Palm Trees in the Pyrenees E-Book

Elly Grant

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Unappreciated and passed over for promotion, thirty-year-old Danielle's career in law enforcement is going nowhere.

When a hated Englishman is found dead, her idyllic hometown turns upside down. Against a background of prejudice, jealousy, and greed, Danielle tries to piece together the clues.

But can she find enough evidence to solve the case - and get the recognition she deserves?

Leseprobe

Palm Trees 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

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

His death occurred quickly and almost silently. It took only seconds of tumbling and clawing at air before the inevitable thud as he hit the ground. He landed in the space in front of the bedroom window of the basement apartment. As no one was home at the time and as the flat was actually below ground level, he may have gone unnoticed but for the insistent yapping of the scrawny, aged poodle belonging to the equally scrawny and aged Madame Laurent.

Indeed, everything in the town continued as normal for a few moments. The husbands who'd been sent to collect the baguettes for breakfast had stopped, as usual, at the bar to enjoy a customary glass of pastis and a chat with the patron and other customers. Women gathered in the little square beside the river, where the daily produce market took place, to haggle for fruit, vegetables and honey before moving the queue to the boucherie to choose the meat for their evening meals.

Yes, that day began like any other. It was a cold, crisp, February morning and the sky was a bright, clear blue just as it had been every morning since the start of the year. The yellow Mimosa shone out luminously in the morning sunshine from the dark green of the Pyrenees.

Gradually, word filtered out of the boucherie and down the line of waiting women that the first spring lamb of the season had made its way onto the butcher's counter, and everyone wanted some. Conversation switched from whether Madame Portes actually grew the Brussels sprouts she sold on her stall or simply bought them at the supermarket in Perpignan then resold them at a higher price, to speculating whether or not there would be sufficient lamb to go round. A notable panic rippled down the queue at the very thought of there not being enough as none of the women wanted to disappoint her family. That would be unacceptable in this small Pyrenean spa town, as in this small town, like many others in the region, a woman's place as housewife and mother was esteemed and revered. Even though many held jobs outside the home, their responsibility to their family was paramount.

Yes, everyone followed their usual routine until the siren blared out — twice. The siren was a wartime relic that had never been decommissioned even though the war had ended over half a century before. It was retained as a means of summoning the pompiers, who were not only the local firemen but also paramedics. One blast of the siren was used when there was a minor road accident or if someone took unwell at the spa but two blasts was for something extremely serious.

The last time there were two blasts was when a very drunken Jean-Claude accidentally shot Monsieur Reynard while mistaking him for a boar. Fortunately Monsieur Reynard recovered, but he still had a piece of shot lodged in his head which caused his eye to squint when he was tired. This served as a constant reminder to Jean-Claude of what he'd done as he had to see Monsieur Reynard every day in the cherry orchard where they both worked.

On hearing two blasts of the siren, everyone stopped in their tracks and everything seemed to stand still. A hush fell over the town as people strained to listen for the shrill sounds of the approaching emergency vehicles. Some craned their necks skyward hoping to see the police helicopter arrive from Perpignan and, whilst all were shocked that something serious had occurred, they were also thrilled by the prospect of exciting, breaking news. Gradually, the chattering restarted. Shopping was forgotten and the market abandoned. The boucherie was left unattended as its patron followed the crowd of women making their way to the main street. In the bar, the glasses of pastis were hastily swallowed instead of being leisurely sipped as everyone rushed to see what had happened.

As well as police and pompiers, a large and rather confused group of onlookers arrived outside an apartment building owned by an English couple called Carter. They arrived on foot and on bicycles. They brought ageing relatives, pre-school children, prams and shopping. Some even brought their dogs. Everyone peered and stared and chatted to each other. It was like a party without the balloons or streamers.

There was a buzz of nervous excitement as the police from the neighbouring larger town began to cordon off the area around the apartment block with tape. Monsieur Brune was told in no uncertain terms to restrain his dog, as it kept running over to where the body lay and was contaminating the area in more ways than one.

A slim woman wearing a crumpled linen dress was sitting on a chair in the paved garden of the apartment block, just inside the police line. Her elbows rested on her knees and she held her head in her hands. Her limp, brown hair hung over her face. Every so often she lifted her chin, opened her eyes and took in great, gasping breaths of air as if she was in danger of suffocating. Her whole body shook. Madame Carter, Belinda, hadn't actually fainted but she was close to it. Her skin was clammy and her pallor grey. Her eyes threatened at any moment to roll back in their sockets and blot out the horror of what she'd just seen.

She was being supported by her husband, David, who was visibly shocked. His tall frame sagged as if his thin legs could no longer support his weight and he kept swiping away tears from his face with the backs of his hands. He looked dazed and, from time to time, he covered his mouth with his hand as if trying to hold in his emotions but he was completely overcome.

