Red Light in the Pyrenees E-Book

Elly Grant

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Take a respected female cop
Add two drops of violent death
Some ladies of the night
And a bucket full of blood

Place all in a small French spa town
Stir with money and greed
Until all becomes clear
The result will be satisfying

In the third novel in Elly Grant's Death in the Pyrenees series, you get an insight into the workings and atmosphere of a small French town in the Eastern Pyrenees.

After the sudden, violent death of a local Madam brings fear to her working girls, police officer Danielle gets on the case, determined to find the killer.

But is there a silver lining to every cloud? Find out, and hold your breath... it’s a bumpy ride.

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

Leseprobe

Red Light 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

The body of Madame Henriette is lying through the broken window of the kitchen door, with the lower part of the frame supporting her lifeless corpse. Her head, shoulder and one arm hang outside, while the rest of her remains inside, as if she has endeavoured to fly, Superman style, through the window and become stuck. She is slumped, slightly bent at the knees, but with both feet still touching the floor. Her body is surrounded by jagged shards of broken glass.

From the kitchen, this is all one sees. It isn't until you open the window to the side of the door and look through it, that you see the blood. Indeed, quite a large area of the tiny courtyard has been spattered with gore as Madame Henriette's life pumped out of her. One shard sliced through her throat and by the amount of blood around the body, it seems to have severed her jugular. She must have been rendered unconscious almost immediately as she made no effort to lift herself off the dagger-like pieces of glass sticking out from the frame.

There is blood on the pot plants and on the flowering creeper which grows up the wall, dividing this house from the neighbour's. It's also sprayed the small, hand crafted, wrought iron table and chairs. The blood is beginning to turn black in the morning sun and there's a sizeable puddle congealing on the ground beneath the body. This will need to be spread with sawdust when the clean up begins, I think to myself.

There is rather a lot of blood on Madame Henriette's head, as it has run down her face from the gaping wound at her throat, but it's still noticeable that her hair is well-styled and her face is fully made up. Her clothes are tight and rather too sexy for a woman of her age and her push-up bra and fish-net stockings seem inappropriate for this time of the morning. If you didn't know any better, you might assume that Madame Henriette is simply a lady of advancing years trying desperately to hold on to her youth, but to her neighbours and those of us who have had dealings with her, the truth is much less forgiving. Madame Henriette is, indeed, a Madame. She is a lady of the night, a peddler of prostitutes, and this building, which she owns, is a brothel.

The house of Madame Henriette is situated in the old part of town, where the cobbled streets are so narrow that only one car may pass at a time. All the buildings are tall and slim and made of stone. Each is distinguished from the next by diversely coloured shutters and different degrees of weathering to the facade.

When entering this house one passes through a small door, which is cut in a much larger, heavier one. The magnificent carved entrance looks overdressed in this street and harks back to a time when the area was much grander. Nowadays, everyone wants modern and the town has spread out with alarming speed from this central point. The wealthy live in the suburbs. They have gardens, swimming pools and pizza ovens. From once being uptown and chic, these streets have become dreary and now they contain a lower class of citizen. They are a melting pot of students, foreigners and people who survive on state benefits. Sometimes holidaymakers rent here, thinking the area is quaint and having a desire to experience a 'typical' French house in a 'typical' French street.

After entering through the door which is set immediately beside the road, you find yourself in a narrow hallway with a magnificent ornate tiled floor. A curved stone stairway with an iron banister rail takes you to the upper floors. On the first floor, if you turned to the right, you find yourself in the sitting room where Madame Henriette offered her guests some wine as they waited for one of her 'nieces' to fetch them. Then they would be taken to one of the bedrooms which are situated on the upper floors. To the left is the kitchen, but few meals were cooked there. Food was usually very quickly thrown together from a selection of cold meats, cheese and bread, then hastily eaten by the girls as they grabbed a few spare moments between clients. All was washed down with glasses of the heavy, red, cheap, local wine, of course. The wine made both the food and the clients more palatable.

The body of Madame Henriette was discovered by her maid Eva, who is a rather scrawny girl aged about twenty. She has mousy brown hair and grubby looking skin, peppered with acne scars. Every day Eva came to work for Madame, her duties being to wash the sheets, clean the house and bring in food from the market. She was also responsible for buying condoms and checking that each bedroom had a plentiful supply. Madame Henriette was fastidious about health and safety and would never allow sexual contact without condoms.

