MYSTERY: Pascal Tourret Private Detective (Mystery, Suspense, Crime, Murder, Detectives, Fiction, Unsolved Mysteries, Mysteries, Thriller, Intense, Drama) Read online

  “They do that in farming, but in this business, it’s not a common practice.”

  Each producer was equally proud of what they had on offer. Bottles were shipped to different areas of France and most of the bottling took place at the winery. However, there were several whose bottling plant was distant from the winery itself and these would most certainly have use of transport suited to wine. The stumbling block was that these had seemed to be people that had no axe to grind with Hector. When he checked the list of names with Hector, he had immediately ruled them out. These were people who would help each other in times when staff were short and even though the Beaujolais Nouveau race was on, these wine producers were beyond reproach.

  It was as if Pascal was going in circles. He had to admit that he was pretty stumped about where to look next, until later that night. The hotel patron called to him as he entered the hotel.

  “Someone has just left this for you,” he said, handing him an envelope. Pascal opened the envelope.

  “Keep your nose out of local affairs. It’s not your place to be snooping” it said.

  “Thank you” he said to the hotel patron, making his way quickly up the stairs to see if he could see from his bedroom window who had just left the hotel. This was better than asking the locals or drawing attention to it within the hotel. As he looked from behind the curtains, he could see a white vehicle pulling away with the name “Picoulet” written on the side. He strained to see more, though could only see the words “Vin du Pays” but that was enough to give him information. It was the only car there at the time so there was little room for doubt.

  So what was the link between the local “Vin du Pays” delivery and the theft of wine? There had to be a link and Pascal was determined to find it. There was, after all, already the loose link of wine production.

  It was quite a cold evening. Some October/November periods were warmer than this. Pascal huddled up in his bed reading over the notes that he had taken. There were only two chateaux that had a vehicle large enough to have stolen the wine, but these had turned out to be people who Hector and Agnes trusted. Now, with the note that had been left, he knew there was something going on, but was not sure what.

  That first warning from an outside source told him that at least Hector and Agnes were not playing him for a fool. That was a good sign that they were being honest with him. He checked out Picoulet’s address on his iPad and made a scribbled note of it.

  “How’s it going?” she asked, her voice like ripples of chocolate melting on the tongue.

  It was coincidental that she had telephoned him while he was beneath the sheets and there was a certain irony about her timing.

  “I’m getting clues and that’s always a good sign,” he said. “Don’t worry Agnes, I will find out who has the wine soon. It’s only a matter of time.”

  As he went to sleep that night, pictures of Agnes filled his mind. They always gave him such sound sleep and such great dreams. It wasn’t the Agnes he had left at the Chateau Trepagnier, but the Agnes he had known in his youth. She was vibrant, dressed in a white summer dress that swayed with the breeze. He had kissed her on the lips, though in his dreams the kiss turned from a childhood peck to a fully blown kiss of passion. She was his fantasy again. Her voice on the telephone had not changed much since those days and he didn’t want to think of who she was now. It was the younger version of Agnes that captured his soul as he lay in bed alone and she was still in his mind when he woke.

  When daylight filled the room, the next morning, a certain amount of trepidation filled Pascal’s mind but he wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was guilt about his night time thoughts. Jacqueline deserved better than that. Perhaps it was something about this case. All he knew was that the uneasiness that he felt inside was an uncanny kind of feeling that he could make no sense of.

  Chapter 6– Death at the Chateau

  Hector was putting food out for the dogs, when he heard a noise. The dogs were his and he always made a point of taking a little air at this time of night. It was warm enough even though Agnes had complained about the cold. He was never someone that suffered from feeling the cold. The dogs were always welcoming. Being chained up in the yard wasn’t what he wanted for them, though he had no choice at this time of year. They acted as guard dogs though, in effect, there was little left to guard. Of course, the vats for the mature wines were still filled and needed his attention, though it broke his heart that the Beaujolais nouveau vats were empty. He patted the dogs and placed their water bowls and food in front of them. It was then that the line of his thoughts was interrupted.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. There was no reply.

  He had definitely heard something in the bushes behind the building and walked toward it. It may have been a bird or a wild animal, though Hector was more nervous since the wine had been stolen. He picked up a stick and felt his way forward into the bushes, almost like a blind man would have.

  “Who’s there?” he asked again, moving forward slightly.

  Dusk was falling. It was that time of night when shadows start to creep and perhaps if he found he was chasing shadows, he would feel a little foolish, but he was determined to find out the source of the intruding sounds that he had heard. Stepping into the brushwood to the back of the building, he heard it again. This time, the snap of a twig was quite near.

  Then there was a thump.

  Moving slowly forward, Hector could hear his own heartbeat. He was frail these days. His health was failing and he knew it, but stress seemed to make matters worse. He paused at the corner of the building, just for one moment to catch his breath. The rope placed around his neck was sudden and while he fought to try and loosen the tightening of the rope, it cut through his fingers. He felt his body tumble backwards and glanced upward in an attempt to see who was trying to kill him, though by the time he had lifted his head fully, he had lost consciousness.

