Hugo Duchamp Investigates: The Fourth Trilogy

By Gn Hetherington

Hugo Duchamp Investigates: The fourth trilogy’ contains the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth books in the series following Hugo Duchamp, a Frenchman living and working as a policeman in London who is about to have his world turned upside down.

A horrific accident in 2010 triggers a chain of events in present-day Montgenoux (Prisonnier Dix) (Prisoner Ten). When the body of a young medical intern is discovered on the grounds of a scientific research institute, Hugo discovers she had a very difficult past, and the investigation leads to a family torn apart by a deadly secret and an evil murder. Hugo and his team must race against time to protect the innocent before a deadly killer strikes again.

After tragedy strikes at Baptiste Beaupain’s school, Hugo agrees to go with him to the seaside town of Beaufort-Sur-Mer (Le Bateau au fond de l’océan) (The boat at the bottom of the ocean), where he is immediately thrown into a murder investigation. He is also reunited with faces from his past and together they must work together to fight a murderer who will do anything they can to keep their identity hidden.

In the mountains of France, a group of travellers reunites after forty years to once again walk the Camino de Santiago together (Camino de Compostelle) (The Way of Compostelle). However, when a horrific storm strands the group in a small village, one pilgrim seizes the opportunity to exact revenge in a deadly way and Hugo Duchamp must undertake a perilous journey to rescue his loved ones before the murderer strikes again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gn Hetherington
• Release date: Apr 17, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215850084

Gn Hetherington

Gn Hetherington is the author of the Hugo Duchamp Investigates series of books, set mainly in the fictional French town of Montgenoux, including the kindle top 5 international mysteries & crime bestseller debut 'Un Homme Qui Attend'. He is married and lives in London.

Book preview

To everyone who has been a part of this magical journey, especially:

My husband Dan

Dawn Frankland, Jackie Waite and Joy Edwards

My boys; Charlie, Seth, Hugo and Noah.

My beaux parents, Bill and Chris.

And to all the readers, I really am most grateful to you all.

Notes:

Montgenoux is, for the best part, a figment of my imagination, based loosely upon various regions of France. The story, the places and its characters are also a work of fiction.

For further information, exclusive content and to join the mailing list, head over to:

www.gnhbooks.com

We are also on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram. Join us there!

The artwork on the cover, the website and social media accounts were created in conjunction with two incredible talents Maria Almeida and Deborah Dalcin and I’m indebted to them for bringing my characters to life.

For Charlie, Seth and Dawn. Tu me manques.

Also available:

Hugo Duchamp Investigates:

Un Homme Qui Attend (2015)

Les Fantômes du Chateau (2016)

Les Noms Sur Les Tombes (2016)

L'ombre de l'île (2017)

L'assassiner de Sebastian Dubois (2017)

L’impondérable (2018)

Le Cri du Cœur (2019)

La Famille Lacroix (2019)

Les Mauvais Garçons (2020)

Prisonnier Dix (2021)

Le Bateau au fond de l'océan (2022)

Chemin de Compostelle (2023)

Hotel Beaupain (2024)

Souvenirs Négligents (2025)

The Coco Brunhild Mysteries:

Sept Jours (2021)

Métro Boulot Dodo (2022)

Cercueils en Spirale (2022)

Séance de Spiritisme (2023)

Quatre Pièces (2024)

Cité de la Haine (2024)

Asile de Fous (2025)

The Hugo Duchamp Prequels:

Hugo & Josef (2021)

Club Vidéo (2022)

Hugo & Madeline (2023)

Josef (2024)

Les Enquêteurs (The Investigators):

Service d’Aide (2025)

Prisonnier Dix

by

Gn Hetherington

Part One

Montgenoux

Juin 2005

u n

He had been given the name prisonnier dix by the other men. Not that he would refer to them as men, rather animals. Even then he was reluctant to engage in such negative connotations. He had been raised on a farm and therefore he knew animals; he understood them. He understood their majesty and power and place in a spinning, out-of-control world. He knew their smell, their breath, and their every dignified, controlled, informed move. The regal way in which a cow moved, the side-look from a ewe, the way in which a pig would move its body next to a human. Just enough - not quite a touch, but a spark. A nearness that said we are connected.

