Montbel: A French Murder Mystery (A Jacques Forêt Mystery Book 3)

  Copyright © 2018 by Angela Wren

  Photography: Adobe Stock © Lindsay_Helms

  Cover Design: Soqoqo

  Editor: Stephanie Patterson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without

  written permission of the author or Crooked Cat except for brief quotations

  used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  First Black Line Edition, Crooked Cat, 2018

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  and something nice will happen.

  For the elderly gentleman I met in La Ferté-Macé (61), a time-control location on the Tour de Normandie, who shared with me a brief glimpse of his childhood in occupied France.

  Acknowledgments

  My very grateful thanks go to:

  Dave Bastow, retired Green Watch Crew Manager of West Yorkshire Fire and Rescue Service, for his invaluable advice, guidance and his patience in answering all my questions.

  My writing colleagues, who have patiently listened, have answered my searching questions, and encouraged me when my faith in my story faltered.

  Carol, a reader, who suggested the inclusion of a glossary.

  My editor and publisher, without whom this would not have been possible.

  About the Author

  Angela Wren is an actor and director at a small theatre a few miles from where she lives in the county of Yorkshire in the UK. She worked as a project and business change manager – very pressured and very demanding – but she managed to escape, and now she writes books.

  She has always loved stories and story-telling, so it seemed a natural progression, to her, to try her hand at writing, starting with short stories. Her first published story was in an anthology, which was put together by the magazine ‘Ireland’s Own’ in 2011.

  Angela particularly enjoys the challenge of plotting and planning different genres of work. Her short stories vary between contemporary romance, memoir, mystery, and historical. She also writes comic flash-fiction and has drafted two one-act plays that have been recorded for local radio.

  Her full-length stories are set in France, where she likes to spend as much time as possible each year. She’s currently researching and working on the follow-up to Montbel.

  Follow Angela at http://www.angelawren.co.uk and http://www.jamesetmoi.blogspot.co.uk.

  The Jaques Forêt Mystery series by Angela Wren:

  Messandrierre (#1)

  Merle (#2)

  Montbel (#3)

  Montbel

  Read the complete Jaques Forêt Mystery series:

  Messandrierre (#1)

  Merle (#2)

  Montbel (#3)

  la lettre

  …families fracture, Monsieur Forêt. No one desires it or intends it, but it happens. A harsh, unforgiving word begets a rash and revengeful action, and a sliver of ice takes hold in a dark corner of the hearts of those at odds with each other. And there it wedges itself, the frost gradually deepening and destroying. One of us has to stop the cold, as this impasse can continue no longer.

  I have to put things right with my son, Monsieur…

  june 3rd, 2011

  wednesday, june 8th

  In his office in Mende, Jacques Forêt, now Principal Investigator and Managing Director of Vaux Investigations, scanned through the documents in the various files in front of him. He flipped the card cover of the last one closed. Open and shut case, he thought as he tapped his forefinger on the desk and wondered why he’d bothered to accept the commission in the first place. Pushing his chair back, he strolled over to the floor to ceiling windows and looked down on the street below. In the bright morning sunshine, people scurried backwards and forwards as they went about their business. Across the street sat the sister building that housed the second company, Vaux Consulting, within the family-owned group. He grinned as he reflected on how lucky he had been to assume his current role so quickly after commencing work with the organisation. It was the successful investigation into the deaths in the suburb of Merle – and the internal fraud connected with that particularly complex case – that had been the springboard for his early and meteoric promotion.

  A tap at his office door brought him back to the present.

  “Bruno, good to see you again and thanks for coming over.” Jacques shook his visitor’s hand, a broad and welcoming smile on his face.

  “I don’t remember you having this office when we last worked together, Jacques,” said Investigating Magistrate Bruno Pelletier as he took the chair indicated and grinned.

  “No. There have been a number of changes all across the Vaux Group, but I’m still here, and so is Alain Vaux. He heads up the business consulting arm of Vaux now and is Chairman of the Board at group level. It’s all very corporate, Bruno, and I’m still not used to that. I don’t think I ever will be. But, there are some old habits that I will never change,” he said, nodding to the vast whiteboard that he’d had fitted to the wall directly opposite his desk. “A whiteboard was good enough for us when I was on investigations in Paris, and it still works for me here.”

  Bruno sighed. “Once a policeman, always a policeman, eh, Jacques?” He turned back to the board. “A lot of names up there. Business must be good.”

  “Yes. We’re doing very well. A lot of missing person cases, some connected with inheritances. A few matrimonial issues for which we’re gathering evidence of infidelity, or not, as is necessary. A couple of hunting fatalities that are going nowhere at the moment; and three re-examinations of old police investigations. It’s one of those that I want to discuss with you.”