The noise from the crowd became louder and more excitable and words like “accident,” “suicide” and even “murder” abounded. Claudette, the owner of the bar that stood across the street from the incident, supplied the chair on which Belinda now sat. She realized that she was in a very privileged position, being inside the police line, so Claudette stayed close to the chair and Belinda. She patted the back of Belinda's hand distractedly, while endeavouring to overhear tasty morsels of conversation to pass on to her rapt audience. The day was turning into a circus and everyone wanted to be part of the show.

Finally, a specialist team arrived. There were detectives, uniformed officers, secretaries, people who dealt with forensics and even a dog handler. The tiny police office was not big enough to hold them all so they commandeered a room at the Mairie, which is our town hall.

It took the detectives three days to take statements and talk to the people who were present in the building when the man, named Steven Gold, fell. Three days of eating in local restaurants and drinking in the bars much to the delight of the proprietors. I presumed these privileged few had expense accounts, a facility we local police did not enjoy. I assumed that my hard earned taxes paid for these expense accounts yet none of my so called colleagues asked me to join them.

They were constantly being accosted by members of the public and pumped for information. Indeed everyone in the town wanted to be their friend and be a party to a secret they could pass on to someone else. There was a buzz of excitement about the place that I hadn't experienced for a very long time. People who hadn't attended church for years suddenly wanted to speak to the priest. The doctor who'd attended the corpse had a full appointment book. And everyone wanted to buy me a drink so they could ask me questions. I thought it would never end. But it did. As quickly as it had started, everybody packed up, and then they were gone.

Chapter 2

You must be wondering who is telling you this. Where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Danielle and I am a cop, or flic as I am called here in France. I hope you will be patient with me as English is not my first language.

I am attending the funeral of Steven Gold, the unfortunate man who fell from the apartment block owned by the Carters. He was a local businessman, and before he settled here in France, it is rumoured he'd been struck off as a solicitor in England. Most of the townspeople are here as all are curious. We don't get incidents like this happening very often, or indeed ever before, so it has caused a great deal of excitement and speculation. The gathering can be divided into the handful of people who liked the man, those who disliked or even hated him, rather more of them, in fact too many to count, and of course the usual group of religious or lonely people who attend every funeral.

Actually, most of the people attending disliked the man so much they're being guarded with their conversations lest someone thinks their negativity or ill feelings towards him may in some way have contributed to his death.

I was the first person on the scene that day as I was about to ticket an illegally parked car which was blocking an entrance outside the Carter's apartment block. People are always upset when they receive a parking ticket. They argue that they've only been gone for a minute or two or that their business was so urgent the law should bend for them. They are always unreasonable and usually blame me personally for their mistake.

On that day, I was at first more surprised than shocked when I saw him lying there. He had landed in an almost perfect foetal position and he fitted exactly into the small space outside the basement, bedroom window. His head was resting on a flowerpot and he looked comfortable. If it were not for the blood, one would have assumed he'd simply lain down when drunk and fallen asleep.

I had to call out to Madame Laurent and ask her to stand back and not come any closer as she was edging forward to see what had happened. Her yapping dog was making me nervous and I had enough to contend with without her having hysterics or a heart attack. One corpse was quite enough.

With jelly legs and shaking hands I went through the ritual of checking for a pulse, being careful not to touch anything except his wrist. I would have felt his neck where the pulse is easier to detect but I didn't want to get his blood on my hands. My heart was thumping and my fingers were sweating so much that I couldn't feel a thing, but it didn't matter, I knew he was dead. It would have been obvious to anyone.

His head was split almost in two and there was a lake of rapidly congealing blood under him. I was simply going through the motions as I'd been trained to do. I knew I'd be expected to write a report and, being a cop who dealt mostly with traffic offences or the occasional drunk, and being the only officer actually stationed in town, I didn't know what else to do as I'd had little experience of death. I hoped and prayed someone with more authority would arrive soon as a crowd was gathering and I was scared of losing control of the situation.

Chapter 3

The funeral service is relatively short and conducted both in French and English for the benefit of Steven's family and acquaintances from England. He'd been recently married for the second time and, in fact, some of the congregation had attended his wedding in this same small church only eight months before.

There is much unkind speculation that his Hungarian widow will miss him less than one might have expected because she now has his substantial fortune to keep her company and she no longer needs his permission to spend it. In this small town, people like to gossip and their words are rarely kind. Many people think that the young Hungarian man by the widow's side isn't really her cousin but actually her lover.

