Chapter 17

Watkins looked up sharply. “You think that could be it? A hate crime? A vendetta?”

Evan shrugged. “We’ve no way of knowing at the moment, have we, but you have to admit it’s just as good a possibility as anything else. Her husband falls off his boat, her first restaurant burns down, and then her second restaurant burns down. Someone could be after her.”

Watkins shook his head. “If you’re right, you’d have thought she’d have got the hint by now and mentioned something of this to the police. She must at least suspect who’s behind it.”

“And may be too afraid to tell the truth. She was pretty upset the first night she came to me with a threatening letter.”

Watkins started to get up. “I’m going to call home and see if they’ve made any progress on the fingerprints on those notes. I bet they haven’t checked them against French lists. And I’d dearly like to know if this really was the beginning of the trail. What made her come to England in the first place? Had someone been threatening them back in France? Had they owned yet another restaurant which burned down over there?”

“Maybe we should just pop over and see for ourselves,” Evan suggested, half joking.

“Go to France? You’re not serious, are you?”

“I wasn’t, but it’s not so far-fetched. You can drive through the chunnel in half an hour these days.”

“Not that we’d have any idea where to begin in France.”

“We know she went to cooking school in Paris, and we know where Philippe du Bois is.”

“Hardly enough to warrant charging across the Channel.”

They broke off as the woman came back with two cups of tea and shortbread biscuits sitting in their saucers. “Here you go,” she said. “How have you been getting along?”

“We found the article we were looking for,” Evan said.

The woman peered at the screen. “Oh, that restaurant fire. I remember it. It was so sad—she’d lost her husband and then she nearly lost her own life. I remember because I’d just lost my husband around that time, so I felt for her.”

“This man drowned, did he?” Evan asked.

She nodded. “He was a very keen sailor, apparently. Anyway, he went out in bad weather and they never found him. Fishermen found a mast floating in the area where his boat had been, but they never discovered either the boat or his body. Of course, that’s not unusual around here. The tides can whisk a body through the Channel and dump it in France or out in the Atlantic.”

“So the husband was never found.” Watkins stared at the screen. “It gets more complicated by the minute, doesn’t it?” He looked up at the woman. “Do you happen to remember when this accident happened?”

She chewed on her lip. “Not off the top of my head. I know it was at least a couple of years before the restaurant burned down and I know it was late in the year to be sailing—around this time of year, maybe.”

“It said in the article that her husband died three years previously,” Evan pointed out. “Go back and try September three years earlier.”

“Go back and . . . who do you think I am, Bill bloody Gates?”

The woman chuckled. “It’s not hard, really it’s not. Here, move over. I’m not supposed to do this for visitors but J’ve got a few minutes to spare. Watch. You just go back a screen, select the year here, and there you are. A five-year-old could do it.”

“A five-year-old does do it,” Watkins said bitterly. “That’s just the problem.”

The woman slid out of the seat and Evan took her place. “Of course, there might not have been a whole article on an accidental drowning. It could just have been an obituary.”

They worked their way through several issues and then finally there it was. “Jean-Jacques Bouchard, Restaurateur.” It was only a a few lines in the obituary column, with a photo above it. Evan stared hard at it.

“I wish the photo was better,” he said.

“Why—do you think you know him?”

Evan took a deep breath. “He looks like a younger version of the man who came into the restaurant that evening.”

“Are you sure?” Watkins peered at the grainy snapshot. The man was squinting into bright sunshine and his curly hair was windswept. He looked like a sailor.

“I wouldn’t swear to it and the photograph’s not very good, but it looks like him, right enough.”

“Well, I’ll be . . .” Watkins began. He looked up at the woman. “Is there a way of printing this out?”

“You just click on Print.” She started to explain, then thought better and did it for them. A sheet of paper emerged from a printer in the corner. Evan took it. “This is wonderful. Thank you. You’ve been a big help.”

She gave him a very nonmotherly smile.

“Finally we’re getting somewhere,” Watkins said as they left the newspaper offices.

“Yes, but where?” Evan asked. “Frankly I’m more confused than when we started.”

“How about this—what if her husband didn’t really die in the boating accident?”

