Taken on Face Value: The French Collection, #4

By Graham Hamer

A riveting and unforgettable story of murderer and mystery in another runaway thriller by author Graham Hamer.

Detective Benedict Blewett has moved to France to be with his fiancée, Nicole Dubourg - a forensic pathologist. So death is never far from their door in this chilling story of murder and suspense.

Right from the start, Benedict's new boss, Lieutenant Jérôme Bérenger, makes no secret of his dislike of the English policeman. He presents Benedict with an impossible case – to find out what happened to a man whose rotting corpse has no finger tips, no face, and whose insides have been eaten by rats. Then, within days, a woman's body floats to the surface of Canal St. Martin in Paris. She, too, has had her face removed. There are no DNA matches for either murder victim, and the woman's fingerprints are meaningless because of the time she spent underwater. .

Undaunted, Benedict pushes on relentlessly, but dark forces are at work. In a desperate attempt to silence them, a group of hired thugs try to kill Benedict and Nicole. After a terrifying fight for their lives, the pair realise how much danger their investigation has put them in. They discover that a ruthless, shadowy mastermind called Anton ordered their elimination, but who is Anton? Benedict is nothing if not determined and, in a masterful climax, you can be sure it's going to end badly for someone. The only questions are, how? and for whom?

Taken on Face Value is perfect for lovers of Mark Dawson, Anthony Horowitz, or Peter James novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Mar 9, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393649663

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Céline Le Clerc stepped out of the apartment building where she lived in rue Lallye-Tollendal in the North-Eastern sector of Paris. The late afternoon sun painted a glowing smile on her face. Her feet, with glittering toenails and gold toe rings, were strapped into jewelled, spike-heeled sandals. The heels forced her to take tiny steps. The slightest whale tail outline of a tiny red thong rumpled her stretched skirt as she wiggled down the busy Parisian sidewalk.

The air was humid. Cars sounded their horns for no reason. Crowded buses discharged their passengers and left again in a cloud of diesel fumes. People walked with a slight hunch and in short strides, desperate to avoid eye contact with those they passed. Just another bustling summer evening as hot and weary workers made their way home.

As she turned the corner, Céline spotted him. Her new friend who was too sexy for his own good. Anton was in his early-forties, just a few years older than her. At a guess, he was a little over six feet tall and his body was in proportion – athletic, muscular, and trim. Gentle lines and wrinkles dominated his features and, although possessing rugged good looks, it was clear that his face had seen a lot of high living. His skin had a light tan. Combined with his build, it suggested plenty of outdoor activity. Maybe walking, climbing, that sort of thing. Despite the oppressive heat, he was wearing a smart, lightweight, three-piece suit with a fine pinstripe. His shirt was white and crisp while his tie was neat and matched his suit. When he sensed Céline’s approach, he looked up from his cell phone and offered her an engaging smile. Céline thought she smiled back but, in all honesty, she didn’t remember. The pressure of anticipation was already pounding in her ears. Their bodies met and they kissed like lovers. She ran her fingers through his collar length hair, her thoughts on what was to come.

While he enjoyed the sensation of her tongue probing past his lips, Anton’s thoughts were elsewhere. His long experience of encountering a variety of human types and dissecting their motives had enabled him to develop a sort of sixth sense about people and their basic take on life. Here was a woman approaching middle age who needed and enjoyed attention. Maybe because she’d not succeeded or been unable to develop a fulfilling role for herself. Very good material for a predator like Anton. The first time they had met, he had another matter to attend to, so he had had to leave her at her door with a chaste kiss. This evening, he would give her all the attention she craved... and more.

When their lips separated, Anton said, I have a special treat for you later. How do you fancy a new sort of high? No bad effects - no hangover after.

She blinked away the aftermath of the kiss and seemed to come back to the here and now. Sounds like trouble to me.

Anton laughed. Sometimes you’ve got to go out of your way to find trouble. It’s called having fun.

Her whole face formed into a bright smile to mirror his. What are we going to do? Rob a bank or something?

No. Something that’s legal, but is going to give you a buzz like never before. Every minute will be like a party in your pants.

And where exactly are we going to weave this magic of yours?