Because of this, the man nicknamed Prisonnier Dix knew the difference between real animals and the men who acted like them. The men who shared the prison pigpen with him were way worse than animals. They were less because there had not yet been a word invented, which more clearly showed who or what they were. Where they came from. How they existed. They were not merely descendants of the devil; they were rather disciples, to describe them accurately. They were fornicators and drug-addled plebeians who crawled at Satan’s feet, desperately feeding on whatever scraps he threw them and hoping to attract his attention. Prisonnier Dix did not need the devil’s attention; he knew he already had it, and he was watching on in awe. Prisonnier Dix was not the devil’s protege. He was more. He was rage, and he was more powerful than even he understood.

However, it had not stopped Prisonnier Dix from being locked in a cage. It had taken everything he had to survive and to make it through. He was counting the days until he would be free again, and it had almost destroyed him. He was locked up in an institution which claimed to be a place of rehabilitation, but in reality was a pit of misery, filled with screams of anguish and despair as prisoners who were desperately clinging on to hope slowly lost it. Anger and fury were so palpable, everyone in that miserable hell hole could taste them.

Despite his nickname’s simplicity and unoriginality, he had taken it with a sense of pride because it seemed to be a badge of honour. It told everyone that he was to be feared. Beware, this man is dangerous. The name had been chosen because it indicated the number of his kills before he had been finally caught. The stupidity of his capture still stabbed at him like a red-hot poker to his heart. It angered him to his core because he had allowed it. He had seen it coming, yet he had watched helplessly the noose tightened around his neck. It was like a speeding train, and he was the deer caught in the headlights as he met his demise.

In some ways, it had been a relief because he believed it would finally silence the noise in his head. Except it had not; his capture amplified the noise. Being incarcerated had only presented one advantage - a chance to repose and to begin again. He had become lost. He made mistakes because he had become complacent, impatient to finish something he was not sure had an end, or whether he wanted to kill or not. His time away allowed him to focus. He would play the long game because he needed to savour every moment.

What was about to happen had been planned for a long time. They had gone through every detail time after time because a lot of things could go wrong. He could not and would not allow mistakes to happen. He lifted his head, sucking as much air through his nose as he could manage. This would be his day, a day warm after the summer rain. The smell was intoxicating, and it filled him with a warmth he had only felt each time he killed - when his lungs were filled with the scent of human blood pumping from a gaping wound. The scent of summer rain was a reminder of how important his escape was.

He turned his head, watching as the countryside whizzed past him. He narrowed his eyes, squinting in an attempt to see through the narrow eye slats of the mask they had forced him to wear. His tongue slid lazily between the metal spikes of the mouthguard, bubbles forming on his thin lips. He sucked air through the gaps and closed his eyes. The brightness of the sun was too much for him; he had forgotten that the world outside was colourful. The colour of captivity was grey - grey sky, grey pallor of everyone’s skin, grey painted walls and bars. Never ending grey. So much grey it was as if it had permeated his skin and seeped into his pores, throttling his mood. So much so, he had forgotten there were other colours, particularly his favourite - the rust-red of blood.

It was almost time. He did not need a watch to tell him. He could feel it. The scent of the rolling meadows and the faint aroma of the vineyard was blowing towards him. He wanted to place his feet on the ground so desperately, so wholeheartedly.

He felt as if his body was on fire, coursing with adrenaline and the heat of unspent desire. It reminded him of his past when his desire was a beast he could barely control. It cost him dearly because he had become lazy, dazed and confused by the shadows of his past. It caused him to make a grave error - the gravest of errors and it had led him to where he was now.

In prison, he spent twenty-two hours a day in solitary confinement and the remaining two hours spent shackled and masked. Walking inanely around an auditorium, his eyes were trained on the single window, offering a view of nothing but a hedge. It was all he had, and he worshipped it because it gave him hope. He would walk amongst the trees once again and he would make certain he never made another foolish mistake. Revenge could wait, but his incarceration was eating away at his psyche. He had known unequivocally if he spent much longer behind bars, he would begin to lose grip of reality. He could not bear the thought of losing who he was because it had taken him so long to become the person he always wanted to be. The chrysalis from which he had been reborn almost cost him everything. He would not go back. He would move forward. He would finish what he had started.

The mask was tight against his face and he could feel sweat trickling down his cheeks. He wanted to claw at it, scratch and pull it from his face. But he knew he could not. His hands were tied behind his back. Not for long. The change in the smell from the countryside told him they would soon be at the intersection. If all went according to his plan, his path to freedom would begin. The plan HAD to work. There were no other options.

He opened his eyes slowly, focusing on the four other prisoners in the cage with him. As the van moved, they swayed in unison, unable to do anything but slide back and forth along the bench to which they were all chained. They were men he despised, not just for the banal crimes they committed, but for sharing his space, polluting the air he breathed.

