Dead End In The Pyrenees

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

The blow to his head wasn’t hard enough to render Monsieur Dupont unconscious, but it stupefied him.  Blood poured profusely from a deep scalp wound, down into his left eye.  He flopped onto the recently washed tiles at the side of the Roman bath, then floundered at the edge, frantically trying to stop his body from slipping completely into the pool.  His upper torso overhung the edge, hands slapping at the water as he tried to right himself.  He was aware of the metal chair, attached to a hoist to enable the disabled to enter the water, beginning to descend.  As it lowered it trapped Monsieur Dupont, forcing his head and shoulders under the water.  He struggled, his toes drumming the moist tiles, arms flapping uselessly, but he was hopelessly stuck.  Soon he succumbed.  Brimstone-smelling steam rose from the surface of the spa pool and silence returned.

When Madame Georges arrived for work, she was surprised to hear a low whirring sound coming from the pool area.  She couldn’t think what it might be.  Surely the machinery and gadgets, designed to treat all manner of ailments, had been switched off at the close of business the night before?  The last treatments were usually completed by 7pm, at which point everyone went home, leaving Monsieur Dupont, the caretaker, to lock up.

Following the sound, Madame Georges entered the majestic Roman spa.  The double doors swung silently closed behind her as she made her way towards the pool.  She was aware of her feet, still encased in outdoor shoes, making a slapping sound on the tiled floor.  Madame Georges immediately noticed that the hoist chair was down and something was bundled up beneath it at the water’s edge, but as her spectacles were steamed-up from the damp atmosphere, she couldn’t tell what that something was until she was practically on top of it.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” she said aloud, on realising that what had appeared to be a bundle of rags, was in fact, a man.

A wave of shock passed through her body, and she took off her glasses with shaking hands, cleaned them on the hem of her blouse and stared again.  It was definitely a man.  His body was still and what seemed to be blood gathered in a puddle on the tiles beneath it.  Madame Georges could not immediately recognise the person, as the head and shoulders were under water.  All the staff at les thermes wore pink track-suits and trainers to work, and the guests were usually attired in white towelling, dressing gowns and blue rubber pool shoes.  This person was clothed in a dark-coloured suit and had formal shoes on his feet.

Regaining some of her composure, Madame Georges turned and ran back through the double swing doors towards the office.  She used her key to let herself in then immediately pressed the button to sound the alarm.  The alarm was a wartime relic, a former air-raid siren, still used to alert people to an emergency.  It wailed out over the valley and across the mountains twice.  People who would normally have gone back to sleep at the first blast were now fully awake.  The queue of chattering shoppers, waiting in line at the boulangerie to buy their baguettes fell silent, each person straining to listen for approaching emergency vehicles.  This double call was used only for the most serious of incidents.

Madame Georges sank into a chair, then she picked up the phone to dial the emergency number and report what she’d discovered.

“Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, a man is dead!  I’m sure he is dead.  There has been an accident, I think.  Assistance, s’il vous plait, please come at once, please help me, I am alone here,” she said, when the call was answered.  Madame Georges had seen death before many times.  The spa attracted the sick and the old searching for cures for various ailments, and many of them spent the last days of their lives there – but this was different.

Like a well-oiled machine, everything flowed into action.  Before very long the pompiers’ – who are both firemen and trained paramedics – arrived, along with an ambulance and a local practitioner named Doctor Poullet.  A crowd began to gather in the street outside.  But prior to this whole circus kicking off, I was the first on the scene, accompanied by one of my trainee officers.  We managed to calm down Madame Georges before securing the area and this is where my story begins…

Chapter Two

Many of you will have met me before and know that I am a senior police officer living and working in the French side of the Eastern Pyrenees; but for everyone else, allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Danielle and I am thirty-three years of age.  Solving several serious crimes in my region has propelled my career forward at a very fast pace – especially quick for a woman – to the esteemed position I now enjoy.  I oversee a large area, covering my small town and several nearby villages and farms.  I have people working under me and I answer directly to my superior, Detective Gerard, who is based in Perpignan.  My ambition is to have his job, but for the meantime, I have patience, I can wait.

I live with my best friend, Patricia, who is a lesbian.  But don’t make any incorrect assumptions please.  She is like a sister to me.  We do love each other, but there is no sexual side to our relationship.  We have been friends since elementary school, where we were both treated as outsiders and shunned – she for being a tomboy and me for being dressed oddly by my strange and venomous mother.

Patricia and I reside in a beautiful house with our dog Ollee, and a lazy cat called Mimi.  She treats us like hoteliers.  Our home is situated on the edge of a village across the river from the town.  It is near enough for me to walk to work, should I wish to do so, but far enough away from the gossipers and the prying eyes.

Patricia produces pies and preserves, which she sells commercially.  Her food is delicious and she has customers as far away as Paris.  As well as this, she is a talented artist with her work being displayed and sold in several galleries.  With Patricia’s business and my job, we live very well.  We are comfortable and have no money worries.  You will learn more about my life and my friends, but for the meantime, let me tell you what is happening in the here and now.

I consider Doctor Poullet, who has just arrived at the spa, to be my friend.  We have both attended the scenes of several crimes involving death and he has become the official medical examiner on call for the area.  He is a cantankerous old devil, and he used to scare me with his sharp tongue and sarcastic quips, but I am used to him now, and more importantly, he is used to me.

