The Case of the Missing Madonna Page 5

  Oscar had already visited the beach and now came running back to encourage Patrick to follow. And follow he did, having decided that a night swim might be in order. He stripped to his boxer shorts, told Oscar to wait, and waded into the water. When the water lapped at his thighs, he dived under, registering the ‘not yet summer’ temperature.

  He struck straight out until he passed the curve of rocks that sheltered the beach and kept the sand from departing, then turned to the right, intent on a steady crawl along the neighbouring beaches of the eastern seaboard for maybe fifteen minutes before turning back. Oscar would patiently wait there for him, but Patrick didn’t want the little dog to think he’d been deserted yet again.

  No yachts were anchored here, their owners preferring the shelter of Cannes harbour, or in the bay just outside for those craft too large to enter. Towards the end of June diving rafts would be towed out and secured at regular intervals opposite each popular beach, but for now the stretch of water before him was invitingly empty. Patrick could make out nothing below the dark water, but was pleased to note shoals of small sardines jumping and diving nearby on the moonlit surface of the sea.

  Ahead, further out, Patrick spotted a local fishing boat already at work. Cannes’ small fleet of fishermen had their berths just beyond the gunboat. Small in size and number, they seemed at times to be a throwback to the past, when Cannes had consisted only of Le Suquet with its cluster of houses on the steep hill that led to the castle, and the surrounding land on which the famous La Croisette stood had been a reed-studded marsh.

  Yet a continual supply of fresh fish was required to grace the tables of the rich and not so rich of Cannes, although the fishermen themselves rarely became wealthy by catching them.

  The water in June was still chilly, especially when the sun went down. Patrick turned and headed back the way he’d come. As he drew near the shore, a plane flew overhead, its landing lights flashing as it approached Nice airport, reminding Patrick that the London visitors might soon be arriving, if they hadn’t already. That thought made him decide to catch the early ferry to St Honorat.

  Oscar came bounding towards Patrick as he emerged from the water, the dog’s grunts indicating his pleasure that his master had returned. There had been times during the last job when that hadn’t happened, and Oscar had a long memory.

  Patrick praised the little dog for obeying his command, picked up his clothes, and began the walk back along the quai, looking forward to a hot shower and bed. What little he required for his time on Honorat he could pack in the morning.

  After midnight now, only the Irish bar still had customers. As Patrick approached Les Trois Soeurs, a figure detached itself from the group outside and crossed the road towards him. Patrick didn’t have to see the man’s face to know who it was. The short neat figure was instantly recognizable, as was the scent of the burning cheroot in his right hand.

  Rather than greet Patrick, Lieutenant Martin Moreaux ground out his cheroot then bent to ruffle Oscar’s ears. The bulldog was the only positive link between the detective and Patrick, having been bred by Moreaux’s wife, Michelle. Patrick believed that should he appear not to be taking good care of Oscar, his own life would be on the line.

  Having satisfied himself that Oscar was in tiptop condition, Moreaux viewed Patrick, still dripping from his swim.

  ‘The last time you swam at this late hour something bad happened as I recall,’ he said drily.

  ‘You came to arrest me for murder. I hope that’s not the reason for your visit tonight?’

  ‘You look cold. Shall we go on board?’

  Patrick contemplated telling Moreaux to get lost, but curiosity got the better of him. He lowered the gangplank and, with Oscar leading, they all trooped aboard and down into the cabin.

  ‘Help yourself to a drink,’ Patrick said, ‘while I take a quick shower.’

  Moreaux nodded and immediately headed for the wide selection of bottles on the bar next to the cooking area. Patrick left Oscar with him and went through to the bathroom, his mind already trying to work out why Moreaux should turn up here, and now.

  Under the brief but very hot shower he came up with three possible scenarios, the first being that Moreaux had learned of Patrick’s London trip, perhaps even its outcome. The second was that the detective’s network in Le Suquet had got wind of his summons by Brother Robert. The third possibility was that the London team had already touched down in Cannes and asked some pertinent questions.

