No Fooling The Vicar: The French Collection, #5

By Graham Hamer

Hollie Stevens, a citizen of the Isle of Man has been murdered in Paris. Detective Inspector Penny Chakyar is tasked to go to France, find out what she can about the woman's death, and bring the body home. She's accompanied by Detective Constable Hannah Davis. But their visit to the French capital is resented by Superintendent Catherine Brady who sets out to take over their investigation.

 

In Paris, they meet up with Sergeant Mathieu Cavellec, the good-looking French policeman who is in charge of the enquiry. But Superintendent Brady appears out of the blue and the situation takes a turn for the worse. The body may not be who they think it was, there is no clear motive for the murder, and no forensic evidence was left behind at the scene of the murder.

 

Meet The Vicar, a psychopathic contract killer, whose mission is to send sinners into God's welcoming arms. When he realises he's killed the wrong person, he sets about discovering where his real target is hiding. And, in a race to save the life of Hollie Stevens, so do the police. But The Vicar gets to her first.

 

Can Hollie Stevens talk her way out of The Vicar's clutches? Nobody has ever succeeded before. And the only guidance she has had has come from a strange 'Intuitive' called Camille, and Atticus, a one-eyed black man with dreadlocks. So, when facing The Vicar in an anonymous hotel room, she is all on her own. When the police arrive, it's already too late. The Vicar has done what he must and fled the scene, taking with him the details of one final hit. Can anything stop him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Hamer
• Release date: Apr 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215824931

Book preview

Prologue

Eléonore Crillet tapped the code into the security panel on the outside wall and, when the door lock buzzed, she stepped into the building. She hummed a tune to herself, but it was just in her head and nobody else could hear it. The front door was heavy, solid wood that closed behind her, while motion-activated wall lights illuminated the cool entrance lobby. She advanced into the open lift and chose the button for the first floor. When she stepped out again, she was on an almost identical landing with a small window on one wall, overlooking the street below. The walls were painted in fresh, pale grey eggshell paint called ‘Brume d'octobre’ - October Mist. The pink marble tiles on the floor glistened like satin under the ceiling down-lights.

The teenager examined the glossy leaves of the Swiss cheese plant that stood next to the entrance door of the first-floor apartment. It was one of the few indoor plants that needed only a little natural light to flourish. Madame Lecomte, who owned the apartment, had instructed her to keep the plant well watered and to clean the big leaves when necessary, with a mixture of milk and water. Eléonore made a point of following Madame Lecomte’s instructions because, having sailed through her baccalauréat, she needed the part-time cleaning job to help see her through business school here in the centre of Paris.

The pampered plant was a stylish touch to an elegant building. Madame Lecomte, an upper-crust widow with more diamond rings than De Beers, owned all six apartments, and Eléonore provided cheap labour on a regular basis to clean after the temporary occupants had left. Cash in hand, of course. It seemed that Airbnb was proving more profitable to Madame Lecomte than long term tenants, so cleaning was a regular need, particularly when living up to Madame Lecomte’s exacting standards. Eléonore used her master key to access the apartment and nudged the door shut behind her with her heel, flicking on the hall light at the same time. She glanced around. Sometimes, the place was a mess. Other times, it was like it had never been used. Today seemed to fit into the latter category. The hallway was as spotless as the last time she’d been here, just a few days ago.

Eléonore allowed herself a smile of satisfaction. It looked like she could be in and out in good time. She made her way to the kitchen, leaned down and pulled out a cleaning spray and cloth from the cupboard under the sink. Then she changed her mind and popped a coffee pod into the Senseo coffee maker. It was one of the few perks of the job because, even if Madame Lecomte stopped to think about it, she would just assume that the tenants had made themselves coffee. Eléonore carried the cup to the front room and placed her coffee on the glass-topped table which was surrounded by armchairs and a settee. She needed to check the furniture for stains or scratches too, since her employer charged enough to be sure that everything was spotless.

The heavy drapes were closed, but not the metal outer shutters, so a small amount of ambient light crept around and over the drapes. Eléonore strode to the high windows and snapped the curtains open. A mania of flapping pigeons burst into the air outside and she gulped in shock. She put her hand on her heart and stared after the flying rodents as they peeled away into the spring sky. The young lady hated pigeons but, just like all major cities, Paris was doomed to be on the receiving end of their vile droppings forever.

After checking the furniture for non-existent stains, Eléonore parked her slim bottom onto the Harris Tweed three-seater settee - an expensive import from Britain. While she waited for her coffee to cool a little, she gazed around, looking for clues about the last guests. It was a game she played every time when she wasn’t in a rush. Sometimes she would find traces of them playing sex games in the living room. Sometimes small change fell from their pockets in the process. But the previous night’s visitors seemed to have been more sedate and careful. As far as she could see, they had left nothing except two used glasses and a near-empty bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, a good wine known for its bold Grenache-based grape variety. Eléonore picked the bottle off the table and took a closer look at the label. It was a 2001 Chateau Rayas Reserve. She drew in a breath and sniffed the heady aroma. Her father, Vincent, was a wine buff - or a connaisseur en vin as the French referred to them. She’d heard him mention Chateau Rayas and she seemed to remember that, for a bottle of this vintage, a figure of about 1,000 euros had been mentioned.

