Hanging Around In The Pyrenees

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Book excerpt

Chapter One

I am sitting at the table and the sun is streaming in through the open door.  Even though it’s near the end of October, the light is bright and sharp.  There is no chill in the air, the temperature is still over twenty degrees, but my garden shows signs of autumn.  Ollee, my dog, lies at my feet, his head resting on his paws.  He’s not asleep, his eyes are open, and his bat-like ears are twitching.  He sighs as he watches me put the last bite of my croissant into my mouth.  The open pot of blackberry jelly seems to be winking at me, tempting me to eat more of the delicious preserve and, as I reach for some warm baguette, Ollee sits up and licks his lips expectantly, his eyes never leaving mine.

“That dog has had quite enough to eat this morning,” my friend Patricia says.  She shakes her finger at Ollee who lies back down.  “He stole some cheese out of the shopping bag.  I left the packet on the floor while I unpacked the rest of the groceries.  Little thief,” she admonishes.

Ollee has the good sense to look guilty.  He sighs once more before standing and slinking off into the garden.

“I’m so relieved that my fruit and nuts have now been harvested and dealt with,” Patricia says.  “Your Papa was wonderful.  I’d never have coped without him.  My orchard has produced so much this year, it’s amazing.  Now that the nuts and apples are stored, I’m free to get on with my paintings for the Christmas sales.”

Patricia’s face is bright and happy.  For those of you who haven’t met us before, we are best friends, like sisters, in fact.  We live in our lovely house in the foothills of the eastern Pyrenees with Ollee our dog and Mimi our cat.  We also have several hens and some rabbits, but their numbers change from time to time depending on what is being cooked for dinner.  I am the most senior police person in the area having risen from near obscurity in a very short time, helped by the deaths of some very unsavoury characters.  Solving major crimes propelled me forward to the highly esteemed position I now enjoy.  Patricia and I are well respected in town and many important people want to socialise with us, although some wagging tongues still try to imply we are more than just friends.  They cannot accept us living together because Patricia is a lesbian who doesn’t hide her inclinations.  I love Patricia and I would do anything for her, and she loves me, but we are not lovers.  We are in our late thirties and she too has come from nothing, but she now has her own business producing pies and preserves.  The demand for her produce far outstrips the amount she can supply so next year we are going to look for a local, professional kitchen to rent and an employee or two to work for her.  Patricia is very talented and is also well known as an artist.  I am so proud of her achievements.

“Danielle, Danielle, you’re daydreaming.  I asked you what you’d like to do today.”  Patricia’s words cut through my thoughts.

“I’d prefer not to be in town on my day off, but apart from that, anything you like.”

Her blue eyes sparkle.  “You’ll think I’m mad after the amount of work I’ve done gathering in my crop, but I’d like to go into the mountains to find chestnuts.  I’ve been given this great recipe for making something the English call stuffing.  It’s made from apricots and chestnuts and you can freeze it.  Chestnuts don’t keep the way other nuts do.  So, they can’t be stored, but they can be cooked and frozen.”

“You’re right.  I do think you’re mad to give yourself more work.  But it’s a glorious day and there’ll be no problem finding them; besides I’ll get to eat the produce, so I won’t complain.  Ollee will enjoy the outing.  You fetch some baskets and I’ll get the car ready.”

Within a few minutes we are on our way heading for the nearby town of Ceret.  I pick my way up the narrow winding road behind the town.  On one side, great, jagged rocks poke out from the mountainside, and on the other the land falls steeply away.  The drop seems bottomless.  For some reason the occasional cars coming down the mountain towards us are travelling very fast.  I am forced to stop as we attempt to manoeuvre around one another, without one car being scraped on the rocks or the other plummeting down the mountainside.

“I don’t understand why these stupid people are going so fast,” Patricia says nervously.  She is gripping the edges of her seat.  “Are they trying to cause an accident?”

“Don’t worry.  A couple of more minutes and we’ll be stopping.  I know a good place where we can pull off the road,” I reply, trying to reassure her.