  Dragging the body across to the grave which had already been dug, the intruder threw what was left of Hector into the pit. He had never killed before. He had never even thought of killing. Bitter regret only stayed in his mind for a moment. He had no choice. He had to do this. It was the only way that he could move forward. Wasn’t that what was decided? The leaves had fallen from most of the trees and covering up his deed with loose earth and leaves was fairly simple. He had to be careful to leave no trace, to leave no scent. The dogs at the front of the building had started to yap and he wanted to get out of this area before they started to bark. The food that Hector had fed them had kept them busy while their master struggled against the rope that was to stop the air passing into Hector’s windpipe.

  Hector was heavier than he had imagined. How easily life slipped away as if it never existed. The thoughts that went through his mind as he kicked the leaves over the body were thoughts which were abstract. He didn’t feel a sense of wrongdoing. He didn’t feel that his action was criminal. He just saw it as necessary. You put the garbage out. No one likes doing it but it’s done anyway. You clean out a toilet. Good grief, who would enjoy doing that, but it’s done. Hector’s disposal was simply a question of necessity.

  One thing that he had to be sure of was that there was relatively little trace. The rope, for example, once it had served its purpose, could be traced to the hunting shop and that wasn’t the best of ideas. He hid this within the depths of his jacket after placing it in a plastic bag. This would burn, just like all sinners burn in hell. His mother had told him that if he was wicked, he would go to the fires of hell. Now, as he stood there, he thought about her. She had been a difficult woman to please but she meant well. It’s strange the abstract thoughts that go through your mind after you kill. He thought of his childhood and swinging in the park with his brother. These visions that flashed through his mind were actually very powerful, he thought, because they camouflaged the sin that he had just committed. Do people who eat pigs go to hell for killing them? He laughed to himself as he made his way across the field at the back of the barn t
oward the road.

  In this weather, the ground was hard and would leave no trace. He didn’t care that the car had left tire marks because he had been there just a week beforehand and no one would think anything of it. This was the season of the hunt after all, and the field he had just walked was already filled with the odors of huntsmen. He picked up his cell and dialed. “It’s done.” Was all that he said, though that was enough and was all that he needed to say.

  Chapter 7 – Gerard

  Gerard Dupont looked across the hills that could be seen from his house. These were familiar hills that he had known all his life. Living alone in this small cottage caused him no hardship. He had friends in the village and had never really crossed anyone. When the telephone rang, he answered it as he always did, wondering if perhaps someone needed his help. Working for the village council, his job was to help out around the village when something went wrong. This could be anything from cleaning out a chimney after a fire to helping an elderly villager sweep up the debris of nature in autumn.

  “Hi” said that all too familiar voice. He regretted to a certain extent having made this acquaintance. “You need to lie low,” said the voice. He knew the score. He had been told what to do and he had done it. In retrospect, he regretted that tipping away a whole year of Hector’s life had caused Hector to have been so worried, so pained in his expression. It filled him with a kind of guilt inside that he hadn’t been stronger, that the instructions had left no margin of negotiation, but he figured that they came from someone who knew what they were doing.

  Now there was only a short time before the presentation of the Beaujolais Nouveau and Hector would fail. That was always the intention of the instructions that he was given, though he couldn’t really fathom why nor did he care. When you work for “cheque emploi” you don’t ask questions. You merely take your money and run. That’s how he made his living. In fact, this particular job was cash in hand which had come at a time when he needed it. The car was in need of a new timing belt and without that car, there would have been no work. By providence, the phone-call had helped him to keep his car on the road. He didn’t owe Hector anything. Working at the chateau, he had been promised a good pension and a lump sum payment, though that had never materialized because his health problems started too early. Instead, he got a handshake and dismissal as if his life’s work had no value.

  At sixty three years old, Gerard felt that his life was slipping away. Having been employed in the vineyards most of his life, it hurt him how illness took away his right to work there. He wasn’t strong enough. He wasn’t able to pick the grapes like the younger kids did and even though his expertise meant picking all the right grapes to make the wine sweeter, he couldn’t do it anymore. He could drive and had driven the wagons that take away the waste from the farms when needed. Now, everything was controlled. He had to take it to purification stations, but with the farming in decline, there was little call for this kind of work anymore.

  The local mayor recognized that Gerard had talents and that people were looking for those talents. Planting the flowers in the boxes that were displayed throughout the village took time and devotion. Watering them all through the summer took a lot of work and in the winter, when work was rarer, Gerard simply did what people bid without much question at all. He owned six acres of land which was barren these days. In the past, his parents had used this land to produce vegetables. They hadn’t called them “bio” in those days. They were simply tended by loving hands that wanted to produce the best in the area. Local people came to buy the vegetables and when his parents died, Gerard was too weak to carry on the trade that they had started so many years ago.