  All three scenarios were possible. But whether Moreaux chose to tell him the real reason for his visit was another matter. The Lieutenant was a good detective because he rarely gave anything away yet managed to acquire the information he desired.

  A trait I can match, thought Patrick.

  Drying and dressing swiftly, he re-entered the cabin to find Oscar sitting at Moreaux’s feet, much as he liked to sit with Patrick. Judging by the bottle on the counter, Moreaux had chosen to drink whisky. Patrick decided to do the same. He poured a large measure, added a little water, swirled it round the glass, then savoured it. Now warmed inside as well as out, Patrick waited for Moreaux to tell him why he was here.

  Eventually the policeman spoke.

  ‘How was your London trip?’

  ‘Brief and uneventful,’ Patrick said evenly, while wondering exactly how much Moreaux might be aware of concerning his summons to the garden party.

  ‘I thought you might be preparing to return home,’ Moreaux sounded almost wistful.

  ‘I am home,’ Patrick said, indicating the interior of the gunboat with a wave of his hand.

  Moreaux gave a low grunt that resembled the sound Oscar emitted when he found Patrick irritating.

  ‘The business with the black pearl—’ Moreaux began.

  ‘Is over,’ Patrick finished for him.

  Moreaux shrugged an acceptance. ‘And your current plans?’

  ‘To swim, visit the casino, and drive when I can resurrect my car.’

  ‘Ah, the car. It is repairable?’

  ‘Daniel believes so.’

  ‘And what of your desire to climb in the Esterel mountains?’ Moreaux said, catching Patrick’s eye.

  ‘That too, once I can access them again,’ Patrick said carefully. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘If I recall, that particular location proved dangerous for you,’ Moreaux said grimly.

  ‘Fortunately you were watching my back on that one.’ Patrick gave him a grateful smile.

  ‘We cannot always be watching your back, Monsieur.’ Moreaux’s voice had an edge to it.

  ‘I wouldn’t expect you to.’ Patrick finished his drink, hoping to bring an end to the matter.

  But it seemed Moreaux wasn’t yet ready to leave. He swirled the remaining whisky round in the glass, watching it rise and fall like a small wave. Eventually he appeared to come to a decision and, giving a typical Gallic shrug, downed the remainder of his drink and stood up.

  ‘Then I’ll bid you goodnight.’

  Patrick stood back to let him exit. Following Moreaux on to the deck, he watched as the iron-grey head went ashore. Moreaux stopped for a moment to light another cheroot before turning to Patrick.

  ‘Please give Brother Robert my regards when you see him tomorrow. I hope Oscar enjoys his sojourn among the vines.’ And with that he departed on foot along the quai in a fragrant cloud of smoke.

  Patrick stood for a moment assimilating what had just happened. It appeared from Moreaux’s oblique references that two of the scenarios he had considered while under the shower were correct.

  The detective was aware that Patrick and Oscar were headed for St Honorat tomorrow and had also mentioned Brother Robert, but that didn’t mean he knew why Patrick was going there. As for the Esterel connection, that had been more tenuous. Patrick had nearly lost his life in the mountains and had Moreaux to thank for saving it. And the lack of a car? That had been a slight impediment to his movements in Moreaux’s territory recently – something he suspected the dete
ctive might have liked. It was easier to keep an eye on Patrick when he remained in Le Suquet. Maybe that was the only reason for the subject being raised.

  Oscar had already taken up residence in the corner of the bedroom and was snoring softly. Opening the porthole a little, Patrick stripped off and climbed into bed, allowing the gentle sound of water lapping at the hull to lull him to sleep.

  SIX

  He was awakened by the throb of engines as the fishing boats passed by on their way out to sea. The rosy light of dawn spilled through the porthole, reddening the room and Oscar’s sleeping body. Patrick rose, went through to the cabin, and put the coffee pot on before getting dressed. The first ferry to Honorat left at eight o’clock and he had a visit to make before then.

  Before taking his coffee up on to the deck, he went across the road for a couple of fresh croissants to go with it. By the time he returned, Oscar had stirred and was taking advantage of the food laid out for him. Twenty minutes later they were heading up the hill to the Place du Suquet in response to Daniel’s summons about the car.