“You mean he faked his death?”

“People do, don’t they? Maybe he just wanted to get away from her and start a new life.”

“Or maybe someone really was after him, so he decided to vanish conveniently,” Evan suggested.

“But then, according to you, he shows up at the restaurant again. She wasn’t pleased to see him and she stabbed him.”

“There’s only one thing against that. I saw him come in. I’d swear she didn’t recognize him.”

“She might be a good actress.”

“Not that good.” Evan shook his head. “That had to be an Oscar-winning performance. She was at our table at the time. There was no feeling of tension, no flicker of reaction. If you were Yvette and your husband who had been missing for five years, showed up, you’d react, wouldn’t you?”

“Unless this was something they had planned between them. She might have been in contact with him, so she was expecting him that evening.” Watkins put the key in the car door. “Five years. That’s significant, don’t you think?”

“You mean he can now be declared legally dead?”

“Exactly. So if there’s a large insurance policy to collect on, this would be a good time to reappear.”

“But then why would she stab him?”

“Because she wanted the insurance money for herself.” Watkins slapped his hand against the car door as he opened it. “It’s all fitting together nicely now. All we need to do is get some proof that our body is really her missing husband—dental records would do nicely—and I think we’ve got ourselves a case.” They got into the car and Watkins started the engine. “I think this deserves a celebration, don’t you? That pub we ate at last night wasn’t bad. Let’s go and see if they do a good lunch.”

Half an hour later they were sitting over plowman’s platters, with crusty rolls, four kinds of cheese, and pickled onions, as well as pints of Whitbread Pale Ale.

“Ah, that’s better.” Watkins put down his glass. “I’m beginning to feel human again. I think I could even face talking to the D.I. Now what did we need to ask him?”

He got out a notebook.

“About the insurance policies, for one thing.”

Watkins nodded and scribbled. “And the fingerprints.”

“And if there’s been any news from France yet—about Philippe du Bois and who might have decided to apply for a passport in his name.”

“Right.” Watkins got up. “I think the D.I. will have to be impressed with the amount we’ve ferreted out in one morning, don’t you? Maybe it will prompt him to have another chat with Madame and see if she’s more forthcoming.”

“As long as he doesn’t scare her off with his usual heavy-handedness.”

He went to the phone on the pub wall. Evan finished his roll and double Gloucester and washed them down with the last of his pint.

Watkins was on the phone for a long while. Evan noticed him smiling and glancing in his direction. He was still smiling when he came back.

“That was young Glynis,” he said. “She sends her regards, by the way. I’ve asked her to send the fingerprints from the two threatening notes to the Sûreté in France to see if they can find a match. There’s nothing from the mental hospital yet. The D.I. is out working on Operation Armada—bloody silly name if you ask me. Still he always did fancy himself as Lord Nelson. . . .”

“The Armada was Drake,” Evan pointed out.

Watkins grinned again. “Bloody know-it-all. Anyway, I spoke to Constable Perkins. I gather they’ve removed various kitchen implements from the scene of the fire and they’re trying to determine the murder weapon and come up with prints. I asked him to check on the insurance policies and see who benefits.”

“So they’re no further along, really,” Evan said. “They haven’t identified the body or found the murder weapon.”

“I wouldn’t mind betting my paycheck that the body is her vanished husband,” Watkins said.

“And you think she killed him?”

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? She thought she’d got rid of him five years earlier and was annoyed to find him turning up again, still alive.”

A memory was beginning to stir in Evan’s mind. He had been so preoccupied with making a graceful escape from her sofa that he’d forgotten until now. “She did say that he was a bastard and a monster and it was her happiest day when she escaped from him.”

“Well, there you are, then. Perfect motive. We’ll get this case sewn up in no time at all. Now all we need is positive identification of the body.”

“Got any thoughts on how we’re going to do that?” Evan asked.

“A wedding photo of the happy couple? That might shake her composure, wouldn’t you say?”

“So we prove she was married to him. That doesn’t prove that she killed him. And if they really were on the run and hiding from someone, maybe this proves they were found.”