Trade secret, I’m afraid, Céline. I’ve been sworn to secrecy by the Magic Circle.

She joined in his laughter, displaying well-aligned teeth that she had cared for over the years. No, come on. Where are we going to experience this buzz?

I thought we could go back to yours.

Right. If you say so. The answer seemed to please her.

Come on. Let’s have a drink then go find the promised land. Anton tugged her hand and led her out of the heat of the street and into a nearby brasserie where ceiling fans made the air feel cooler. As they sat, the waiter approached. Céline patted her long, bleach-blonde hair and ordered an Americano, a cocktail composed of Campari, sweet vermouth, and club soda. Anton asked for ‘un demi’, a small beer.

The crisp white blouse that Céline wore was inadequate for the job she expected it to do. She had tucked it tight into her plaid skirt which was a little too short for her age and the size of her backside. But it was a great testament to the strength of the seams nonetheless. It slid over her powerful thighs with ease when she sat down.

After the waiter had delivered their drinks and left them on their own, Céline and Anton touched glasses with a Santé. Céline let out a tiny gasp as the alcohol seared her throat. Her lips were full and coated with dark red lipstick, leaving a clear imprint on the rim of the glass. She was shapely too. Broad across the beam, in a good way, but cinched in at the waist and with a generous bust to top it all off. The bust was very much on show.

You’re not drinking, Céline said.

Anton smiled and tilted the glass. He had been gazing at her cleavage and admiring the magnificent display over the top of his beer.

You’re staring at my breasts, aren’t you? Céline said, with a hearty laugh. Do you like them? Do they please you?

Anton offered her a broad smile. Her blouse was tight, too tight, like someone had poured her into it and forgotten to say ‘when’. Yes they please me, he replied. With breasts as remarkable as those, Céline, I don’t suppose you’d get too many to the kilo. He was grateful that there was a small table between them. It hid the fact he needed to adjust his trousers. Maybe he would bend his normal rules this evening and have some fun before they got down to the real business. It wasn’t part of the plan but, a few hours from now, it wouldn’t matter. Anyway, Danielle, his business partner, entertained blokes in her bed all the time, so why shouldn’t he? He just had to make a quick phone call, to say there was a short delay and to issue fresh instructions. The others would wait for him.

Céline looked into his face and saw what she saw. You’re thinking naughty thoughts, she chuckled. We should do something about that. Like all waters, there is the current you see and the one you don’t. Céline only saw the one that was visible - the one she wanted to see. There was something in his look. He was looking through her seeing something else, something not actually there. But she detected only the lust for a body. For her body. A body that needed a man’s attention.

Had she known what was in store, her eager anticipation would have evaporated faster than water droplets in a hot skillet. It would be over two weeks before somebody discovered her abused remains.

CHAPTER ONE

Benedict Blewett sighed and picked up the phone. He planned on a quick call to Nicole. Lieutenant Jérôme Bérenger burst through the door a few seconds later. The energy was palpable. He was a sturdy man, with a nose that wasn’t quite straight, and thick, dark hair. His facial expressions had, it seemed, only one setting - angry. He nodded at Benedict. It wasn’t so much a greeting as it was an indication to get off the phone, and soon.

Benedict cut the call. Standing in front of him was the police lieutenant and another man. Short, bald and, as Benedict was to discover when the man spoke, very Scottish. French was the only language recognised in the Préfecture de Police de Paris, even French with a Scottish accent.

Bérenger waved his hands towards the other man. Right, Blewett, this is detective Alastair Allardyce. He’s English.

Scottish, the guy said.

Scottish, Bérenger corrected with a smirk.

You can just call me Ali, Allardyce said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Alastair Allardyce was in his early forties. He had pale skin, a shaved head, and dark eyes that scanned the room. His cheekbones were high and a clipped moustache framed his top lip. He was short, around five foot eight, and his small frame was wiry with no excess fat. The fluorescent glare coming from the light above reflected off his head. Benedict thought he looked like a full moon floating inside a darkened ice cream truck. He stood and shook hands.