On discovering the body of her mistress, the shocked young woman fled the house and ran screaming into the street. One of the neighbours heard the screams and chose, on this occasion, not to ignore the noises coming from the vicinity of the house but instead telephoned for the emergency services – and this is where my story begins.

Chapter 2

Some of you have met me before and you are aware that my name is Danielle and I am a police officer living and working in the Eastern Pyrenees in Southern France. It has been over two years since we first encountered one another and I can tell you, with some pride, that I now have jurisdiction over a large area stretching from south of Perpignan to the Spanish border. My recent success in handling serious crimes has ensured my quick promotion. Consequently, I am now called in to be the lead officer in all the major crime cases which occur in my area.

My best friend Patricia and I are still living in our little house on the outskirts of the small town where I was born. Although we will never meet with blanket approval, most people in the town now accept that two women can live together without the relationship being sexual, even if one of those women is a lesbian. Please don't misunderstand, Patricia and I love each other and sometimes we even sleep in the same bed, but that is as far as it goes. We are friends, loving friends, nothing more and nothing less.

Patricia and I have experienced remarkable changes in our lives over the past two years. I have advanced from being nothing more than a traffic cop to the esteemed position I now hold. Patricia has progressed from being an assistant in a funeral parlour to having her own business making and selling pies, pickles and jams. She has also established herself as an artist.

I am very proud of our achievements, and rightly so, as it has been an uphill struggle. The hardest thing to gain was the acceptance of local people. The turning point for Patricia came when the wife of the Mayor befriended her and the Commune Committee commissioned a painting from her. It is difficult being a lesbian in a small town, but easier if you have powerful friends. For me, the turning point came with my handling of two major cases involving violent death and drugs. This led to me being considered somewhat of a saviour in my town.

I am eating breakfast in the kitchen when the call comes in about Madame Henriette. Ollee, our dog, is making a nuisance of himself because he wants some of the cheese I'm eating. How can I refuse this odd-looking bundle of mischief when he is trying so hard to impress me? I cannot deny him, so most of my cheese ends up in his belly instead of mine. Although it's early on a Saturday morning, Patricia already has pans of apricots bubbling on the stove. She's trying to finish the task of making her jam before the day and the kitchen becomes too hot. Every so often Patricia checks the pans then goes back to the painting she's working on for a gallery in Perpignan.

“Must you go to work today?” she asks. “I was hoping we could go to the market in Ceret because I want to get a ham from Monsieur Charles. The one we have is almost finished and his are the best in the region. I've arranged to exchange six pots of pickles and three fruit pies for one of the really big ones.”

“I've been called to Ceret for this job and I must go now,” I reply. “I don't have time to wait for you, but if you put the jars and pies in my car you can meet up with me later. I'll be parking in the car park behind the main square and I'll give you my spare car key so you can get your stuff out of the boot when you need it. That way, you and Ollee can travel in on the bus whenever you're ready.”

“That's great Danielle,” she replies. “Perhaps you won't be too long and we'll be able to have lunch in that stylish little place in the square.”

“Perhaps,” I reply. “We'll see.”

The truth is, I've been told to expect lots of blood so I might not be feeling like eating any lunch, stylish, or otherwise. When my colleague Raymond called from Ceret, he said it was like a scene from a slasher movie, but I think he's probably exaggerating. Raymond is quite new to the job. He's never attended a violent death before, but he's assured me that he's up to the work. He also told me, rather proudly, that he didn't chuck up when he saw the corpse. Just as well, because we can't have him contaminating the crime scene. I am to meet Raymond at the scene and a doctor has been summoned to examine the corpse before it can be moved. I have requested that my old friend Doctor Poullet attend because we are used to working together, and besides, why not give my friend the work and the fee? Being the senior officer does have certain advantages.

Last year, I would have been rushing out of the door and racing to attend the scene, but now I take my time, because now I have the experience to know that the corpse is going nowhere and everyone must wait for me. So, I finish my coffee, kiss Patricia on the cheek and pat Ollee on the head, before heading out of the door. I am excited to be attending another major incident because I'm making rather a good name for myself out of the death and destruction of others. I have no qualms about this because it's a reasonable assumption that for one person to succeed, another must fail.