Watkins nodded. “Okay, so what do you think we should do?”

Evan stared out of the pub’s bay window to the seafront beyond. The wind had sprung up, making flags stand out stiffly and awnings flap wildly. “I think we have to find out more about their life in France. We need to know what happened to them and why they came to England.”

“And how do you propose doing that?”

Evan pointed to the copy of the obituary. “This mentions the town where he was born and we know she went to the Cordon Bleu school in Paris. Two known facts. We can work from there.”

“Go to France, you mean?” Watkins laughed.

“Why not? I told you it’s only half an hour through the chunnel these days. We could go over there for the day.”

Watkins grinned uneasily. “I’m not too hot at driving on the proper side of the road. And I don’t speak Froggy.”

“We’ll manage,” Evan said. “I don’t mind driving. I think we should do this if we want to solve this case, Sarge. We’re not going to get too much help in a hurry from the French police—that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it? Let’s find a map of France and see where his birthplace is.”

There was a W. H. Smith’s on the corner and they found a map of France. “Port St. Valéry—how do you spell it?” Watkins asked, looking at the index.

“Here it is on the coast, not far from Calais.” Evan pointed at the entry. “The sort of place where you’d expect a man to be interested in boats.”

He studied the map, his finger on St. Valéry, tracing the line from the Channel crossing. Then he tapped the page excitedly. “And look here, Sarge. It’s only a few miles from Abbeville, where Philippe du Bois is in the mental hospital. Another coincidence, do you think?”

Watkins grabbed the book. “All right. Let’s buy the map. But we can’t just go jaunting off to France without permission, you know. They weren’t even too keen about letting us come to Eastbourne. And D.I. Hughes is out playing at drug wars.”

“So call the old man.”

“Call the D.C.I.?” Watkins’s eyebrow twitched. “Oh, I don’t know about that, boyo. He’d say I was overstepping the bounds of my authority and getting too big for my boots.”

“It’s only a day trip we’re talking about—it’s not as if we’re going on our holidays at their expense!” Evan paused. Watkins stood clutching the Michelin guide, still undecided.

“Tell him we’re in the middle of a murder investigation and if we wait for the French authorities to come through, it might be too late. It’s possible that Madame Yvette’s life is still in danger, you know.”

“You could be right there,” Watkins agreed. “I’ll ask the D.C.I. to put surveillance on her. That would be a good way to start the conversation, wouldn’t it? Make him realize this is important.” Evan nodded. Watkins swallowed hard. “All right. I’ll call him.”

They paid for the map and then found the nearest phone booth. Evan waited outside on the busy pavement. He saw Watkins’s face twitch as he started speaking. Evan heard him say, “I’m only talking about going over there for a day trip, sir, not for my summer holidays.” Then, “No sir. I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was just pointing out that it’s only half an hour through the chunnel.”

Finally he hung up and came out of the booth.

“Well?” Evan asked. “Did he chew you out?”

A smile spread across Watkins’s face. “He said go ahead, but if he gets expenses for Paris hotels and the Folies Bergères, he’s going to veto them.”

“It doesn’t make sense to go until the morning,” Watkins said. “By the time we got over there everything would be closed. And we’ve already paid for our hotel here. I bet that old dragon wouldn’t refund us our money.”

“So what shall we do for the rest of the afternoon?” Evan asked. “We could always go and talk to the ex-neighbors in the village. One of them might have been friendly with her or might have seen something useful.”

“It’s worth a try,” Watkins said. “It’s either that or an hour’s kip in a deck chair—and the wind’s a little cold for that.”

They drove back along the windy Downs road to the village of Alfriston. A coach was parked outside the Packhorse pub and tourists were cluttering the high street, taking pictures and looking into antique shop windows.

They went into the pub first and chatted to the landlord. Yes, he remembered the restaurant. It hadn’t done too well, although people said the cooking was very good. Still, most folks didn’t go in for fancy French muck, did they? he asked genially. And most trippers came out for an afternoon drive, had a cup of tea and went home.

“Tell me about the couple who owned it—the Bouchards,” Watkins asked. “Did you know them?”