  On Rue Hibert, the garage door had already been raised and there was the sound of men at work inside. When Patrick entered, he made straight for where he’d last seen the remains of his car. What stood there now was almost unrecognizable.

  ‘What do you think?’ Daniel asked, having noticed Patrick’s arrival.

  ‘It’s magnificent!’ Patrick said and meant it. ‘How did you—’

  ‘I have a friend in Paris who shipped me some second-hand replacement panels. He’s a collector of old cars. I haven’t managed to remove all the bullet holes, but they are scars to be worn with pride. Not many men survive what you did.’

  ‘And the chassis and undercarriage?’

  ‘Sturdy as ever. It’s a solid car, even if it has had a rough time.’

  ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Patrick said feelingly. ‘You must give me the bill.’

  ‘We’ll discuss the bill another time,’ Daniel replied. ‘I have a little job I need you to do for me.’

  They adjourned to the tiny office at the rear. Once inside, Daniel shut and locked the door, then explained why he required the assistance of Le Limier.

  Patrick and Oscar made the eight o’clock ferry with only seconds to spare. Had Benedict not seen their mad dash down the steps to the jetty, they would have had to watch it depart and wait an hour for the next one.

  Once they were aboard and Benedict had steered the ferry free of the harbour, Patrick made his way forward to say thank you. There were few passengers, most of them, Patrick suspected, workers from the restaurant and the monastery shop.

  He did spot one person he was acquainted with. Monique Girard was exactly as he remembered her from the night they’d met aboard the Russian-owned yacht named Heavenly Princess. Petite and curvaceous, on this occasion she wasn’t encased in a fitted white chef’s jacket but wore a lightweight top and jeans. Her jet-black hair lay loose on her shoulders rather than rolled into a tight knot, but the full lips were painted a rich red as before.

  Those lips broke into a smile when she spotted Patrick.

  She rose from the seat to greet him and Patrick bent down to receive her kisses.

  ‘I hear you’re on a job,’ she whispered as he did so.

  Patrick viewed her animated expression.

  ‘You’ve been talking to Stephen.’

  Monique shrugged. ‘That and other things,’ she said coyly.

  ‘He’s a lucky man.’

  Monique’s expression suggested she agreed with him.

  ‘So how can I help Le Limier?’

  Monique was in a good position to offer aid, but Patrick had given his word that he wouldn’t reveal the real reason why he was on the island and he had every intention of keeping it.

  ‘Just let me know the gossip.’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘Everything,’ Patrick assured her.

  ‘Do you want to start now?’

  Patrick abandoned his decision to talk to Benedict and took a seat beside Monique instead. By the time the ferry approached St Honorat, Patrick had been brought up to date on the sexual liaisons of the entire staff of La Tonnelle, as well as the abbey’s ground staff and those who manned the monastery shop. Monique kept the monks until last.

  ‘Including the Abbot and Brother Robert, there are twenty-five brothers on the island,’ she informed him. ‘Of all ages. Some I like, others not so much.’ She pulled a face. ‘A few of the more reclusive ones I haven’t yet met, so must go with the general opinion. As Cistercians, they’ve all sworn to remain celibate.’ Monique’s face wore a bemused expression as she said this. ‘It seems they’re adhering to their vow.’

  ‘So no gossip about the brothers?’

  ‘I didn’t say that exactly.’

  They were drawing alongside the jetty now.

  ‘It’ll have to keep until later,’ Monique said with a conspiratorial smile.

  ‘When?’ Patrick said.

  ‘I have a break after lunch, for an hour, around three. A water taxi takes me back to Cannes at ten.’

  Patrick had no idea how his own day would pan out and told her so.

  ‘I’m working the next three days in a row,’ Monique said with a shrug. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’ She bid a fond farewell to Oscar and gave Patrick a parting wave as she disembarked, then set off along the path to the shoreside restaurant.

  Patrick sought out Benedict. ‘Thanks for waiting for me,’ he said.

  ‘Brother Robert thought you would be keen to get started.’