Like many French families, Eléonore’s father was helping Eléonore and her sister to appreciate wines. It was never about quantity - always about quality. And the Chateau Rayas Reserve was up there with some of the best. It was all about persistence and complexity. The need to strike a fine balance between acidity, tannins, sweetness, alcohol, and fruit. It’s all part of the rich French culture, he had told them. Just like becoming an expert in wine - you learn by drinking the best you can afford.

You also learn about great food by finding the best ingredients you can, her mother had added. Whether simple or luxurious. Then you savour it, analyse it, and discuss it with your family. And you compare a good meal with other experiences. You remember it for next time. In fact, that’s what it is to be French. At which point, Eléonore had found herself nodding in agreement. She’d walked alongside her mother as she made her way between the loaded market stalls - searching the fresh produce for the peak of ripeness and flavour. And it had dawned on her, even as a young girl, that what she had been watching was a true artist at work. Assembling all the materials of her craft with great care just like a painter squeezes oils onto his palette ready to create a masterpiece. And that, she now knew, was France in a nutshell. Or at least it was France as understood by the French.

The teenager looked around as if somebody might be watching her, then she lifted the bottle to her lips and took a measured mouthful. Her father would have blown a fuse if he’d seen her. Apart from being vulgar, there was the possibility of sediment in a bottle of this age, and tipping it like that would mix the ‘wine diamonds’, as they were called, into the wine. After allowing the liquid to linger, Eléonore swallowed and whispered, Wow, to the empty room. It was, indeed, a wine to be treasured, hinting at kirsch, cherry, and peat moss - coupled with a peppery Mediterranean flair that was, without a doubt, the best of Southern France. On leaving the apartment, she was required to dispose of the bottle, and she already knew that, before doing so, she would take a glass from the cabinet and enjoy the wine that was left. No self-respecting French person would do otherwise, and her father would never forgive her if she poured it away. Even drinking from the bottle was preferable to that.

Eléonore sat for a moment, savouring the lingering taste on her palate. And the silence. At moments like this, she loved her brief few minutes of peace with a cup of good coffee – or, when lucky, a rare wine. The stillness that rested in an empty, luxury apartment in the short time before she began cleaning was her favourite oasis of calm. It seemed that a comforting quiet had settled on the shelves of books and the tasteful ornaments. The furniture, too, seemed to luxuriate in the tranquillity of the moment. It was as if that was what it was made for.

Glancing round the lounge, Eléonore could see that the books on the shelves were untouched. Her family knew her as a studious bookworm and, in her view, no furniture was so charming as books. And neither could she live a day without having her nose stuck in a good novel at some point. Usually lying in bed just before she turned out the light. None of that romance nonsense - stories of murder, mystery and suspense were her favourites. She took another good look around her. The various ornaments were in the same positions as the last time she’d come here. And yet she had the distinct feeling that something had changed. It always did, every time. Guests were unique and usually left a multitude of clues about themselves. Some left a tip, but generally on the bedside cabinet or the kitchen work surface. She checked when she returned her coffee cup, which she would wash later. But there were no tips and no more expensive wines left lying around or in the fridge.

On the other hand, the bedroom was always worth checking. There were often other things left there by accident, too. First, though, she peered into the bathroom. The toilet and bidet, sometimes stained or splashed, or grim with hairs and other undesirable objects, were clean and still smelt of the scented detergent she had used last time she was here. The small, individual soap bars remained in their paper wrappers. The towels had been left in the neatest order and the room appeared unused. Odd. Even the toilet paper seemed to have remained neat and untouched. Except for the wine, it was almost as if no one had stayed here. So, no cash had been left behind, neither by accident nor by design. But at least she had hardly any cleaning to do. She didn’t even need to flick a duster round the place, so she could soon call it a day. Madame Lecomte paid her the same for each visit no matter how long it took her.

The bedroom door beckoned. Bedrooms were where the real adventures took place. That was where the other half did what they did. Often, she could make out exactly what activities they’d enjoyed during their stay. Torn tights left tied around the bed frame. Discarded condom wrappers in the bin. Eléonore was rarely surprised these days, but sometimes, just sometimes, she would find something interesting that was worth telling her friends about. She smiled to herself as she laid her hand on the door handle. Today was going to be a good day. All she had to do was to strip the bed and remake it, then take the used bedding down the road to the little laundry on the corner. She could leave the machine to run and come back later to collect the clean and dried sheets.