The gathering, as is the custom, has now moved to the town hall where food and wine have been laid on for the mourners. Few are mourning but all are partaking of the food and wine. As I look around me I see that dotted amongst the crowd are all the people who were present at the apartment block when Steven met his untimely death. All of them are foreigners, not one Frenchman amongst them. There are the Carters, of course, Belinda and David, and beside them stand their tenants Kurt and Rosa. Near the door is Byron who was a business associate of the deceased—he is accompanied by his son-in-law Mark—and just entering the hall is an English couple that I've seen once or twice in town but to whom I have yet to be formally introduced.

I don't consider myself to be racist but I'm not surprised that the apartment block is owned and frequented by foreigners. When the Carters first bought the building, they didn't carry out any repairs because they were contemptuous of their tenants and thought the shoddy standards were good enough for them. Now that the building requires essential work to be carried out, they don't have the money to pay for it.

Many of their tenants are lazy dropouts who say they are musicians, artists or actors. They come here expecting the fame that has previously eluded them but instead they end up living hand to mouth or on benefits. My hard work pays for their benefits and I resent it. Local people don't wish to be associated with these layabouts and they won't rent to them, even though the rent money comes directly from the government. But for Belinda and David Carter these tenants are a lifeline. The Carters have serious money worries and I have heard that the benefit money they receive each month in rent is all that stands between them and bankruptcy.

Many foreigners come here thinking they'll get rich quick. They assume that the local people, who've been running businesses for generations, are stupid. These incomers think they are smarter than us and therefore more able to 'cash in' as they say. They are like the palm trees that grow in this town in the Pyrenees, incongruous and out of place but here nevertheless.

If I sound bitter it is because I am. I resent these know-it-alls who look down on me and my neighbours. It's true of course that we locals often tolerate the incomers, and sometimes we even pretend to be their friends, but that's because we see them as easy pickings. It's always easy to part a fool from his money, particularly a greedy fool. Claudette, a local bar owner and occasional caterer, is the perfect example of good business sense. She has supplied the food and wine for this funeral at double the normal cost and the grieving widow cannot stop thanking her.

As I look around the room, I see Belinda Carter beckoning to me, trying to catch my attention. Dressed all in black from her feathered hat to her patent leather shoes, which are a remnant from her more prosperous days, she looks like a wounded crow. Her rail thin body stands slightly askew as she hugs her handbag to her chest. It seems as if one good gust of wind would carry her off up the mountain to be lost forever in the trees. Her gaunt expression and her facial twitches tell me she is barely hanging on to her composure.

“Bonjour, Belinda, ca va?” I say as I approach her. I feel I must be respectful.

She shrugs and her head shakes slightly but she does not return the pleasantry. Her lip trembles and I think that at any moment she will cry.

“Danielle, I must speak to you,” she finally manages to say. Her eyes dart nervously about the room. “But not here,” she adds dramatically. “Will you meet me tomorrow at my home after the children leave for school? My husband will be taking our friend to the airport at 10 o'clock so the house will be empty. I don't want to come to your office or everyone will know I've been speaking to you and you know how people like to gossip.”

I stare into her eyes. She is pleading with me. She seems afraid, almost desperate.

“Is something wrong, Belinda? Is it anything to do with the death of Monsieur Gold?” I ask.

She nods slowly and her eyes fill with tears. “Yes,” she says, almost in a whisper. “Please, Danielle, please come.”

I look again at her tired face, she looks beaten and exhausted. She never fails to be polite to me but usually there is something in her eyes mocking me, but not today it seems. Today I see only despair.

Living in this town as an unmarried woman in my thirties and also a cop, I am left wide open to speculation about my sexuality. My boyish haircut and muscular physique, which I have achieved by visiting the gym three times a week, together with my authoritative manner, all contribute to me portraying a rather masculine appearance. The uniform doesn't help either as it's designed to be practical, not to show off curves. However, my not having a boyfriend or, indeed, wanting one doesn't mean I would prefer to date women.

I'm often hurt by the way I'm treated. I hear people whispering, calling me a lesbian flic or Monsieur Daniel. I'm not deaf and their comments cut me. For some reason they think it's acceptable to make sexist jokes at my expense, but it is not and I'm even more upset by the lack of respect I receive for the job I do. They simply don't understand that women can be police officers and do their job as well as any man.

Sometimes Belinda and her friends stop talking and stare at me when I enter a room. They snigger behind their hands or gossip with their heads held close together conspiratorially. Perhaps I'm being oversensitive. Perhaps it's simply because I'm a cop but I can't be certain. Now this woman wants my attention and maybe even my help. Tomorrow should be my day off but I'm curious to know what she has to say. Although I dislike her and therefore hesitate before answering, I hesitate for only a moment.

