Deadly Degrees in the Pyrenees

Chapter 2

Chapter 2After some time, Poullet's Renault Mégane Estate comes into view and Jean and I reluctantly rise from our comfortable chairs. We watch, cringing, as Poullet manoeuvres his car along the near-empty driveway and parks haphazardly, narrowly missing a large plant pot.

“The silly old fool still can't park, I see,” Jean says. “Do you see that bump on his door? He did that at Céret market on Sunday when he tried to squeeze into a space beside a metal bin.”

“I have to agree with you there, Jean,” I reply. “I always recognise his car when he's in town. It's the one abandoned at a crazy angle. At least his driving is alright. To my knowledge, he's never had an accident.”

The driver's door is pushed open and two plump legs appear, feet planted firmly on the gravel driveway. Then gripping the side of the car, Poullet hauls his bulk out and stands. He has never been a thin man, but he is now fatter than ever. Poullet's wife owns a patisserie and it is clear that the good doctor has over indulged in her wares. He waddles towards us.

“I see, once again, you two are enjoying a break sitting in the sunshine while the rest of us work,” he says grumpily. “Please, don't let me disturb you. In fact, why not return to your chairs and we can all sit in the sunshine? Perhaps we can have some iced tea or a pain-au-chocolat. I'm sure my next patient won't mind waiting,” he adds sarcastically.

I am about to protest that there was nothing we could do until he arrived, but it is a waste of time and effort. Poullet always believes his time is more important than everyone else's.

“Well now,” he continues. “What's this all about? I've been asked to attend, but nobody has had the courtesy to tell me what's happened. We all know Michelle very well. Has there been an accident?”

Jean and I exchange glances. The doctor is meant to tell us what has occurred, not the other way around, but in this instance, we already know Michelle has been murdered. There can be no other explanation.

“Come inside,” I say. “It will be easier once you see the situation of the body.”

Poullet stares at us, and purses his lips as if he has a bad taste in his mouth. “Humph,” he utters, then shaking his head with annoyance, he marches towards the front door of the house, his heavy footsteps crunching on the gravel.

We enter the house and make our way towards the back where the sauna is situated. It is conveniently placed to allow its user to step out of the wooden box and in a few paces, exit through a glazed door and plunge into the swimming pool.

Although the heat has been switched off, there is an overwhelming stuffiness in the air and a pungent smell, a mixture of sweat and excrement and something indefinable, but reminiscent of cooked pork. Michelle's skin looks shiny and plump, as if all the creases have been ironed out.

“Oh, mon Dieu,” Poullet says. He looks shocked. “Poor Michelle, what a terrible way to die! She must have been terrified.”

He stares at a sturdy, forked, wooden pole which is lying on the floor.

“Someone wedged that under the door handle,” Jean explains. “There was no way she could push the door open. It was held fast.”

“Then the killer turned up the heat,” I add. “The dial was at one hundred and forty degrees Celsius when I arrived. The murderer fried her brains. He or she wanted Michelle to suffer. I'm pretty sure this wasn't a random act.”

“Who would want to do such a thing?” the doctor asks.

“Come, come, Poullet,” I reply. “You and I both know Michelle was not liked. There will be many people delighted to see the back of her. The list will be as long as your arm.”

“Yes, that's true,” he agrees. “Many would want to be watching and knitting as the guillotine fell, but who would be angry enough or desperate enough to release the blade, I wonder?”

It is now quite late in the day and I cannot do any more here, so I say goodbye to Jean and drive back towards my office. Someone must inform Jacques Moliner of his wife's death, but first we'll have to locate him. Doctor Poullet told me that Jacques is a member of the vintage car club and they are holding a rally this weekend and he is not expected to return until late on Sunday evening. I telephone ahead and set Laurent the task of finding his mobile phone number. I ask my other assistant, Paul, to call the clinic and see if Guy Legler has recovered sufficiently for me to question him. As he found the body, he and Jacques are the prime suspects for Michelle's murder. Personally, I don't believe they had anything to do with the killing, but nevertheless their alibis must be checked out.

From what has been rumoured, Jacques knew that Michelle had a lover, but turned a blind eye to the affair and the several she'd had in the past. I can't understand what men saw in Michelle. She was scrawny, had a pinched face, a narrow little mouth full of sharp rat-like teeth and a tongue that could cut you with one phrase. I disliked the woman intensely and I was not alone.

Being the local estate agent and a close friend of the notaire she was in a very powerful position. Many people accused her of ripping off her clients, particularly the ex-pat community who are vulnerable and easy pickings, although nobody really cares about them. More disturbingly, there have been several dubious deals recently, involving local people. Conspiracy theories have been suggested and knowing Michelle and Pascal Boutiere, the notaire, I'm afraid they might well be true. I am not looking forward to interviewing potential murder suspects, as I think they could form a very long list.