As she pressed down on the handle, Eléonore became aware of something sticky on her hand. She pushed the door open, and glanced down at her palm. But before she could analyse her thoughts, a gut-wrenching array of smells hit her square in the face. She held her cupped hand over her nose and mouth and stared in horror at the defiled body that lay on the bed. She knew straight away that the woman was dead. Nobody living could lie twisted and broken like that, splayed on top of the sheets, naked and unmoving. Particularly not with a large wooden-handled knife sticking out of her belly.

The pool of drying blood beneath the woman had soaked deep into the pure white duvet, spreading like a thick black aura all around the body. Eléonore had never seen a dead body before and, from a morbid combination of horror and curiosity, took a step closer to investigate the woman. She stopped next to the bed, her eyes wide, her heart pounding as she looked down at the awful remains of what had once been a living, breathing human being. The woman’s face was almost unrecognisable, battered and broken by multiple blows, either with an iron fist or some heavy, hard instrument. Through the puffy cheeks, Eléonore could determine that her eyes were open but were cloudy, turning towards opaque. Her lifeless gaze stared up at a ceiling she could no longer see. Her auburn hair splayed out on the pillow contrasting with her naked pale skin. And well-manicured nails, Eléonore noticed. She looked as though she had been in her thirties, and had most likely been pretty, but now she was dead. For what?

Eléonore grimaced and shook her head. A young lady in her prime, tempted into bed with a bottle of fine wine, stripped naked, then murdered. Dying with terror in her eyes. In the books Eléonore read, invented horrors helped prepare her for the real ones. But nothing – not even the most graphic of novels - could have prepared her for this. Together, the blood, evacuated bowels, and an emptied bladder made a formidable aroma and, after a brief moment, the stench of pierced intestines and faecal matter overwhelmed her. She felt the bile rise in her throat and, shaking, the teenager turned to get out before she collapsed. She stumbled from the room and pulled the door shut behind her, just making it to the bathroom before she dropped to her knees and vomited into the toilet.

Eléonore had grown up inside books. No matter how dark life became, shutting out her worries and concerns was as easy as opening the cover. And death was a constant companion in many of the novels she had read. But now, she was face-to-face with abominable murder for real, and no amount of books could save her from what she’d seen. As soon as she could stand, young Eléonore Crillet fled headlong into the street - blood on her hand and face - the wine and cleaning gone right from her mind.

CHAPTER ONE

Detective Chief Inspector Mick Duckworth’s desk was a shambolic mess. Files relating to half a dozen ongoing cases were spread out in disarray. Stationery of all sorts was scattered here and there. Escaped paper clips, homeless pencils, multicoloured Post-it notes bearing phone numbers once vital, now forgotten. He’d clean it up as soon as they found him a bigger office. His workspace was too cramped - no room for a big man like him to spread out, get comfy, and think straight. Sub-par for a detective chief inspector.

Adding to the problem, Mick’s physical stature made the room feel only half as big as it actually was anyway. New recruits to the Isle of Man Constabulary were often mesmerised by the man’s physique. It was as though someone had zoomed in on him. Each part of him proportionate to the next was quite normal, just ... bigger. Normal, that was, except for a slack bean-bag nose which had long ago been pulverised by a drunken Irishman who didn’t want to spend a night in the cells.

The young detective inspector who stepped into his office without knocking was the antithesis of the chief inspector. Diminutive, with a dusky café au lait complexion, she wore her black hair in a short pixie cut. With her petite appearance somewhere between Halle Berry and Naga Munchetty, she was often the focus of young police constables’ attention. But they soon discovered that her true love was waiting for her at home, and older, wiser heads warned them to keep their hands to themselves. Despite her size, DI Pani Sudesha Paramjeet Chakyar could demolish all but the most accomplished opponent.

Penny flopped into the battered old chair with the threadbare cushioning and flung her leg over the wooden armrest. Morning Boss. Sarah said you wanted to see me. What can I do for you, this fine day?

Mick waved a hand towards her leg. No, no. Have a seat. I insist.

Thank you, Chief Inspector. This particular chair does lend itself to lounging in comfort. If you sit on it in the conventional upright position, the broken cross rail at the back digs nicely into your spine. I hope that if anyone ever succeeds in foisting an office on me, they will furnish it with a little more thought than yours.

Mick chuckled. Well, since you’ve made yourself comfortable, Inspector, do you want one of my special brews?

Not half, Penny said, sitting up. That crap out in the canteen is like liquid razor blades, and the stuff in the detectives’ squad room is not much better.

Mick smiled. His own percolator was one of the few perks of his senior position. He poured her a coffee and slid it across the desk, pushing aside stray paper clips and a broken pencil. You could dissolve a spoon in it but, as long as it was pure Arabica, Penny was a happy camper.