“Okay, Belinda, I will call on you. I'll come round at the time you suggest. Until tomorrow then.”

She exhales audibly and her expression is one of relief.

“Thank you, Danielle,” she says. “Thank you so much.”

I give her a polite nod and say, “Au revoir, Belinda, a bientot.”

She returns the gesture and I turn to walk away.

“After 10 o'clock, Danielle,” she calls after me. “Remember, not before 10.00.”

“Yes, after 10.00,” I confirm. As I glance back at her, I see that she looks like a crumpled paper bag; all the stuffing is knocked out of her. The effort of speaking to me has drained her of all her reserves

Chapter 4

I make my way across the room to where the trestle tables laden with food and drinks are positioned. Steven's widow is standing beside one of the tables. She stands out from the crowd, dressed as she is in Chanel. I don't know much about fashion but everyone recognises the designers. There is something about a Chanel suit that makes it appropriate for every occasion. It must have cost a fortune and it looks to me as if she's already spending her inheritance. Everything about her screams money, from her perfectly coiffed hair to her cripplingly high stiletto heels. She is stylishly thin and I cannot help but be reminded of the saying that a woman can't be too rich or too thin. There is definitely something of the Wallis Simpson about this woman.

She's sipping red wine from a large glass and her head is cocked towards her 'cousin' who is standing facing her. He is tall and lean and he's dressed in a beautifully tailored suit; his shirt is white and crisply ironed. His high cheekbones and finely chiselled features are very handsome and make him stand out from this gathering. Most of the local people are short of stature and they dress simply, so a man such as this is easily noticed. He leans forward and speaks softly in the widow's ear and from time to time she touches his arm and smiles at him. To all who observe her, she seems an unlikely grieving widow.

“May I pour you some wine, Officer? You're not on duty are you?”

The voice startles me and I turn to see a slim, slightly built man proffering a bottle and a glass. He smiles at me and his face reminds me of a snake, with taut skin, thin lips and narrow eyes. His pupils are like cold, steel pinheads. His bald head accentuates this look. It is Kurt.

This Dutchman unnerves me like no other person can. There is something sly and dangerous about him. He smiles with his mouth but not with his eyes, in the same way that SS officers are depicted in films. I've known Kurt for four years having first met him at the Mairie when he arrived from Holland. He is another foreign, benefit parasite and he has a serious alcohol problem. Though he passes me in the street most days, this is the first time he has engaged me in conversation.

“Thank you, Kurt,” I reply. “I'm not on duty at the moment so I will have a glass please.”

He places the empty wine glass in my hand and fills it almost to the top with red wine. I prefer there to be some space in the glass to make it easier to hold and to allow the wine to breathe for a moment or two. But instead, I find myself having to sip it immediately to take the level down and make it less likely to spill.

“Did he jump or was he pushed, ha, ha?” he laughs.

What a strange thing to say, I think, particularly as we are at the man's funeral.

“I'm assuming you are talking about Steven Gold,” I reply coldly then continue. “I guess that's something for the detective leading the investigation to find out. Why do you think he may have been pushed?”

“No particular reason,” he says, still grinning menacingly. “Just making small talk.”

I say nothing else but stand and sip my wine expecting him to move away, but he does not.

“Perhaps we should talk,” he says.

“About anything in particular or do you just like my company?” I reply cheekily.

He scowls at me before continuing, “I just might have some information of interest to you.”

“Information about what?” I ask. “I believe you were in the apartment block at the time of the man's death. Do you know something about the incident?”

“Perhaps indirectly,” he says slowly. “I know some things about Rosa that might be important,” he continues.

“Rosa?” I question “What has Rosa got to do with this?”

“I'll tell you,” he replies, “but not here and not now. Perhaps we can meet in the café at Corsavy tomorrow. Tuesday's your day off isn't it? The day that all criminals are safe,” he mocks. He leans forward and whispers in my ear, “Maybe you could buy me breakfast and I'll tell you what I know,” he offers.

Having just made the arrangement to see Belinda, I won't be having a day off this week, but I've no wish to correct him. He makes my skin crawl. I consider what he's said for a moment and I'm intrigued. Why would he want to discuss Rosa? She's his girlfriend after all and they seem very close. I'm curious to hear what he has to say but I'm nervous about meeting him. Do I really want to be seen alone with this horrible man?

Finally, I decide that I'm more curious than repelled by him and I say, “I will meet you tomorrow, but you can buy me breakfast as it is you who wishes to speak to me. We can get together at 9 o'clock.”

“Very well, Madame,” he says, smirking. “You drive a hard bargain, until tomorrow then.”

With that he clicks his heels, gives a small bow then turns and walks across the room to join Rosa. I wonder what that was all about, I think. How strange, how very, very strange.