  Looking across his fields, he could notice the tinge of red, although he wasn’t sure if this was a trick of the light, or the sunlight simply dancing upon the earth as it sometimes did. The phone call had been clear, concise and he knew what it meant. Laying low meant keeping quiet. Laying low meant not letting the secret out. Laying low meant keeping himself to himself.

  His once stocky build was now bent with age. His teeth were broken and he hadn’t wanted to waste what little money he had on dental fees. His face was lined with the passage of time. There had been no real relationship, not since the quiet flirting of his youth, though that also meant no complication, no real influence over how he lived his life. That suited Gerard.

  The small cottage had low ceilings and it was easy to keep it warm. He gathered the kindling and several logs for the evening and, as the sun went down on another day, he went into his cottage and rested. This small house was his haven and he could never think of leaving this village. It was his home and the Beaujolais that ran through his veins was his lifeblood. Pouring one glass of that fine nectar, he sat in front of the open fire and gazed into the flames which rose, consuming his chill and making him feel at peace with the world.

  Chapter 6 – The Discovery

  When the hotel phone rang, Pascal was shaving. He didn’t rush to answer it because he needed to wipe the foam from his face. When he did, the hotel receptionist explained that there was a call for him.

  “It’s George Moreau here” explained the man on the phone.

  “I’m sorry, do I know you?” asked Pascal.

  “No, it is I who should be sorry. You met me the other day at the gendarmerie. Inspector George Moreau.”

  “And what can I do for you today inspector?” asked Pascal.

  “I think you should know that Hector Trepagnier was found dead this morning. Now, we begin to take this case seriously. I think it’s time that we shared information.”

  It was incredible to Pascal that something like that would have happened. Now, he owed it to Agnes and to Hector to stick around and to find out who the hell was behind all of this.

  There was a lot of activity at the gendarmerie. It seemed that they had called in for help, unaccustomed to murder in this small rural area of France. George Moreau welcomed Pascal and showed him into an office where people were sitting around a table discussing the case. He was asked to supply what information he had. He produced the note that he had received at the hotel. He also mentioned that the note had been delivered by someone with the name of Picoulet and that he had seen the van drive away from the hotel. George Moreau looked a little amazed at this news.

  “Picoulet would have no reason to be involved in this. He has nothing to do with the Beaujolais Nouveau production. He’s small fry – not even covered by appellation controle” he said.

  “Maybe be has ambitions,” suggested Pascal though George laughed at the thought. There was a vast difference between the production of the local brew or wines that were used in restaurants for everyday all inclusive meals and that used in the top restaurants. “Believe me,” said George. “Picoulet wouldn’t have the first notion at producing more serious wine.”

  Pascal also shared the information he had and, even though Hector and Agnes had been adamant that the vineyards that had access to transport were owned by friends of the family, now wasn’t the time to withhold information. The meeting was short and Pascal left, feeling that he must comfort Agnes. There was an urgency to it, as the George Moreau had told him that she was in a terrible state.

  “What happened?” he asked, as if having only just received the news.

  “Hector went out to feed the dogs and he didn’t come back. I got one of the vineyard workers to look for him and he was found in the woods at the back of the barn.”

  Tears rolled down her face. She looked fragile and vulnerable, just as Pascal had remembered her from her youth. There was a certain fragility about her that made him want to embrace her, to hold her, to let her know the world was a safe place to be, though sensibility grasped hold of him. He reached out for her hands and held them as he looked into her face.

  “I will find out who is behind all this, Agnes,” he said.

  “It won’t bring Hector back,” she said and there was a bitterness that he had not noticed before. “The day after tomorrow, I will
be burying my husband,” she continued, “and the world goes on turning. I have call after call from hotels and restaurants, more concerned with the delivery of the wine than the fact that Hector has been murdered.”

  Chapter 7 – The Wine Business

  It was fairly obvious to Pascal that a competitor would be the only one to gain from Hector’s death. The murder proved to be a diversion at a time when he may have been able to recover the stock of wine in time for delivery. Now, all police attention and indeed his, would be concentrated on finding the murderer. He had never thought of the wine business as being such a brutal business. Of course, every French man knows that wine is a serious business, but serious enough to kill for?

  Agnes had been drinking. Even Pascal could sense this. She was a broken woman, seeking out the bottle to comfort her. Her glass was standing on the table where she had been sitting when he arrived.

  “You have to be careful with that,” he said. “You really need to keep your wits about you to get through this.” This time he moved forward and held her in an embrace which wouldn’t lead to fantasy, an embrace that tells a friend that she has someone she can rely upon. She sobbed into his shirt. He remembered when they had been kids together. Agnes had sobbed like this once before. He could recall the day vividly and it had been the cruelty of others that had caused her tears that time. Wearing dental braces wasn’t fun for a kid, though she grew from a straggly child into a very beautiful woman and it had been that woman that had lived in his fantasies for so many years.