He was not like them in any way, and he believed that he did not deserve to be treated the same way. He was not a monster like they were. They were insipid and stupid, born out of filth and destined to remain the same, committing one unadventurous crime after another.

It was true he had made a ridiculous mistake. He knew he was only in prison because those who were in power, those who had the audacity to judge, did not have the foresight or the intelligence to understand what he was doing. They were foolish in their beliefs. Their lack of imagination made them follow the rules of society. Prisonnier Dix understood the way the world worked and how it should be. Yet, he could not continue his work while enslaved by plebeians who refused to see what was right in front of them. Prisonnier Dix was the world’s deliverance.

‘What are you staring at?’ A guard yelled from behind the locked cage door. ‘Take your filthy, perverted eyes off me, y’hear? Or else I’ll come back there and show you what we really think of scum like you.’

Prisonnier Dix held the guard’s gaze. Behind the mask, he was smiling. It did not matter that the guard could not see the smile. It was enough for Prisonnier Dix to know himself what the smile meant. Non, imbecile. You are the one who will discover how I deal with scum like you.

‘You’re still looking at me, you bastard. I told you to take your eyes off me or I’ll make sure you never see through them again,’ the guard hissed.

Take your eyes off me. Prisonnier Dix made a mental note of that. I will remember those words shortly, he thought, his smile spreading even wider. And so will you, when you realise what is coming to you. He turned his head, lowering it towards his feet. As much as it pained him to appear weak in front of the stupid guard, he did not want to risk him coming into the back of the transport van just yet. The plan had been meticulously arranged right down to the minutest detail. He did not dare risk deviating from it. He would have his freedom, and then he would make the guard pay. In the meantime, all he had to do was to remain patient and calm.

‘What time is it?’ Prisonnier Dix called out.

The guard cackled, slapping the back of another guard, the driver. ‘Hey, nombre dix over there is getting impatient to start his new life in Maximum Security. You wanna get a move on? I’d hate to disappoint him.’ He snorted as if he had just spoken the wittiest of jokes.

The driver cackled. ‘Yeah, me too, although I wouldn’t be in such a hurry if I was him. Where he’s going, they pay special attention to perverts, real special attention, you get me?’ he called over his shoulder.

The guard cackled again, glancing at his watch. ‘It’s 09h00, creep. Just about thirty minutes to go and you’ll be nice and cosy in your new padded cell. But if I were you, I’d try to catch some ZZZs because I have a feeling from now on, you’ll be sleeping with one eye open. While you’ve still got ‘em, that is!’ He snorted, satisfied with himself.

Prisonnier Dix turned his head towards the back of the van. 09h00. His eyes flashed with the intensity of a burning sun. It was time.

d e u x

It began a little after 09h10. Prisonnier Dix knew it because he had been counting the seconds in his head while the sweat built up on his lip, dripping through the mouth hole of his mask. Un to soixante and then back again. He had done it as a child while he waited on the cold hard floor of the kitchen for Papa Noel to arrive every December 25th, despite knowing he would have nothing of any value to give.

The explosion shook the past from his head. At first he could not be sure what was happening. The sound was distant, a faint rumbling, which sounded like nothing, but he knew it was something. Something vitally important. The revving of a car engine. The angry groan informing anyone who came near it that the car was most likely stuck. He smiled as he felt the engine beneath him draw to a halt.

‘What’s going on?’ the guard asked the driver. There was no concern in his voice. Not yet, Prisonnier Dix thought with a smirk.

‘Dunno,’ came the gruff reply. ‘Looks like someone has broken down.’

‘Broken down?’ the guard snapped back, the suspicion clear in his tone. The prison van slid to a halt. ‘What the hell you doing?’ the guard hissed. ‘You know we’re not allowed to stop, not for anything, not for anyone, not when we’re carrying prisoners.’

The driver snorted, waving his hand. ‘Look, it’s some decrepit old farmer. What’s he going to do, beat two armed guards down with his walking stick?’

‘It doesn’t mean we have to stop, someone else will come along and help him,’ the guard retorted. ‘You know the rules. We don’t stop for anything, especially if it looks perfectly innocent.’

The guard waved his hand. ‘Bullshit. It’ll take us five minutes to help him push his truck out of the damn ditch and we can all be on our way, having done our good deed for the day. Besides, I could really do with a piss.’

The van drew to a halt, and the driver killed the engine, pushing open his door and jumping to the ground with a heavy thud.

‘What’s up?’ he called out to the old man. ‘You tried to save a poor bunny rabbit?’ the guard laughed.