So, wazzup? she asked after her first sip. What’s the shake?

Mick leaned back in his chair and said, Cast your mind back about eight years to when you were a snot-nosed young copper, and the chief constable sent you on a special mission with Sarah. You remember?

How could I not? Sarah was a detective sergeant at the time, and I was, as you say, new to the job. We spent time down in the Dordogne region of France. It’s where I first met Hjalmar.

And now you and Hjalmar are joined at the hip, Mick said. So why do you think the CC sent you with Sarah?

Because I am the bee’s bollocks, or the dog’s knees, or something exotic like that. And I also happen to speak French rather well.

Plus a few other languages, I gather. The fifty-six-year-old DCI smiled at his thirty-one-year-old detective inspector. How many is it?

Penny hung a delicate nose over the coffee cup and inhaled the aroma. Got a biscuit to go with this? A Jaffa Cake wouldn’t go astray. The entire workforce of the Isle of Man Constabulary knew of DCI Duckworth’s passion for Jaffa Cakes and powerful motorbikes.

Just answer the question, he said with a smile. How many languages do you actually speak?

Is it worth a Jaffa Cake?

Mick nodded. If I must.

Er - French, German, Russian and Dutch, and I guess you can add English and Malayalam which I learned from my parents.

Mick glanced at his notes. And, apart from having a Masters and an MBA, you are, I gather, more than proficient in certain martial arts.

Kalaripayattu. It’s believed to be the oldest surviving martial art in India.

And, according to Sarah, one that you are known to cheat at.

Penny raised her eyebrows and grinned but said nothing.

According to Inspector Flemons, while you were in France, you single-handedly took on a couple of bent coppers and floored them both. But it seems you don’t fight fair.

Penny laughed. What do you mean by that?

Sarah reckoned you warned one of the coppers you were about to kick him—

— and, while he was busy watching my feet, I landed my fist on the end of his nose. Nothing wrong with that, is there?

Not Marquess of Queensbury rules, was it? If you said you were going to kick him, shouldn’t you just have kicked him?

I did. The idiot bent down as blood began to run from his nose and down his chin. And that’s when I delivered the promised kick, straight to his face. I told him I was going to kick him, but I didn’t say when.

So that’s Kalaripayattu?

No, that’s the Penny Chakyar style of self-defence. Quite effective as it turned out. And a good hard kick in the bollocks was my pièce de résistance. That’s not Kalaripayattu either - it’s just a question of timing and accuracy.

Mick chuckled. But you know a lot of other stuff as well, don’t you?

Oh, I don’t think I’m much cleverer than other people, if that’s what you’re suggesting. My head can only hold so much, just like anyone else, and if I learn something new, that kind of pushes out something less important. I just happen to have chosen to concentrate on stuff that interests me, instead of being good at something else like - I dunno - making bread, for example. I’d rather be a Colour Distribution Technician than attempt to make bread from scratch.

A Colour Distribution Technician?

A painter and decorator. Watching paint dry is a hell of a lot more interesting than any sort of cooking. I’ve tried to make stuff from a recipe which I followed word by word. But it’s more like they’re the instructions for deactivating a nuclear bomb than the steps for making a chicken casserole.

Good job Hjalmar knows how to cook then.

Penny nodded. "He’s spent years trying to teach me how to boil water, but I’ve not made much progress yet. I’ve tried as much as possible not to fill my brain with stuff like that. I think everybody should concentrate on not filling their brains with boring things and save all that space for fun stuff instead. And that’s why I can’t be bothered to learn how to make my bed in the mornings, but I know that the Icelandic for ‘seagull shit’ is ‘mávaskít’."

You’re quite insane, Mick chuckled. But you hit the nail on the head when you said that your linguistic abilities were foremost on the chief constable’s list of required abilities.

So which language would you like to make use of now? Have you got a prisoner who only speaks Mongol or Pawnee or something? I’d be prepared to learn either if you had a spare Jaffa Cake for a hungry detective inspector. Even your coffee’s too wet without a Jaffa Cake.

Mick laughed and pulled a packet from his top drawer. He eased out two and put the packet back. You’re always bloody hungry, Penny, but two’s as many as you get. I’m not made of Jaffa Cakes, you know?

Penny bit into one with an ill-disguised, Mmmmm. She chewed for a moment then asked, Okay, so what do you want me to do with my languages?

I want you to spend a few days in Paris.

Sold! When do I start?

Mick chuckled. If Hjalmar will let you loose, I’d like you to head out today. There’s a flight to Manchester this afternoon, and a connecting flight to Paris early this evening.

Penny nodded. No problem for me. So what’s the craic?

I’ll explain in a minute, but first I want to get your feelings about someone else joining you on the trip.

"As long as it’s not Miss Piggy, I’m fine with that. It’s thought around the station that her face could stop bird shit in