This meeting won’t take long, Bérenger said. You both know what this is all about. The officer who was the liaison between us here in Paris and the Metropolitan Police in London is retiring. We need a replacement. You two are both up for the job. There is a lot of cross border criminality which requires close contact between the two forces. Blewett, your experience as a detective in Liverpool is worth something. Though I suspect your part in exposing that counterfeiting ring is what made Capitaine Laisné pass you onto me. I don’t know where you magicked the information from, but Inspecteur Laisné got promoted to capitaine because of it. So I guess he thinks he owes you a favour now that you’re living in France.

I’m not sure it’s—

Bérenger held up a hand to stop him. Something you need to learn right now, Blewett, is that I don’t like interruptions. You’ve got two ears and one mouth. Kindly use them in that proportion.

Benedict didn’t say what he was thinking.

Right, Blewett, Ali has just arrived this morning, but you’ve already had a couple of days to meet your new colleagues. So I’m now going to give you a case to get working on. He spun a green folder onto Benedict’s desk. You know what this is all about, don’t you? You and Ali are in competition for the job. A few weeks from now, I shall decide who gets it. I will base my decision on your competence as a police officer and on your ability to fit in with a team of detectives. He paused for a moment to look Benedict in the eyes. You’re the ace detective, he added, so get it sorted.

Benedict nodded. He didn’t know why, but he already suspected that ‘Just Call Me Ali’ was a step ahead.

Bérenger cracked his knuckles in a well-practised habit. It also will depend on your ability to communicate in both languages. He looked at Alastair Allardyce. From what I’ve heard so far, you are pretty fluent, Ali. Then he looked back at Benedict. You have a long way to go, Blewett. But I’m going to help you out. He opened the door and ushered in a tall young lady.

This is Gardien de la Paix Sabine Pelletier. A gardien de la paix is the French equivalent of your English constable.

Benedict already knew that. He did a double take. Sabine Pelletier was lean, but not model skinny. She had more of an athletic build, but still had curves in all the right places. Benedict Blewett, he said, reaching forward and shaking her hand. She had a firm grip, dark grey eyes, and a bright smile.

Blewett’s on trial, Bérenger said to Sabine jabbing a finger towards Benedict. I want you to accompany him, so at least one of you will be able to speak the sort of French that I understand. I want you to report to me on a regular basis. That way, I will know what’s going on without having to ask for subtitles.

Benedict expelled a blast of air from between his lips. Jesus.

Bérenger cracked the knuckles in his right hand with a sickening pop. No, Blewett. Jesus must have been busy when they lumbered me with you. He smiled at his own joke, but Benedict wasn’t laughing. In a couple of days, when Ali has had time to meet the team and find out where things are, I shall give him a case to solve too. So you have a two-day head start, Blewett. Let’s see how you both get on.

Jérôme Bérenger turned on his heel and, with a crooked finger, indicated for Alastair Allardyce to follow him. It left Benedict and Sabine weighing each other up. She had an angular face with large, intelligent eyes, a small nose, and full lips. A healthy tan accentuated her luminous, unblemished complexion.

Benedict sighed. What a bloody way to end the week. Is he always like this?

Sabine displayed her perfectly white, but slightly crooked teeth, in a broad smile. No. But sometimes he can be a bit sarcastic. Just ignore him and get on with the job. It’s all you can do.

But he was so damn angry.

No he wasn’t. Everyone knows when Jérôme is angry - something to do with steam and his ears I’m told. You see any steam?

Benedict shook his head.

He enjoys testing people. He likes to push them, see what they are made of. Whether they have balls.

Benedict smiled. And what about you, Sabine? He seems to appreciate you. Do you have balls?

She laughed and brushed her shoulder-length, shiny brown hair away from her face. A whole Roland-Garros fortnight’s worth. From what I hear round the office, I think you are too kind for Jérôme’s liking. He doesn’t like weak men.

As Al Capone said, ‘Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I am kind to everyone, but when someone is unkind to me, weak is not what you are going to remember about me’.

She took her time to look him up and down. I rather like what I see, Benedict. You’re what many girls would call, a hunk, and I don’t see weakness at all. Any chance we could meet up after work and explore that avenue further?

A smile lit Benedict’s face. No chance, Sabine, but thanks for asking. I’m engaged to a lady you might know - Nicole Dubourg. She’s the forensic pathologist.