BZZZZZZZ.

The sound whizzed through the air like a whisper, but Prisonnier Dix knew exactly what it was. He pulled his body rigid, preparing himself for what was to come. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of the second guard jumping down from the van. Prisonnier Dix wanted to laugh, to shout at the top of his lungs. Ha, I know what’s coming and you don’t, you stupid, brain-dead, gormless idiot.

BZZZZZZZ.

Prisonnier Dix could not help himself. He cackled. He knew the guards were stupid, but really, it amazed him they had fallen for it. An old man looking helpless by the side of the road and they decided he obviously posed no danger. He waited for the sound to die, as their bodies gave in to the electric current which had just been shot through them. Hurry, we need to move quickly, he muttered, knowing time was not on their side. The first part had been accomplished, but there was still so much to do. They had less than fifteen minutes now until someone would begin to notice they were missing. Fifteen minutes, twenty at the most, but he could not take that risk. They needed to carry out the rest of the plan without delay.

One of the other prisoner’s turned to him. ‘What’s going on?’

‘What makes you think I know?’ Prisonnier Dix replied. His voice sounded hoarse to him, distant and far-off as if he was shouting down a wind tunnel.

‘Because there’s not a fucking thing that goes on, you don’t have your hand in,’ came his angry reply. ‘Are you busting us out?’

Prisonnier Dix did not respond. He needed to keep the others at bay if the plan was to work. He sucked in air through the gap in the middle of his teeth. ‘If you play your cards right,’ he said with as much frivolity as he could muster.

‘You sly old dog! I knew you weren’t so bad, after all,’ came the lightning fast reply.

Open the door! Dammit, open the door!

It seemed like an age had passed before the scraping of metal signalled someone was at the rear of the van. And then moments later, Prisonnier Dix felt the whoosh of fresh air on his face for the first time in what felt like years. He sucked it into his lungs hungrily, as if he had not breathed for a long time. He had not. He felt as if he was holding his breath for the last year. And he needed air to think straight. He had to think straight, because he still had so much to do. He turned his head, wishing he could stand up, but he was still shackled.

‘What took you so long?’ he snapped, but there was happiness in his voice.

The old man shrugged. ‘When you get to my age, we can talk. But right now, we’ve got to get moving.’

Prisonnier Dix nodded. ‘Then cut me out.’

Prisonnier Dix lifted his head. The sun was warm. Although he could barely feel it through his mask, he did not care, but he knew he did not have time to enjoy it. Not yet. ‘We have to get moving,’ he said. ‘We don’t have a second to waste.’

The old man grimaced. A younger man climbed out the back of his truck. Prisonnier Dix locked eyes with him, sending a silent, secret message. ‘I had to wait for the kid to get here. We tried to get here on time, but it wasn’t easy. There was a car on the road and they tried to help…’ the old man trailed off.

‘Hey! Get me out of here!’ one of the other prisoners called from the back of the van.

Prisonnier Dix flexed his fingers and hands. They were sore, and they ached from being shackled for several hours. ‘We’ll be right back,’ he called out gaily, ‘just gotta take care of the guards. Make sure they don’t disturb us.’ He turned to the old man and lowered his voice before speaking. ‘We have to make this look real,’ he said. ‘There can’t be any doubt.’

The younger man nodded. ‘I know what I’m doing. I’ve spent years jumping out of tractors; it’s easy enough to do without getting hurt.’

Prisonnier Dix smiled and stepped off the road, watching as the young man climbed into the van. The shouts from the protesters grew louder and louder. The young man kicked the van into life and reversed into the road, accelerating backwards. He stopped twenty feet down the road and nodded at Prisonnier Dix. Suddenly the van lurched forward in the direction of the car the old man had left in the ditch, swerving towards it. As it neared, the young man kicked open the door and threw himself out, rolling onto the grass verge, tumbling and ending in a standing position. He twisted his body, eyes widening as he watched the prison transit vehicle crashing into the upended car, the metal on metal grinding permeating the air. The van roared in protest. The back-end rose and twisted in the air before crashing to the ground with an almighty thud. Prisonnier Dix moved closer, his eyes flicking keenly over the scene. He nodded, satisfied by the scene of devastation in front of him. This might just work.

‘Help! Help!’ The scream made him smile. It reminded him of… something, of someone, of a time past when he still felt as if he was in control. He missed it with every fibre of his being, but he also knew he would never reclaim it. He would never get it back because if he escaped, he knew he would have to be careful for the rest of his life. He would always need to look over his shoulder, he knew could not go back to prison. He would rather die first.

