “I like to keep my car very clean, and this ticket makes it look rather untidy.” His eyes never leave mine. He's challenging me and his friends are smirking, because they know that I'm intimidated.

“Your car is indeed very clean, Monsieur,” I agree, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “But it is also illegally parked. If you do not wish it to be ticketed, then I suggest you park it somewhere else. You have one month to pay the fine.”

I've been holding my body taut, but now I exhale slowly and try not to show any fear. He continues to stare at me with his ice-cold eyes then, after a moment, he throws his head back and guffaws with laughter. His friends laugh too.

“Well, officer,” he says, “You've certainly put me in my place. Let me introduce myself,” he continues, offering me his hand. “My name is Edvard. Perhaps you know my very good friend and business partner, Magda Gold?”

A shockwave runs through my body. His statement confirms that the gangsters have returned to my town. For over two months, nothing has been heard of them, but now they're back. I don't shake his hand. “Excuse me, Monsieur, but I must get on with my work,” I say forcefully. I take a deliberate step forward, and the men stand aside to let me pass. In a show of bravado, I add, “Remember that you must pay your fine within one month.”

As I walk away, I glance back and see Edvard scrunching up the parking ticket and throwing it into the gutter. I should really turn back and write a second ticket for littering, but I'm not that brave. The reputation of Eddy the Red, as he is referred to, is well known in this valley and only a fool would knowingly upset him, so I pretend I haven't seen what he's done.

Chapter 4

I resist the temptation to look back again, instead making my way over the road to the café. People are beginning to gather for the parade, which is due to start in under half an hour. The two young policemen who've been assigned to assist me today are oblivious to everything that's going on around them, as they're too busy flirting with a group of young, female tourists. They don't even notice me as I pass them by and it's clear, from their body language and their laughter, that they'll be doing little, if any, work today. Finally, when I'm at the door of the café, and safely out of view of the other side of the street, I look back across the road, relieved to see Eddy's car pull away from the kerb and slowly drive off.

There are two men sitting at a table just outside the café entrance. One is tall, thin and wiry, with a Spanish look about him. He has long, straggly hair arranged into two thin plaits which hang on either side of his face. His narrow goatee beard is also plaited, and when he smiles, I can see he has a gold cap on one of his incisors. He's wearing a battered, gaucho-style hat which looks incongruous with his suit. His jacket is slung casually over the chair back and his tie has been loosened, but not removed. I recognise him, his name is Jean-Luc. People call him 'Jean-Luc the Pirate', because he reminds them of Johnny Depp in the film 'Pirates of the Caribbean'.

His companion is a big, thick-set man with distinctively bowed legs. He's almost as wide as he is tall, with a waistline like a roundabout. His complexion is very ruddy, his cheeks are round and his skin shines with perspiration. His bright blue eyes look like large marbles. This man is called Aidan O'Brien and I know that like Jean-Luc, he lives on a farm in the mountains. He is also wearing a suit, but as he's Irish and not French, I know that his formal dress has nothing to do with today's proceedings.

Both of these men are suspected of growing cannabis on their land and I can only assume they've come to town to meet with Eddy the Red. They look furtively at me as I make my way past them. Jean-Luc can't meet my gaze, but Aidan attempts to greet me. “Bonjour officer,” he says nervously, in a strong Irish brogue. His cheeks are hot and he looks at me for only a moment before dropping his chin and staring at the ground.

“Messieurs,” I reply. “What brings you to town today?”

Jean-Luc fires a warning glance at Aidan, who doesn't reply.

“I've brought some of my children to see the celebrations,” Jean-Luc says. “Aidan's wife, Siobhan, and their children are also in town, so we thought we'd meet up for a drink.”

“And is your wife not in town today?” I ask Jean-Luc. I know that he rarely permits his wife to leave their home, because he won't let her frequently bruised face be seen in public. However, until she makes a complaint about him, he'll continue to hit her and no one will intervene.

“My wife's at home with the two bébés. There's a lot of work for her to do, cleaning, cooking and tidying my house. She's much too busy for a day off, and besides, a woman's place is in the home. It's her job to look after me and my children.”

“She obviously looks after you very well,” Aidan adds with a leer. “That's why you've got five children, Jean-Luc.”

Aiden's trying to make me feel uncomfortable and I'm ashamed to say that he's succeeding. They're both laughing and staring at me, challenging me to make a comment. “Enjoy your day, Messieurs,” is all I can manage, and as I walk towards the bar, I can hear their laughter ringing in my ears.

I'm happy to see a familiar, friendly face sitting at the bar enjoying a pastis and sharing conversation with the patron. He's a tall, slim English gentleman of about sixty years of age, and as usual, his elegant frame is clothed in fashionable designer wear.

“Bonjour, Byron,” I say “Ça va?”

“Ah, bonjour Mademoiselle,” he replies, taking my hand in his and kissing it gently. “Perhaps I shouldn't kiss you when you're on duty, but I can't help myself,” he says with a wink and a cheeky smile. “And I'm very well. Thank you for asking,” he adds. “And you? How are you today?”

“I too am well, thank you,” I reply.

I'm very fond of Byron and over the last year or so he's become a good friend to me. Indeed his friendship has been instrumental in my achieving the life I now enjoy.

“I saw you speaking to that motley pair sitting by the door,” he continues. “I trust they're up to no good.”

“I'm not sure,” I reply. “I've just had an encounter with Eddy the Red and I'm wondering if they're involved in business dealings with each other. I'm very upset that gangsters have returned to this town and Eddy's just told me that his business partner is Magda Gold”

“I wouldn't trust any of them as far as I could throw them,” Byron replies. “Just be very careful, Danielle. They're a bad lot and I think they could be very dangerous. If things start to kick off, be sure to call for assistance. Don't be too proud to ask for help.”