  Bruno removed his rimless spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief. “As I said on the phone, I’m happy to help if I can.”

  Jacques ran his hand through his thick dark brown hair. “Thanks. The fire at the restaurant in Montbel, two years ago. I need a bit of background…”

  “There’s not a lot to tell you,” Bruno said as he donned his glasses and shrugged.

  Jacques pulled his notebook towards him, ready to make notes and waited.

  “As I recall it, arson was suspected from the outset and proven for the destruction of the building,” said Bruno.

  Jacques nodded and scribbled a note. “And where was the seat of the fire?”

  “In the store room coming off the kitchen. According to the Fire Investigation Officer’s report, there were large plastic bottles full of oil in there that would have fuelled the fire and that would have enabled the blaze to take hold quickly and then burn for a significant period, sufficient for it to ignite the fabric of the building and once that had happened the place was beyond saving.”

  “Can you remember who contacted the fire service?”

  Bruno folded his arms and thought for a moment. “The owner, Étienne Vauclain. At the time, he lived about 700 hundred metres away on Grande Rue at the edge of the village.”

  “What about the person who died there?”

  “Ah…yes. That was an unfortunate tragedy. The Fire Chief in charge of the blaze was firmly assured by Vauclain that the building was empty. The Fire Chief openly admitted that, had he known there was someone in there, he would have handled things differently.” Bruno paused and shook his head.

  “And the
body, when it was discovered…”

  “Male, he was found face down, but with the usual pugilistic pose, on the floor between the kitchen and the dining room. The appearance was that he had been trying to reach safety. According to the autopsy report, his lungs were filled with smoke and he probably died of suffocation. His body was very badly burned as a result of the advancing flames, which consumed his clothes, and most of the flesh and sinew from his back and each side of his body. His head was turned to his left and the exposed half of his face was completely destroyed. There was very little to go on for a formal identification other than the information from witnesses and the damaged remains of the wallet that was found under the body.”

  Jacques stopped making notes and stared at the floor, lost in thought. Fixing his gaze on the Magistrate, he frowned.

  “Under the body? Are you sure about that? Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

  Bruno grimaced. “Perhaps, but what are you thinking, Jacques?”

  “That the wallet would most likely have been in his back pocket, and therefore, I would have expected it to be very badly damaged, or possibly destroyed, along with his clothes.”

  “No, it was definitely under the body. The victim was an itinerant worker and the speculation at the time was that he was most probably sleeping. The smoke and his inability to breathe would have woken him and he would have, as an automatic reflex, picked up his wallet and run or crawled to the door in an effort to get out. He didn’t make it and collapsed, his right hand was clutching the wallet under his body which provided a measure of protection.”

  Jacques tapped his pen against his notebook. “Why was he there in the first place?”

  “According to Vauclain, he was there because it was July, the busiest period for the restaurant. Extra staff were regularly employed, on a casual basis, in the kitchen during the main holiday period. The man who died was known to the chef and had worked for him before. According to witness statements, he camped locally or stayed with other kitchen staff. It wasn’t unusual for him to sleep on the floor at the back without telling anyone and to be discovered the following morning by the cleaner or the chef who both came in early. He had his own rucksack and sleeping bag.”

  “And the identification of the body… I presume that wasn’t in doubt at the time?”

  “Of course not, Jacques! The witness reports were water-tight.”

  Jacques noticed the hardening of his visitor’s tone. “I’m sorry to press you, Bruno, but I have accepted this commission, and I must make sure that I cover all possibilities.” He got up and moved across to the coffee-machine. “What would you like?”

  Bruno let out a sigh. “I’d like a cappuccino but my wife has insisted that I lose some weight,” he said, rubbing his hand across his ample girth. “Instead, I’ll have an americano.” As an afterthought he added, “And sugar is not allowed, either.”

  Turning away to hide the smirk on his face, Jacques busied himself with the drinks and returned to his desk.

  Bruno picked up the teaspoon, hesitated and replaced it in the saucer. “So, are you going to tell me more about your interest in this case?”

  “I’m just making enquiries for a client, Bruno.” He flipped his notebook shut. “But, if you are certain of the identity of the body that was found, then I don’t think there is much more that I can do.” He sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. “I don’t suppose there was any hint of—”

  “Murder or man-slaughter?” Bruno cut him off. “Is that your angle?”

  Jacques shook his head. “Not really. It’s just that I can’t help wondering if there was something going on behind the scenes. I know that Luc Nowak was convicted for the torching of the restaurant. I also know that he can be, and has been, hired for setting fire to other business properties in the area. If you remember, he was also found guilty and sent down for the damage done at another location in Mende a few months later that year.” Jacques took a gulp of coffee and returned his cup to the saucer with a clatter.