‘Help!’ The desperate scream came again, more urgent, more terrified. Prisonnier Dix turned sharply, realising at least one of the prisoners was still alive. He shrugged. It did not bother him, in fact, he reasoned, it was probably better they were alive. They deserved to see the flames of hell as it consumed them. It was the least they deserved for the crimes they had committed. They were lazy, giving in to their shallow desires which served no purpose. Prisonnier Dix knew his desires were based on serving a higher purpose. He shook his head, angry at allowing himself to get distracted. He burst into action, running to the back of the van. The doors were open and he could see the other prisoners were still shackled to the benches. One was screaming in agony, a bone protruding from his leg. Another appeared unconscious, or perhaps already dead, the others yelling to be freed. Prisonnier Dix raised his hand, showing they should be patient.

‘Aidez-moi,’ he hissed to the young and old man. Between them, they began the laborious process of dragging the two guards towards the van.

‘This guy’s a chunky thing, ain’t he?’ The old man asked, gasping for breath. ‘So, what’s the plan, exactly?’

The three of them worked together, yanking the unconscious first guard into the van. Prisonnier Dix climbed up and pulled him into the driver’s seat, reaching behind him and pulling the seatbelt over the guard’s stomach. ‘We have to make this look like an accident. We have to make it appear as if everyone died in the crash, or in the fire which broke out afterwards.’

The old man frowned, scratching his head, uncertainty etched on his lined, sun-scorched face. ‘And you really think they’re going to buy that?’

Prisonnier Dix smiled. ‘Of course, they will. They’re idiots, all of them. And you know how I know that? Because the biggest mistake they made was underestimating me. They’ll come to regret that. You can bet your life on it. And that’s how I know they’ll buy this, because they’re stupid and I am, and always will be one step ahead of them.’

The young man stepped in front of the older one. ‘Papa is right, and you’re full of the same crap you’ve always been. There’s no way the flics are gonna buy this, and you’ll end up taking us all down with you. I don’t want to end up in prison, but if I have to, I can look after myself. But Papa? What about Papa? He won’t last a week.’

Prisonnier Dix ignored him, focusing instead on the older man. ‘Did you bring my gun?’

The old man smiled and pulled the weapon out of his waistband, handing it to him.

Prisonnier Dix held the gun up and kissed it. ‘I missed you,’ he whispered to it as if he was being reunited with his long lost love.

The old man laughed. ‘You always were an odd one, Raf, an odd one indeed. Do you remember when…’

The punch was instant, knocking the old man off his feet. He scrabbled about desperately on the ground, confusion clear on his face. The young man ran over. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ he yelled. His eyes were flaring angrily. In that instant, Prisonnier Dix realised it was as if he was looking at a younger version of himself.

‘He said my name!’ Prisonnier Dix hissed. ‘You said my name!’ he shouted to the old man. ‘You know you were never supposed to do that.’

The old man pulled himself into a sitting position. ‘Désolé,’ he shook his head. ‘It was out before I could stop myself. It’s just it’s been so long since I’ve seen you and you’ll always be my…’

Prisonnier Dix outstretched his arm, the old man taking it reluctantly. With his eyes wide and confused, he allowed Prisonnier Dix to pull him up. ‘Let’s get on with this,’ Prisonnier Dix mumbled. The three of them worked in silence, dragging the unconscious second guard back into the van and securing him in his seat.

‘What the hell’s going on out there?’ one of the prisoners called from the back. ‘Get us the fuck out of here! We’re hurt, you morons!’

‘Are we really going to do this?’ the young man asked, the uncertainty and fear were clear in his voice. ‘I mean, in cold blood and all that?’ He looked at the old man. ‘You used to cry every time you had to shoot one of the animals on the farm.’

The old man turned his head slowly towards Prisonnier Dix before lowering it. He exhaled, a sound of sadness pushed through a gap in his teeth.

Prisonnier Dix twisted his head. He was no longer shackled, but his face mask remained in place. ‘Of course we are, it is our duty.’

‘Our duty?’

He nodded. They could not see it, but he was smiling. ‘Our duty. I was put on this earth to rid it of scum and vermin. Those who do not deserve to walk amongst the righteous.’ He pointed behind them with his shoulder. ‘The men in there, if you could even call them that, have committed crimes of such depravity they are an insult to nature. They do not deserve to walk Dieu’s earth.’

‘But didn’t you…’ the young man began before receiving a sharp dig in the ribs from the older.

‘Did you bring the petrol?’ Prisonnier Dix interrupted.