Chapter 3

As I drive towards Ceret the sun shines brightly through the car windows and I blink at the brilliant colours surrounding me. The sky is a vivid blue and the trees on the mountains are a dozen, improbable shades of green. As I pass by the orchards, the fruit trees are laden with golden peaches and apricots which make the air smell sweet and I feel very fortunate to live in this place. The grandeur and beauty of the mountains always humbles me and I wish I was going to the market with Patricia, instead of to the bloodbath that awaits me in town.

Although it is still rather early in the day the car park is already full when I arrive in Ceret, but I manage to squeeze my car onto a footpath where I abandon it. I place a sign on the windscreen to inform everyone there is a police emergency, and this is an official car, just in case an over zealous officer has me towed away. Then I make my way to the house of Madame Henriette.

Raymond has cordoned off the entire street with tape to stop vehicles from driving along it, not that it makes much difference, as few cars travel this way. People who need access to their homes are ducking under the tape, but they don't stop outside the house of Madame Henriette. Respectable people never stopped outside this house because everyone knew what went on inside and feared being found guilty by association. When I enter the front door, I am handed a white suit by a junior police officer.

“Is this so I don't contaminate the crime scene?” I ask.

“No, Madame,” he replies. “Raymond thought it would stop you getting blood on your uniform. These overalls were left over after the office was painted.”

“I see you had a large budget,” I say sarcastically, as I tear the sleeve of the flimsy suit while trying to pull it over my uniform, but my humour is lost on him.

I ascend the stairs and enter the small kitchen where Raymond and a rather grumpy Doctor Poullet are waiting.

“I hope you enjoyed your breakfast Danielle. I haven't even had a cup of coffee yet,” Doctor Poullet grumbles. “Some of us believed this to be an emergency and we have been waiting for you for forty minutes.”

“Bonjour to you too, Doctor Poullet,” I reply.

“Hmph,” is his response.

“Parking is impossible,” I offer by way of an excuse.

“It was not impossible forty minutes ago, I had no problem,” he replies gruffly.

I send the junior officer to fetch coffees and Poullet cheers up when I point out that he can charge double his fee for working at the weekend. The crime scene is indeed quite gruesome and Raymond and I stand well back as the doctor runs through his observations for me.

“It is most probably an accident,” he says. “I think it likely she tripped over the chair which is overturned, then put out her hand to try and stop herself from falling. I assume that's the reason her body is partly inside and partly outside the broken window and why she is suspended on the window frame. Rather undignified, but so was her life,” he observes. “She made no attempt to move, so she probably lost consciousness very quickly through shock and blood loss.”

“Is there any chance her death could have been caused by something other than an accident?” Raymond asks.

“Why do you ask?” I question. “Is there something I should know?”

“I'm not sure,” he replies. “I have my suspicions that Madame Henriette was making money from more than just her girls. There have been mutterings about blackmail.”

“Then perhaps you should investigate further,” Doctor Poullet says. “It doesn't change the cause of death. She died from blood loss and shock. I cannot completely rule out foul play, but I'm reasonably sure her death is simply the result of a ghastly accident.”

I'm sorry Raymond has opened his mouth and voiced his opinions, because now I'll have to look for further information. It would have been so much easier to accept Doctor Poullet's explanation. Now I'll have to go through the motions of trying to find Madame Henriette's clients and neither they, nor their families, will be happy about that. Besides, who will care that some old whore is dead? Most people in this town will rejoice at the news.

I give Raymond instructions on arranging for the body to be removed and the house cleaned up. I inform him that I'll search for Madame Henriette's client book before I leave, then I make my way upstairs to her bedroom. I expect her room to be all satin and silk and I'm quite disappointed to find it very ordinary and indeed, rather shabby. I don't find a client book, but I do remove her diary in case there are any clues amongst her jottings. When I make my way back downstairs I meet Doctor Poullet at the front door.

“I'm claiming for the whole weekend because I'll have to do my report tomorrow,” he says. “I trust you have no objections.”

“None at all,” I reply.

He holds his chin in his hand and narrows his eyes as if deep in thought, “Perhaps it might take me until Monday morning,” he speculates, raising his bushy eyebrows.

“Maybe it will take you most of the day on Monday,” I reply and I smile and nod at him.

“I would like to order some jam and pickles from Patricia,” he says. “Perhaps an assortment of your choice, say six jars?”

“I think you should make it ten,” I reply. “You won't be disappointed, they're superb.”

He offers me his hand and I shake it. “You will have my report by close of business on Monday. You will also have my bill.”