  ‘Can we have that glass of wine together later?’

  ‘Come to the jetty at nine,’ Benedict told him.

  Patrick clipped Oscar’s leash on, as demanded by the local regulations. Oscar seemed a little surprised by this but didn’t complain vocally. Patrick suspected that once inside the grounds of the monastery the dog might be given more leeway, but he didn’t want to arrive in a manner that suggested he was already breaking the island’s rules.

  The small tractor that had transported the two women the day before now arrived for his luggage. Since he was carrying nothing but a small backpack Patrick waved it away, indicating he would walk to the monastery.

  The morning was fine with a clear blue sky. He took the same route as before through the fields of vines. His study of the island had armed him with plenty of information as to the layout and he now knew which vines were grown and where.

  On his immediate right there was Chardonney Clairette, for white wine. Beyond them Syrah, for the red wine. A mix of Syrah, Mourvèdre, Clairette and Chardonnay was grown to the east of the monastery grounds. All in all there were eight hectares under cultivation, half for red and half for white. The brothers also made a range of flower and fruit liqueurs, one of which, Lérincello, was a favourite of Patrick’s.

  Having extended the dog’s lead to its full length, a snuffling Oscar was free to examine every olive, lemon and lime tree that lined the path. A mix of scents enveloped Patrick. With the only sounds birdsong, the rustling of fragrant leaves and the steady, distant beat of the sea on the shore, the island was living up to what it claimed to be – a calm and verdant oasis, minutes away from the bustle of Cannes.

  Patrick stopped for a moment to allow Oscar to investigate a particularly interesting scent, and used the time to briefly contemplate his earlier meeting with Daniel. He’d never imagined that his car could rise from the dead like Lazarus. It had, and with it an intriguing proposition.

  It seemed Daniel, a confirmed bachelor, had finally found the woman of his dreams. He’d shown Patrick a photograph of her. She was indeed beautiful, as Daniel had declared. She was also living in France illegally. Daniel was concerned about her status, but that wasn’t the main reason he’d spoken to Patrick.

  The Riviera was rife with immigrants from North Africa, legal or otherwise. They worked in people’s homes and restaurant and café kitchens the length of the Côte d’Azur. This particular young woman
had apparently been in Cannes for three years and had worked in a number of establishments, some quite prestigious.

  The danger to Fidella wasn’t the fact that she was illegal, but that she was being pursued by the men who’d brought her to Europe then forced her into prostitution, instead of offering her the work they’d promised. Her escape from their clutches had been difficult and daring, but she’d managed to stay free of them until now. Having discovered Fidella’s whereabouts, they wanted their original investment back, plus the money she would have earned for them in the interim, with considerable interest.

  If not, they’d threatened revenge on both Daniel and his new-found love.

  Patrick didn’t doubt their threats. Neither did he question that he would help Daniel. Exactly how he wasn’t yet sure, although he had the beginnings of a plan.

  Reporting at the small office in the outer cloister, Patrick was greeted with an interested look by the young monk on duty, who had apparently been told to expect him.

  ‘Monsieur de Courvoisier, welcome to St Honorat and in particular to the monastery. I understand you’re staying with us for a couple of days?’ He suddenly noticed the dog and came round the desk to greet him. ‘And you must be Oscar.’ He bent to pat Oscar, who accepted the approbation with aplomb, suggesting Patrick may have been right in bringing the dog along with him. His presence certainly seemed to disarm.

  ‘Your room is ready. If you’d like to follow me.’

  Patrick followed Brother Thomas, as he’d introduced himself, through the main cloister, emerging into the inner gardens and sanctum of the monastery. The scent of lavender and a multitude of other herbs, the busy hum of bees, and the warm sun reflected back from ancient stone walls would, he felt, be enough to lull anyone into a sense of tranquillity.

  Walking through the gardens, he could hear the sound of chants from the church as yet another short service of prayer began. Patrick understood perfectly at that moment why a retreat from the real world could be desirable. After all, he’d sought something similar when he’d deserted London for a gunboat in Cannes.