The old man moved quickly towards his truck, reached into the cab, and pulled out a large petrol canister. He handed it to the younger man, gesticulating for him to move back toward the prison van. The young man took the can and silently made his way to the van. He lifted the can and threw it over the van, his face twitching when he heard the cries of the men inside.

‘The guards are coming around,’ the old man said, biting his lip.

Prisonnier Dix nodded. ‘Bon. I wouldn’t want them to sleep through what is coming to them.’

‘What happened to you?’ The old man said desperately. ‘You didn’t used to be this… this…’

Prisonnier Dix smiled. ‘What? Righteous? Benevolent? You are right, old man. I was a fool before, but now I am not.’ He looked at his watch. ‘We have little time.’

The old man frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand. If they don’t find your body, what makes you think they won’t come looking for you?’

The prisoner smiled again, his finger stroking the barrel of the gun. ‘Because all they will see is a body. A body burned beyond recognition. They’ll be so pleased I’m dead, they won’t even bother to look further. The prisoners all died. That’s all the newspapers will say, and that will be enough. People will breathe a sigh of relief. They’ll say, thank Dieu these monsters are no longer around. Everyone will pat themselves on the back and go on with their pathetic lives. While I, I, will walk into the light with a new face and be reborn. I shall continue my work. Dieu’s work.’

‘I don’t understand,’ the old man repeated, distress clear on his face.

Prisonnier Dix lifted his gun and cocked the barrel. He closed his eyes for the briefest of moments. He had thought of it for a long time. To be reborn. To rid himself of the shackles which held him back. His eyes snapped open, and he smiled. He aimed it at the young man who was still emptying the contents of the petrol can and shot him in the leg. The young man fell to the ground, wailing and screaming in agony. The older man ran to him, holding the younger man, his eyes wide with fear. ‘What are you doing?’ he wailed.

‘As you said,’ Prisonnier Dix replied. ‘They need a body. I’m going to leave them one, and they will just think it was me. I’ve had a long time to prepare and think about this, I can assure you. I will not go back to prison after everything I’ve been through.’ He reached behind his head and began unbuckling the mask. His fingers twisted as if they had been unused for too long. It took him a while before he finally removed it, throwing it to the ground as if it was too hot to handle.

The old man gasped. ‘Oh, mon Dieu! What happened to your face?’

Prisonnier Dix laughed. A swollen finger stroking his cheek. ‘It is The Mark of Cain and a sign for you all, so you know why I am here. The reason for my existence, my purpose.’

The young man continued wriggling, his screams growing louder. Prisonnier Dix took a step closer. ‘You said they needed a body to be convinced I died in the crash, so I’ll give them one, but,’ he looked towards the van in the ditch. ‘Unfortunately, I also need another one because I have to make this all appear like a tragic minor accident. Don’t you see? It all has to be neat and tidy.’

The old man’s eyes widened in horror, as if suddenly gripped by the realisation of what was unfolding in front of him. ‘But you can’t, not after everything I’ve done for you.’

Prisonnier Dix nodded. ‘You have been good to me, old man, but don’t worry, your sacrifice will be noted and you will be rewarded.’ He raised the gun again.

‘S'il te plaît, non!’ The old man screamed. ‘I am your…’

Prisonnier Dix fired at the old man, the bullet ripping into his right leg. He dropped to the ground. Prisonnier Dix clapped his hands and then looked at his watch, his face tight with anxiety. ‘Now, I have to dig those bullets out of your legs and get you into place. Time is not on my side.’

The old man stared at him and then at the blood emerging from his wound. His eyes were wide with clear confusion. He opened his mouth to speak, but the only sound was an undecipherable gurgle. Prisonnier Dix grabbed the old man from behind, pulling him, suddenly a dead weight, towards the prison van. He barely struggled, his head turning from side to side as he tried to process what was happening to him.

Prisonnier Dix set about the task at hand, moving as quickly and deftly as he could. The old man screamed, the echoes of the young man’s own screams deafening Prisonnier Dix, but he did not care. He went about his task, placing his hand over the old man’s mouth to muffle his screams. He whistled. He did not need to hear the noise. It was just that. Noise. He could not look back. He had to move forward. He had spent a great deal of time, empty nights in a rotten cell, planning it all, right down to the finest, most minute detail. It would be his greatest moment. His rebirth. He ran to the van, grabbed the petrol can and without hesitation ran back to the prison van. He threw the contents onto the wailing prisoners. He did not stop, barely taking a breath, but he laughed as if he had just heard the funniest joke ever written. He stopped at the door, turned to look at the scene of devastation, and ignored the sounds of pain and desperation from his ears. He had no time to waste. He smiled again and set about the task at hand.