When I do pull in, she releases her bated breath and I too am relieved.  I’d forgotten how horrible the drive was, although the scenery is breath taking.  We are over five hundred metres up and the view is spectacular.  The mountain seems to flatten out at this point and fields of trees stretch out on both sides of the road.  Most are fenced with electric fencing to protect the crops from wild boar and the occasional human raider, but chestnut trees are everywhere, and the nuts and prickly shells cover the road and verges.

“This is perfect,” Patricia says delightedly.

As she opens the car door, Ollee jumps from the back seat to the front, and using Patricia as a spring board, pushes past her and leaps out.  At least the exuberant dog understands about roads I think, and I’m pleased to see that as he runs off, he avoids stepping on the tarmac.

We are like children again as we pick up the rich, brown nuts, and even though they will all taste the same when cooked, the delight of finding larger specimens thrills us.  A myriad of butterflies, in every colour, flutter round us, and every so often we hear the sound of rustling as nuts fall from the trees and the crack as they hit the ground.  The noise startles Ollee and he barks and jumps around, looking first skywards and then at the ground.  His confusion is hilarious, and we laugh every time he does this.

“What is it, Ollee?  Is it a rabbit?” Patricia says, as another nut hits the ground.  “There it is,” she says pointing, and the dog takes off barking, looking for the creature he assumes made the sound.

“At the rate the nuts are falling, it should keep him amused for ages,” I say.  “How many kilos do you want?”

“I can use whatever we gather because once they’re cooked and out of the shell they won’t take up too much room in the freezer.  But there’ll be plenty available as they’re still falling, so don’t knock yourself out.  It’s surprisingly hot today for working.”

We continue collecting for a while longer, then I take two folding chairs from the car and we sit in the sun and relax, inhaling the perfumed air and listening to Ollee’s intermittent barking.

“This is idyllic,” Patricia says.  “How lucky we are to live in this region.”

“We are very lucky,” I agree.

Our rest is disturbed by Ollee’s barking when we realise it has become persistent.

“What’s the matter with that dog now?” Patricia asks.

“I hope he hasn’t cornered a wild boar.  There are lots of them here in the mountains.  We’d better check.”

I look around and pick up a sturdy stick for protection, just in case, and we follow the sound of his barking.  We cut through some trees and see Ollee jumping around near a clearing.  He is looking skyward and barking excitedly.

“Not a boar, thank goodness,” Patricia says. “More likely a bird or a squirrel.”

Our attention is on the dog, and at first, we see nothing else.  We continue to walk forward for a better look.  A breeze blows and there is a loud creaking sound.  We both look up.  Patricia’s hand shoots to her mouth. “Oh, mon Dieu,” she whispers.

We are startled.  There is a body hanging from the tree.  It’s a man.  A stout rope is tightly wound around his neck and he’s dressed smartly in a white shirt and beige trousers.  His brown shoes are highly polished.  His clothes are more suited to an office than this rural spot and he looks out of place in this setting.

“Suicide,” I mutter.  “I’d better phone for help.”

“How did he get up there?” Patricia asks.

I look around. “There, in the long grass,” I say pointing.  “There’s a ladder.  He must have climbed up the tree then kicked it away.”

“His hands are purple where the blood has gathered, but he doesn’t seem to have been here long.  The vultures haven’t pecked out his eyes yet,” Patricia says matter-of-factly.

She is rather an expert on corpses as she worked for many years in the local funeral parlour.  The man’s eyes are staring blankly; his face is contorted, and his head is at an angle with his neck clearly broken.  It’s difficult to determine his age, but not young.  His body is fat and his hair, such as there is of it, is grey.  The man’s trousers are discoloured from the bodily fluids which he evacuated during death.  The faecal smell cuts through the gentle aniseed perfume of the surrounding wild fennel.

“What a lonely way to end your life, but at least the setting is beautiful,” I observe.

“I shouldn’t have said the day was idyllic,” Patricia replies.  “I should have known it was tempting fate.”