“I said good morning when we passed in the street,” the publican said, “but I can’t say that I knew them. They kept themselves pretty much to themselves. Always together, they were. And after he died, you hardly ever saw her. Of course, she was trying to run that place alone. I don’t know how she did it. I’m run off my feet here and I’ve got the two girls to help me.”

“But what did you think of them?” Evan interrupted.

The man shrugged. “I don’t know what to say to that. They didn’t cause no trouble, if that’s what you’re getting at. Quiet. Good-looking couple, in a foreign kind of way. She was more friendly than him. He was a bit on the surly side, but maybe his English wasn’t as good as hers. I know he did all the heavy work and she did all the cooking. She told me that. She said she was a trained chef—very proud of it, she was.”

“Did she have any friends here in the village?” Evan asked.

“I think she was quite chummy with Brenda in the greengrocers. She used to buy a lot of her fresh produce from them.”

“The greengrocers?”

“Just down the street. You can’t miss it. There’s five shops and that’s one of them. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got customers waiting.”

He turned away, wiping his hands on his apron as he went. “Now then, ladies, what will it be?”

Watkins and Evan walked around the trippers and continued along the high street until they came to the greengrocers. A large-boned woman was carrying out a box of cabbages as they approached. She put it down and smiled as she saw them standing there.

“What can I get for you gentlemen?” Her voice had a pleasant country softness, and her face had the rosy cheeks of a life spent in the open air. It was hard to judge her age, but Evan thought she was possibly younger than she looked. This was borne out by a toddler on a trike appearing from inside the shop.

“Get that thing back inside, Jimmy. Not near the street. I’ve told you a thousand times,” she said and gave him a little shove to redirect him. “Sorry. He’s at that age,” she said. “A right terror like his big brother was.”

“Are you Brenda? We’re from the North Wales Police,” Sergeant Watkins said. “We understand that you used to know the French couple who owned the restaurant that burned down.”

“The police?” A wary look came over her face.

“We’re investigating another restaurant fire and we think they might be linked,” Evan explained.

She nodded. “What a terrible thing to happen. I looked out of my window and I saw those flames. There was nothing anyone could do. It went up like a torch—well, it would do with the thatched roof, wouldn’t it? Regular firetraps, those old buildings are. I’m only glad they got her out alive, although I hear she was badly burned. I often wandered how she was doing.”

“She’s fine,” Evan said. “She moved to North Wales and opened another restaurant.”

“Did she? Fancy that. North Wales, eh?”

“Did you know her well?” Watkins asked.

“I wouldn’t say well. We didn’t go out together socially or anything—not that either of us had time for socializing, especially after her husband died. She was running herself ragged trying to keep that place going. Hire someone to help you, I told her, but she said she couldn’t afford it at the moment.”

“Did she ever talk to you about her husband’s death? Did she seem very upset by it?”

“Oh yes. Very upset—well, you’d expect it, wouldn’t you? She thought the world of him. She said she didn’t see how she was going to manage without him. And it was worrying for her, too, not knowing. They never found the body, see.”

“Did she ever seem afraid to you? Did she ever hint that her husband’s death might not have been an accident?” Evan asked.

Brenda looked shocked. “Oh no. Nothing like that. She was surprised, I think, because he was such a good sailor. She said it wasn’t like Jean to go taking risks. He knew the sea too well. His family had been fishermen, so I understand. He used to go to Hastings and buy fresh fish from the boats for their restaurant. I never ate there personally. I wanted to go but my hubby flat refused. He’s very finicky about his food.”

“So you don’t know if she’d had any threatening letters? You never saw any strange visitors?”

Brenda shook her head. “I don’t know anything about that. But like I said, we didn’t know each other well—not well enough to tell me that kind of personal thing. Are you saying that someone burned down that restaurant on purpose?”

“It’s possible,” Evan said. “We’re trying to find out if anyone might have had a grudge against her. Did she ever talk to you about her life in France before she came here?”

“She told me about the cooking school,” the woman said. “And about meeting her husband in Paris.”

“Did she come from Paris?” Watkins asked.

A puzzled look crossed her face. “She wasn’t really French, was she? I always thought she was English.”