Barely ten minutes had passed before Prisonnier Dix jumped from the van and ran with all his might into a nearby field. He made it just in time before the van caught and a loud explosion ripped through the air. The impact threw him to the ground so hard that it knocked the wind out of his lungs. He pushed himself to his feet and turned, smiling in satisfaction as he saw both the van and the old man’s truck were now in flames. With the huge flames, he knew little could be gathered for examination and investigation. It was done, he thought to himself. But he could not rest yet. He had to move, and he had to do it quickly. He moved back to the road and began running away from the fire. He knew he had to stay hidden should anyone come along. They had chosen the road for a good reason. It was quiet and discreet, but he did not dare risk being spotted. He stopped and stared at the sign by the side of the road.

Bienvenue à Montgenoux.

He smiled. He had never thought he would be happy to be back, but he was.

‘Bienvenue to you too, Montgenoux,’ he said, whistling happily, walking forward, the sounds of the screams behind him music to his ears. ‘Au revoir,’ he said with a laugh, bowing his head as if in mock-deference. Prisonnier Dix moved quickly along the road to the waiting car. Everything had to be right. He would not get caught again. He smiled, lifting his head to the sun, the warmth flowing through him.

Part Two

Montgenoux

JUIN 2019

u n

Captain Hugo Duchamp raised his hand to shield his emerald-green eyes from the blinding afternoon sun. He tucked a blond fringe behind an ear and lowered himself onto his haunches. He flicked on his glasses, his gaze moved across the clearing, ensuring he missed nothing. He knew above all else, first impressions of a crime scene were crucial. He would need to replay it over in his mind for days, weeks, maybe even months. He did not want to rely just on photographic reminders. He needed to see it for himself - to understand the nuances and the details which might seem unimportant but could become crucial. It was what he had done for his entire career, and it had served him well.

‘You got here quickly,’ a voice called out from the near-distance.

Hugo stood, smiling warmly at Dr. Irene Chapeau, friend and colleague and as far as he was concerned, one of France’s foremost pathologists. It still amazed him she had chosen to spend her career working in Montgenoux, a small metropolis in the Pays de la Loire region of Western France. He knew she had been offered promotions in Paris and declined them. She strode towards him with purpose and determination despite her small stature. She was dressed from head to toe in blue forensic scrubs, with only a glimpse of her trademark smooth, fiery-red hair, cut into a short bob, sticking out of the hood.

‘I wasn’t sleeping,’ he answered.

Irene’s bright eyes flashed with concern. ‘Is everything all right?’

Hugo nodded. ‘C’est bon.’ He shrugged. ‘Some days, or rather nights, just seem longer than others. And on those nights, I find myself visited by those who have passed before us. They seem talkative, and it feels like the least I can do is listen.’

She pursed her lips. ‘I hear you, cher Hugo, but in our line of work, it comes with the territory, non?’

‘It does,’ he replied with a sigh.

Irene rubbed his arm tenderly. ‘But if you’re suggesting you’re plagued by doubts about what you could have done differently, banish those thoughts because we both know them to be ultimately unhelpful and unreasonable.’

He sighed again before pointing towards the forensics tent which had been erected in the field's corner, bordering on the small brook which circumvented Montgenoux. His eyes locked on the opposite side of the water, immediately recognising the large hedges which lined the sprawling Beaupain Vineyards. He thought yet again, the fields had turned up something terrible. It was not the first time, and he wondered just how many secrets the Vineyard was still keeping.

As if reading his thoughts, Irene said. ‘There’s no sign of a connection with what happened over there last year.’

What happened last year. The words sounded hollow and surreal, just as his dream had been, and it angered him, stabbing painfully at his heart. It sounded so matter-of-fact and distant, though he knew that had not been Irene’s attention. Rather, it was a fact. A fact of their day-to-day lives. The vineyard had been the scene of a thirty year old crime after the remains of a skeleton had been discovered. But the discovery turned out to be only the beginning of the story, creating a snowball effect destroying lives and families as it did. Despite extensive searches, it had always troubled and worried Hugo that the Beaupain Vineyard was not done with its secrets.

He appraised Irene carefully. ‘Really?’

She nodded. ‘The deceased certainly hasn’t been here as long as the ones we discovered in the Vineyard, and besides, wasn’t that case closed and all the victims accounted for?’