Oh her. Bit stern. She never smiles, does she?

She does in private, I can assure you.

Sabine smiled at him. See, most of us can do it in public.

Benedict cleared his throat. Maybe we should take a look at what’s in this file Bérenger has given us.

There was a knock on the door and a young man poked his head into the room. It’s Friday. You guys fancy meeting up after work tonight?

That’s what I was just suggesting, Sabine said, with a grin.

I’m not talking about a Sabine Pelletier type of meet up. I mean meet up for a beer. He looked at Benedict. Is she trying to pick you up already?

Benedict just smiled.

The young man extended his arm and shook hands with Benedict. I’m Mathieu Dufresne - Gardien de la Paix Mathieu Dufresne. Take no notice of Sabine, she’s well known for being a tramp.

Sabine poked her tongue out at him. Better than being a pouf.

Mathieu struck an exaggerated pose with one hand on his forehead and one on his hip, like he was exasperated. Now now, young lady, we’re in the twenty-first century. Poufdom is an acceptable lifestyle nowadays.

In which case, so is being a tramp.

As a spectator to the harmless banter, in an odd way Benedict felt shy. Rather like a small boy made to stand up in the drawing-room and recite poetry before a gathering of stern aunts. I’d love to come for a beer later. What time do you knock off?

About seven. I’ll come and give you a shout. It’s a regular Friday night fixture. We go to the Frog and Roastbif on rue Saint-Denis. You can walk it in ten minutes from here.

I know it.

Mathieu nodded towards Sabine. Meanwhile keep your fly zipped up with this one around.

Sabine looked at Benedict and laughed. I think he’s just jealous because I don’t fancy him.

Nor me, you, Mathieu said as he strode out of the office with a provocative wiggle.

Office politics? Benedict asked.

Yeah, maybe. He’s a bit camp, that one, but harmless enough. Now, why don’t we take a look at the file that Bérenger left, and see what we’re expected to do?

CHAPTER TWO

Mathieu was right about the bar being just a ten-minute walk from where Benedict worked. The Préfecture de Police occupied a historic building on Île de la Cité, close to the Palais de Justice, and just a few hundred metres from the burnt-out shell of Notre Dame Cathedral. The Frog and Roastbif was next to Les Halles, a large cultural and commercial centre just a few hundred metres to the north. ‘The Frog’ as it was generally referred to, was a noisy, young people’s bar. The background chatter and clink of glasses reached a crescendo as Benedict struggled to follow the conversations. It was difficult enough without them being in a noisy bar. But when you added in the speed of the discussion, the slang, and the abbreviations much loved by the French, he was sometimes guessing more than he was actually understanding.

Mathieu leaned into Benedict’s ear to make himself heard. You okay?

Sure, just getting a bit lost with the conversation.

Believe it or not, it’s the best way to learn. Total immersion is more effective than any language course. With a few weeks in an office environment, you’ll be talking like a native.

Benedict looked round. What’s happened to Sabine? She was here a minute ago.

Mathieu chuckled. She’ll be off chatting somebody up. That’s just her.

You’ve known her long?

We’re the same age, Benedict, and went to the same schools together. That’s why we can slag each other off without taking offence. She’s grown into a beautiful young lady. Seeing her now, you’d never believe that she was an awkward schoolgirl with a grubby face and a reckless disregard for the state of her clothes.

She’s grown up a bit then.

It took a little time.

What do you mean?

They expelled her from one school for putting snowballs in the boys’ pants.

That doesn’t sound too serious.

It is if they’re teenagers and you insist on removing their pants first.

Benedict laughed. But at least she’s matured now, hasn’t she?

In some ways, yes. It seems like only yesterday that she was putting frog-spawn in my pockets, and now she’s graceful and elegant. But her attitude towards her fellow officers is what is going to hold her back within the police force. Our superiors know exactly what she’s like, and some have taken advantage of it. But most of them don’t think it helps morale when there’s a predator around the office.

Predator’s a pretty strong word, Mathieu.

Mathieu looked around the bar until his eyes settled on something. Don’t make it obvious, but when you get a chance, look behind you and tell me what you see.