“Don't worry, Byron,” I reply. “I'll know if I'm out of my depth.”

The truth is, I'd never ask for help, because it's taken me too long to prove myself in this job, so come what may, I'll try to cope with whatever happens.

Chapter 5

All the people who are taking part in the parade have now assembled and the Mayor is glancing nervously at his watch. He is a stickler for being on time, which is rather unusual for a local man. In this town we are never particularly precise when it comes to time-keeping, twenty minutes here or there makes no difference. In fact, when making an appointment, foreigners will often ask, 'is that actual time, or French time?'

Everyone is in position and taking up his place. Standing at the front, beside the Mayor, is our oldest soldier, Didier, who is holding the flag. The flag and the flag-pole are made of lightweight materials, so the old soldier who has been given the honour of carrying it can physically manage the task. This isn't a problem for Didier, because although he's ninety-two years of age he's still a strong, robust man. Unfortunately, his mind is not as strong as his body, and, at times, it drifts off to another place and time.

After a couple of minutes, the band starts to play and the parade begins with much encouragement from the crowd. People are throwing confetti and cheering, many are waving small flags and there's a real party atmosphere. No one is very sure if this parade should be joyous or sombre, but as there's to be a street party immediately afterwards, everyone is getting into the party spirit.

Didier is getting more and more excited and he's thrusting the flag upwards with great gusto as he marches. The Mayor has side-stepped slightly and is looking increasingly nervous as he's afraid of being elbowed by the old man. Suddenly, with a great whoop, Didier thrusts the flag upwards then lets it go. Being a powerful man, he has managed to launch it to a great height. There's a moment of confusion and bumping of instruments as the band members, who are immediately behind Didier and the Mayor, reach up to try to catch the flag before the descending pole injures someone. Fortunately, two of the men manage to get a hand to it and it's lowered safely.

“I'll take that back now,” Didier says forcefully and he makes a grab for the flag pole.

“Oh no, you won't,” says the man who has it in his grasp.

A scuffle breaks out as they wrestle over the flag, and when the Mayor tries to intervene, Didier throws a punch at him. It lands a glancing blow on his shoulder. Before he can throw a second punch, one of the young police officers steps forward and grabs Didier by the arm. I don't know where he's come from because I didn't see him in the crowd, but I am grateful that he's here.

An elderly lady steps forward from the side of the street. She's wearing a wine-coloured suit, which at one time would have been very smart, but now that she's shrunk with age, seems overly big on her. A matching cloche hat is pinned tightly to her hair with hat pins. “What are you doing, Didier, you old fool?” she cries.

Didier stares at the old girl. “Go home, Mother,” he says. “Can't you see I'm in the parade?”

“I'm your wife, not your mother, you idiot!” she replies.

He stares at her for a moment, as if trying to recognise her. “I'm the National Amateur Heavyweight Boxing Champion,” he states proudly. “Why would I marry an old woman? My wife Martha is young and beautiful and she's in the crowd watching my victory parade.”

With that he begins to call for Martha, and everyone realises his mind has stepped back in time.

A pretty young woman steps forward, explaining that she works at the local care home for the elderly. She kindly offers her assistance.

“Here is my Martha,” Didier says, smiling as he takes the young woman's hand.

She gently leads him from the parade and with his wife in tow, they head off towards his home. Watching them, I see Didier has placed his hand on the young woman's bottom. Some of his instincts have not dulled with age, even if his mind has retreated.

The parade resumes and completes the last hundred metres of its journey. Then the band stops playing and a box is placed on the ground for the Mayor to stand on. Everyone is quiet as he delivers his speech. In it, he praises all our servicemen and women and commemorates our war dead. He makes particular reference to the last World War.

The Mayor's father was a brave member of the Resistance during the war, but he was caught and then executed by the Nazis, and the Mayor cannot forgive the German people for this. He delivers a very un-PC speech and warns everyone of the Nazi threat, which he says is still with us. His speech is met by a mixture of shock and horror from the tourists, who cannot believe their ears. However, local people have heard it all before. I'm relieved when he's finished, as the discomfort his speech causes is embarrassing.

Finally, all the formalities are over and I make my way to the pizza restaurant, where the owner has very kindly offered to give me and my junior officers a meal. We are to be seated at a table beside the Commune Committee, and it's considered an honour to be placed beside the esteemed group of men and women who run this town.

Chapter 6

When I arrive with my colleagues, we take our place at the table which has been set up for lunch. I see that the members of the Commune Committee are already seated. I'm disappointed to discover my seat is opposite Madame Gambil's, as she's both an interfering busybody and a close friend of my mother's. I always try to avoid her if I can, and today I've hardly had time to sit down before she starts.

“I was speaking to your mother in church, Danielle,” she begins. “She says she doesn't see much of you since you bought that house with your girlfriend. You know, she's not getting any younger and a daughter can be such a comfort to her mother.”

In the space of ten seconds this old cow has upset me and, although I shouldn't rise to the bait, I find I cannot help myself. “Firstly, Madame,” I begin, “Patricia is not my 'girlfriend'. We have been best friends since infant school as you well know, and although Patricia is a lesbian and she doesn't hide this, I am not. As for my relationship with my mother, I don't think that it is any of your business.”

“I'm so sorry if I have upset you, Danielle,” she continues with a sugary tone in her voice. “Sometimes it hurts to hear what people are saying about you, especially if there is truth in their words.”