“You will have the jam and pickles by close of business on Monday. You will also have Patricia's bill,” I reply with a smile. “It's a pleasure to do business with you,” I add.

With the deal struck, we step out of the door and each of us goes our separate way. I think we're both relieved to be out of that house and back into the land of the living.

Chapter 4

I make my way through the busy streets with some difficulty; as it's the height of summer and a beautiful sunny day, the town is alive with people. I spy Patricia about half way down a line of stalls and I'm amazed that I've found her so easily in such a large crowd. Ollee sees me and hurtles towards me through the legs of tourists and townsfolk, yipping and yapping and leaping excitedly. Patricia throws her head back and laughs delightedly at the dog's antics then our eyes meet and she waves and signals for me to join her.

She is talking to Monsieur Charles and her hand is resting on the biggest ham on his stall. Monsieur Charles is over six feet tall with strong shoulders. His head is completely bald, as it has been since he was a young man. To compensate for the lack of hair on his head, he has grown a magnificent handle bar style moustache. He has very bushy eyebrows and a way of narrowing his eyes and smiling when he is thinking which gives him the look of a nineteenth century villain from an old movie.

“Isn't this the most wonderful ham?” Patricia says as I approach.

“It was a fair exchange,” Monsieur Charles replies shyly. “Hello, Danielle,” he continues, “Nasty business at the whorehouse, very nasty business.”

“Yes,” I reply. “Not the most pleasant way to start a morning.”

“I take it she's dead,” he asks. “Accident, was it?”

“I shouldn't really discuss the case, but it would seem so,” I reply.

Monsieur Charles gives an audible sigh and I wonder how many other men will be relieved.

“Monsieur Charles was just telling me about the lottery win,” Patricia says, changing the subject. “Someone from this region has won two hundred thousand euros in last week's draw, but they haven't come forward to claim it yet. It could be anyone. It might be someone we know,” she speculates.

“We'll probably never know who it is as they'll wish to remain anonymous,” Monsieur Charles says. “I know if I won the lottery, I would definitely remain anonymous because if my wife or my daughters found out, I would never see any of the money,” he adds with a wry smile.

To say that Monsieur Charles is henpecked is an understatement, because this gentle, kind man is completely under the thumb of his bossy wife. Madame Charles is on every committee and is deeply involved with the church. Very pious people always make me feel rather uncomfortable and Madame Charles is no exception. Something about her reminds me of my overbearing mother and I'm sure she must be very difficult to live with. Perhaps that's why Monsieur Charles is interested in news about Madame Henriette, I speculate.

“I would buy more chickens and an apricot orchard and I would take Danielle on a little holiday. We've not had a holiday and we've been living in our house for two years now. I would get Ollee the biggest bone in the boucherie and a box full of new toys.”

Patricia is already dreaming about spending the money that she hasn't won.

Monsieur Charles nods at Patricia then looks at me and laughs. “If only my family's desires were so simple,” he says. “My wife and daughters would want designer this and designer that and bling bling here and bling bling there and I would have to work twice the hours to pay for it. It is better that I don't win. I will be a richer man for not winning.”

“Perhaps the ticket was sold by our newsagent,” Patricia speculates. “If so, Therese who works there might know the identity of the winner. It's a real mystery but quite exciting, isn't it?”

“Patricia, darling, it could have been bought anywhere in the region. One of the supermarkets might have sold the ticket. It may have been a lucky dip and the purchaser might not even have checked the numbers yet. Anything is possible. The only thing we know for certain is that none of us has won.”

“Oh well,” she replies. “We might not be rich, but at least we're not poor. Help me to carry this monster of a ham to your car and then I'll buy you lunch.”

“Now you're talking. I'm beginning to feel really hungry, and if we're quick, we'll get a table at the bistro before the place fills up with tourists.”

We say goodbye to Monsieur Charles, then I carry the ham as one would carry a small child – and I think it weighs about the same – as we make our way through the throngs of people to the car. When we return to the square and are seated at a table outside the restaurant, my thoughts return to one of the items on Patricia's wish list.

“Would you like to go for a holiday?” I ask her. “We could easily afford a few days away. Where would you like to go?”

“I don't really need a holiday, Danielle, but it would be nice,” she says. “You've been working very long hours because of your promotion. Now that things have settled down a bit, I think you could do with a change of scene. But I suppose, with this latest incident, it will be out of the question for a few weeks.”