“Ah, Danielle, bonjour,” he says, unable to hide an annoyed scowl.  “What a time to be called to this God-forsaken place.  My wife had just put my coffee on the table.  This room is like a sauna.  Can nobody turn on some air conditioning?  How can I be expected to work in these conditions?”

“Good morning, Doctor.  I’m sorry, but this is a spa and spas are supposed to be warm and steamy.  Just think how good it will be for our skin,” I reply with a smirk.  The doctor is always moaning about something, but he makes me laugh and I can’t resist having a dig at him.

“Hmph,” is his response.  “Danielle, you are not funny.  My shirt is stuck to my skin with sweat and I’m not getting any younger.  What will you do if I have a stroke?  Who will give you a report then?”  His plump face is red and a river of perspiration is running down his forehead and dripping off his nose and chin.  He loosens his tie and pulls at his collar, undoing the top button.

I back off.  I forgot how irritated he gets early in the day.  Doctor Poullet does not do mornings.  With help from the pompiers, the chair is lifted and the body pulled onto the edge of the pool for the doctor to examine.

“He has been hit on the head, probably by the chair; there is a large gash, but I don’t think that is what killed him.  I think this man drowned.  It is Monsieur Dupont, by the way,” Poullet says.

“Dupont?  The caretaker?  Why is he dressed in a suit?  Why was he here after hours?”

I turn in the direction of the male voice and see that Monsieur Claude, the owner of the spa, has arrived.

“Will one of you help me up?” Doctor Poullet snaps, struggling to lift his rotund frame from his squatting position beside the body.  As my assistant endeavours to help him up, Poullet says, “If we knew all the answers, Claude, I could be enjoying my cup of coffee at home, Danielle could be taking a walk around town in the fresh air and Jean here,” he nods towards the senior pompier, “Could be sitting on his arse, waiting for some idiot to set fire to something.”

Claude visibly shrinks at the outburst, dropping his chin and staring at his feet.

“I’m sure this man drowned,” Poullet continues.  “It was probably an accident.”

“I’m sorry to disagree, Poullet,” Jean says, “but this equipment is unlikely to malfunction.  I can’t see how a person could accidentally hit their head on the chair, then switch on the mechanism to lower it.  He might have been murdered.  It needs investigating.”

Poullet and I exchange glances.  Monsieur Claude covers his face with his hands.

“Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” Claude says.  “This is the second unusual death in a week.  Madame Carruthers, the English lady, came for her treatment, tripped on the stairs while entering the building and hit her head.  She died immediately.  We’ve only just completed the paperwork for that incident, and now this.”

My old friend Jean turns to me. “You should inform your boss about this one, Danielle.  I cannot agree that his death was accidental.  I’m sorry, but the pompiers are responsible for checking that these machines are safe.  All the spa equipment was given a clean bill of health, less than a month ago.”

“It’s true, I have the certificate,” Claude adds.

“You people sort yourselves out,” Poullet says.  “I’m going home for my breakfast.  You’ll have my report on Monday, Danielle.  I’m taking the weekend off, for a change.”  And without as much as an au revoir, the good doctor heaves his sweating form towards the exit.  “Oh, and you can move the body now,” he adds, without turning his head.

Jean and I exchange the usual pleasantries, asking kindly about each other’s family and work as his men prepare the body for removal.

“I suppose you’ll have to interview rather a lot of people.  I apologise for causing you more work, but you do understand my position, don’t you, Danielle?”

“Of course, Jean; of course I understand – but I still believe this could simply have been a terrible accident.”

“Perhaps, perhaps,” he concedes.

“I’m not sure what to do next,” Monsieur Claude cuts in.  “We’ll have to empty the pool, there’s blood in it.” His mouth is puckered, as if there is a bad taste on his tongue.  “That would normally be Monsieur Dupont’s job.  I’ll have to call Albert in to do it now.  And I’ll have to cancel the ‘curists’, they’ll be arriving for their treatments at any moment and my staff are all waiting outside.”

“If I might suggest something,” I say.  “Why don’t you set up a small table and chair at the entrance, and if Madame Georges is up to the task, have her sit there with one of my officers and turn people away as they arrive.  She can note their names and explain what has happened.  My officer can advise them that they may not leave town until we have their statements.  The spa is due to close next week, for the winter break.  You can shut down early and sort out the cleaning then.”

Monsieur Claude purses his lips.  “Yes, thank you Danielle.  That makes a lot of sense.  Most people have already finished their treatments by now.  There are only a handful of them left completing their third week.  Surely, I won’t be expected to refund all their money when they’ve used our services and had most of the benefits by now?  Perhaps I’ll just return the fees for the final week or maybe I’ll tell them to make a claim on their insurance.  After all, why should I be out of pocket?  It’s bad enough that I’ll be paying the staff for taking time off.”

Jean and I exchange incredulous glances.  A man is lying dead and all Claude can think about is how much money he will lose.  He is one of the richest men in town, but one of the poorest when it comes to compassion, it seems.  He scuttles off to find Madame Georges.  Whatever her state of nerves, I’m sure she’ll be pressed into working today.

Finally, Dupont’s corpse is secured in a plastic body bag and loaded onto a trolley, then trundled through the door to the waiting ambulance.  One wheel of the trolley is slightly wonky and the whole contraption squeaks and squeals as it is pushed along.

“That could do with being replaced,” Jean says, nodding at the worn-out piece of equipment.  “It’s not very old, but obviously well-used.”

“I’m afraid many people die here,” I reply.

Jean gives a shudder, “Let’s get out of here,” he says.  “For some reason this place always gives me the creeps.”