Benedict waited a moment, then made as if to look around at his surroundings. He knew the Frog and Roastbif quite well, having visited a few times before. While the Brits referred to the French as ‘Frogs’, most of them didn’t know that the French referred to the Brits as ‘les Roastbifs’. It had a lot to do with overcooked beef at meal times.

‘Le Frog’ as locals called it was a pub of true character. The owners had furnished it in a strange mix of English and French. Spread around was an eclectic mix of tables, chairs, church pews, and settees, all on bare, scrubbed floor boards. Service was either at the bar or by waiter. Down below, the pub brewed its own beer, one of them named ‘Inseine’. The brewing area had a clear glass window so clients could see where they made the beer. Unfortunately, the gents toilets were right next door and the waste pipe from the urinals passed through the wall into the brewery. Benedict couldn’t imagine what happened to it after that. But some bright spark had written in English above the urinal, ‘You don’t buy your beer here - you only rent it’. Someone else had written, ‘Recycling pisses me off’.

A moment later, Benedict looked back at Mathieu. I see Sabine sat on a barstool next to an older guy. She has her arm round his shoulder and her face seems very close to his. He looks to be under her spell. His face has assumed the look of a hypnotised sheep. Is he a colleague? Another policeman?

I’ve never seen him before in my life and nor, I doubt, has she. She’ll have him eating out of her hand in no time, if he isn’t already doing so. She’ll maybe excuse herself soon and tell us she’s going home to get an early night. Or she may agree to meet him another time.

Benedict was about to respond when an elegant woman stood in front of him, blocking his view of Mathieu. A subtle wave of expensive perfume emanated from her, like nuclear fallout in the shafts of evening sunlight from the window facing the street. She leaned forwards and steadied herself with one hand on his knee. Benedict had met her earlier in the office. He’d forgotten her surname, but remembered that she called herself Estelle and spoke with an old world charm. She was an administrative assistant of some sort.

Estelle was a woman who knew what she wanted. She had dressed in what, even to Benedict’s untrained eye, was without doubt the height of expensive Parisian fashion, festooned with strings of expensive-looking jewels. Her face held a sort of doll-like beauty and he suspected that both it and her immaculate coiffured hair owed not a little to the art of the salon. Due to the subtle application of soft makeup, it was only at close range that you might figure her to be in her early forties.

She was, Benedict thought, what most red-blooded males would call a very desirable MILF. She was petite with a killer set of curves and a tiny waist. A body built for sin, it seemed. Estelle was leaning towards him with confidence despite being a little unsteady on her feet. It looked like she had already had several drinks. Mathieu got up and wandered off to get himself another beer from the bar.

Estelle rested her hands on Benedict’s shoulders. I do love to feel the hard body of a man, she whispered, placing her mouth close enough to Benedict’s ear so he could hear her and feel her hot breath. You do body-building do you?

Benedict smiled to be polite. He knew his shoulders were broad, solid, well developed under his shirt. For years, I trained in a boxing club in Liverpool. Nothing exceptional, just a habit that helps me stay fit and maintain rapid responses.

Hmmm. Nice. Estelle paused and looked into his eyes. Don’t let that young girl get under your skin.

You mean Sabine?

Yes, her. She basks in the gay brilliance and glitter of a large gathering of men like this, with herself as the queen of the evening. Sabine Pelletier has a child-like delight in being the centre of attention. Then, she repays their devotion by bestowing her consideration on her worshippers. They are rewarded with dazzling smiles and a few moments in the bright circle of her radiance. Estelle glanced towards the bar. But at the end of the evening, Detective Blewett, only one man gains the full spotlight of her scrutiny.

She seems pretty harmless to me, Benedict said. A little bit obvious, but she has no effect on me. I am not only spoken for, but happy to be spoken for.

I’m so pleased to hear it, Estelle said, patting him on the knee. But if ever you find that your situation has changed, don’t hesitate to let me know. I’m sure we could have a splendid time together.

I’m sure we could, he answered, wondering if all the women in the office planned on propositioning him, one at a time. He knew his muscled, well-proportioned body and thick, dark hair made him attractive to the opposite sex, but he’d never had this much attention before.

As Estelle moved away, adding a gentle squeeze to his thigh as she went, Benedict looked up. Sitting opposite, on