  “Yes, I see where you are going with this. Collusion between Nowak and the owner was not proven, Jacques. We could find no evidence to link the two.”

  Jacques noticed that his visitor was cleaning his spectacles again. “No evidence,” he repeated. “But, perhaps you sensed there was something at the time, maybe?”

  Bruno let out a short, muffled laugh. “Ah… You know me too well! But you’re right. I did suspect there might have been some collusion, but I could not substantiate it. At the time of the investigation, I thought that Vauclain knew more than he was telling us. But there was no evidence.” The magistrate threw his hands up in the air. “What can I do when there’s no evidence? Nothing! I was wrong.”

  Jacques saw how weary and defeated his previous colleague looked. The colour of his eyes had paled, and a dark frown furrowed his forehead. “We all get it wrong sometimes, Bruno.”

  “I know. Maybe it’s time for me to admit I’m not up to the job any longer. My wife would be very happy if I did.” He drained the dregs of his coffee and stood. “I have to go,” he said glancing at his watch. “If you need anything else, just call me.”

  The lunchtime business in the restaurant in the nearby village of Messandrierre had been brisk but the number of customers had dwindled to half a dozen or so as Jacques finished the final morsel of cheese and drained the last of the Merlot from his glass.

  “Coffee, Jacques?” Gaston collected the empty plate as he swept by the table.

  “And can we have that chat, too?”

  Gaston nodded his response, went straight to the bar and made two coffees. A few moments later he was seated opposite Jacques.

  “The restaurant in Montbel, Gaston. What can you tell me about it?”

  Gaston stroked his thumb and forefinger over his drooping moustache before answering.

  “Not that much,” he said. “Marianne dealt with Vauclain, that was the owner, and she spent a lot of time talking to the chef when he first came. She wanted to make sure that the impact on our business of that place opening was kept to the minimum.”

  “And did their opening affect your income?”

  “At first, a little. But that was novelty value, I suppose. People trying the place just because it was somewhere new.”

  “When was that?”

  Gaston thought for a moment. “The new Salle des Fêtes here in the village was finished in 2002, and I think the restaurant in Montbel opened the following April.”

  Jacques made a note. “So, the place was only open for six years, then?”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  Jacques waited as Gaston savoured his coffee and then cradled the cup in his hands.

  “That first summer, in 2003, they were open six days a week – like us – and they did very well, according to village gossip. Vauclain decided he would extend his opening period into the autumn. He wanted to take advantage of all the hunting parties that we get, and to try and build up a regular clientele.”

  Jacques looked up from his notebook. “That’s your source of business in the autumn, Gaston. How did that go down with you and Marianne?”

  Gaston shrugged. “Business is business, Jacques. The hunting parties book through us because they use the chalets or the campsite here in Messandrierre. In Montbel, there are only five gîtes scattered across the village for them to use. Here, we have everything in one location. In Montbel, they don’t. As a business plan, his idea was not very carefully thought out. We continued to get our usual level of bookings, so we took most of the hunting parties’ business, and he closed the restaurant…” Gaston thought for a moment. “…in November, I think. Towards the end of November.” He nodded as if to assure himself that he was correct.

  “Then what?”

  “The following year he restricted his business opening from April to the end of October, and he spent a lot of money getting some plans for an extension prepared. He thought that, if he could get a large function room, similar to our Salle des Fêtes, he
could encourage business people to use the space during the week, and at weekends it could be used for celebrations and weddings. That sort of thing. But…”

  “Turned down?” suggested Jacques.

  The last two diners shouted their goodbyes, and Gaston got up and went over to them. Jacques took a mouthful of his lukewarm coffee and grimaced. He shoved the almost full cup and saucer away and began flicking back through his notes.

  “Jacques, bring the cups and we’ll talk at the bar.” Gaston locked the door behind his final customers. Back at the bar, he set about making some fresh coffee.

  “Vauclain’s plan… Thinking about the place in Montbel on the couple of occasions when I went there, I’m guessing his idea never came to fruition.”

  Gaston put a small black coffee on the bar for Jacques and poured himself one. “Depends on which one you mean, Jacques. He kept changing his plans. The function room was replaced with a plan to turn the place into a small boutique hotel. But that upset a lot of local people. We objected. The owners of the small hotels in Badaroux and Châteauneuf-de-Randon also objected.” Gaston sat on the stool behind the bar and ran his nicotine-stained fingers through his long greying hair. “In 2007, I think it was, he just seemed to withdraw. Or, he may have decided to just let the place run itself for a while. Anyway, he took less and less interest. His chef left without notice, and he closed right at the end of August that year. The next year was very good for us all. But Vauclain still wasn’t taking much interest. His new chef left at the end of the season and refused to come back the following year.”

  “So he missed an opportunity to sell the place then as a going concern.”