“I love my work and my position so I don't feel under any strain, but I think it would do us both good to take a break and besides, we can afford it,” I add. “So where would you like to go?”

“Whale watching in Alaska,” she replies, quick as a flash.

“W-what?” I stammer.

“Got ya,” she says, laughing. “Barcelona would be good.”

Chapter 5

True to his word Doctor Poullet's report arrives on my desk late on Monday afternoon and there are no surprises in it. I'm hopeful this will be the end of the matter, but when I arrive in the office on Tuesday, I'm told Monsieur Rene Charles has called and he would like me to phone him back regarding the Madame Henriette case. My colleague who took the call says that Monsieur Charles insisted on speaking to me, and only me, so he has no information to pass on. I feel an uncomfortable prickling on my skin, my instincts telling me that I might be about to open Pandora's box.

Although Monsieur Charles lives in Ceret, we arrange to meet in my office as he doesn't want anyone to see him talking to me. I agree to have my lunch late so he can come to the office while his wife is at the hairdresser's. I'm now sure that Monsieur Charles has had dealings with Madame Henriette in the past and he's obviously worried about it. Why else would he want to talk to me, of all people, unless he was afraid of being found out about something?

I'm concentrating deeply on a case, and I've read the same paragraph on my computer screen several times, when my intercom buzzer announces the arrival of Monsieur Charles. I go to the outer office where I see him standing rather stooped, his head bowed, staring at his feet. He has his hands in his pockets and a paper package tucked under his arm. I close my office door and the noise makes him look up.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Charles,” I say. Turning to re-open the door, I usher him inside.

“Please call me Rene,” he says and he sits in the chair that I offer.

He places a rather pungent smelling, greasy, paper bag on the desk in front of me.

“Some Catalan sausage,” he explains. “For you and Patricia, it's very good.”

“That's very kind of you,” I reply, touched by the gift. “Would you like some coffee? I'm just going to pour myself some.”

“Thank you, yes,” he answers.

I pour the coffees and place his in front of him. He lifts it and holds it between his cupped hands. We sip the coffees and I wait for him to speak, but he is obviously finding it difficult to begin because he squirms in the seat like an embarrassed teenager.

“You have something you wish to discuss, Rene?” I ask, trying to nudge him along. “Something about the death of Madame Henriette, perhaps?”

“Ah, yes, Hortense,” he says, “Hortense Henriette. I knew her well. We went to school together but my parents didn't approve of her mother, so we were never allowed to be friends. Her mother was also a whore, but I liked her because I was a shy boy and she always took the time to talk to me. Hortense was the first girl, I… you know.”

His voice tails off and his face burns with shame.

“We were both fifteen and I thought she loved me until she asked for my pocket money. She said it was for condoms and I believed her. Until my friend Patrice told me that many of the boys in my year were paying for condoms too. It didn't stop me from liking her. So you see, I couldn't have done her any harm.”

“Why should I suspect you of hurting her?” I ask.

He studies my face for a moment then rubs his eyes with his hand.

“People are talking. They're saying Hortense was murdered. They're saying she was murdered for her client book, because she was blackmailing men who visited her house.”

“And were you a client, Monsieur?”

“Not exactly.”

“Monsieur,” I say “Either you were a client or you were not, what is the answer?”

He shrugs his shoulders and purses his lips before answering. “I used to visit the house occasionally, but I wasn't a client of Hortense. I used to meet Eveline there. She was one of the nieces of Hortense. You see, Danielle, I might be in the client book but I wasn't being blackmailed and I didn't hurt Hortense. Please believe me.”

“We don't even know if she was murdered, Rene,” I reply. “There was no evidence of a client book in her house.”

“Oh, thank God, thank God, I don't know what I'd do if my Paulette ever found out I visited that house. You won't tell her, will you?”

His eyes are full of tears and his hands are shaking.

“As far as I'm concerned, the matter is closed,” I reply. “I doubt that I'll need to talk to you on this subject again but rest assured, if I do, I'll be discreet.”

“Bless you, Danielle, bless you. It's such a weight off my mind.”

With that we both stand and I show him to the door. I watch as he walks away from the office and I note that he seems to have regained his posture. He's standing straight and he's positively striding down the street, but after a few metres he turns and comes back.

“About the Catalan sausage,” he says, “If anyone asks you, will you tell them I gave it to you from my van in Ceret? I don't want anyone to know I was here.”