Hugo did not answer. He was not so sure. The former Mayor of Montgenoux had been guilty of many crimes, most crucially the sadistic murder and sexual attacks on women and young girls. He was long dead, as were his only confidants and protectors. It troubled Hugo they might never truly know the extent of their crimes.

‘And also, the body is on this side of the brook,’ she said optimistically, ‘then again, who can say what those bastards may have gotten up to…’ She frowned. ‘Still, I don’t see it. I’d rather thought we’d seen the last of them and their horrible crimes.’

‘I had trouble finding you,’ Hugo said with a visible shudder. He wanted to agree with her, he really did, but he was not so sure. He cleared his throat. ‘Actually, I don’t recall ever being on this side of the Vineyard. I had to call Ben and ask him for directions.’ Ben, Hugo’s husband, was for all intents and purposes, the owner of the Vineyard, after inheriting it from his father, Louis Beaupain. Louis had been murdered and his own kinds of skeletons had emerged. Ben had been adamant ever since he had no interest or desire to continue in the family business, triggering a tricky and complicated legal process.

Irene nodded. She pointed to the road where Hugo had parked his car behind hers. ‘That is the only access to this field because of the brook and the vineyards. You can’t get to it from the Beaupain property because it’s a sheer drop behind the hedges. I suppose a person could abseil down it, should they be so inclined.’ She stopped and smiled. ‘And because it’s so remote and easy to spot who is coming and going,’ she paused, lowering her voice and winking at him, ‘it used to be used a lot by lovers seeking a little privacy, if you know what I mean.’

Hugo pursed his lips. ‘Odd, I’ve never heard of any trouble here.’

‘Not so odd, really,’ she responded. ‘The road has been fenced off for a long time, as long as I can remember, actually. I’m sure someone bought the land and gated it off, ready for whatever plans they had, but apparently nothing came of it.’ She pointed to a digger. ‘But obviously something is in the works now. Hence the disturbed ground and the reason for our early morning call.’

Hugo waved in the tent's direction, having spotted the two young Lieutenants who worked with him at Montgenoux Police Nationale. Markus Garrel and Marianne Laurent made their way towards him. Their body language told Hugo they were more than likely already on their third or fourth argument of the day. They were impetuous and often infuriating, but he had found them to be hardworking and efficient young officers. They had accepted his arrival in Montgenoux with barely any fuss, adhering to a new regime in a fractured police force. Hugo was surprised that Marianne Laurent seemed to have no issues with him since he had replaced her father - the former disgraced Captain, Philippe Laurent.

‘What do we have?’ he asked them, knowing whatever they had to say was likely to change the direction of his life for the foreseeable future.

Marianne pushed Markus out of the way, although he was taller and more muscular than her. She looked at Hugo, her face pale and serious as it usually was. ‘At approximately 05h00 this morning a Montgenoux citizen,’ her keen, alert eyes flicked over her notepad, ‘arrived on the scene. He’s not known to us, has no criminal record and,’ she lowered her voice discreetly, ‘and after speaking with him, it’s my opinion he hasn’t the sense or the intelligence to lie.’

Markus scoffed. ‘Speaking with him? Is that what you call it? The Gestapo could have learned lessons from your interview techniques, Marianne.’

Marianne stared at him as if assessing how to take his statement. She opened her mouth to speak.

Hugo interjected. ‘You said 05h00? Why so early?’

Markus pushed back in front of Marianne, rubbing his hand across his buzz-cut head. ‘He claims he was working.’

Hugo turned his attention to the field, noticing to the west in a small carpark, there were several vans and trucks. ‘What kind of work?’ he asked.

‘Apparently the land has been bought by a developer and they’re going to build swanky apartments on it,’ Markus replied. ‘They’ve been trying for years, but old man Beaupain always blocked the planning permits, but now that he’s dead…’ Markus trailed off.

Hugo nodded. He could imagine Louis would have done whatever it took to prevent any building work near his precious Vineyard. Upon his arrival in Montgenoux five years earlier, the relationship between Hugo and Louis was often fraught. Especially when Hugo began dating Louis’ son.

‘Didn’t Ben know about it?’ Markus asked.

Hugo’s jaw flexed. The relationship between Louis and his son had been complicated, and after his death, Ben had all but relinquished his birthright. If he had known about any development, he had certainly not mentioned it to Hugo, but Hugo surmised he probably would not have cared much, anyway. ‘Ben’s involvement with the Vineyard is limited,’ he gave by an answer.

Hugo moved further across the field, passing the digger which appeared to have been hastily discarded. ‘So, he began work and disturbed the ground with the digger?’

‘And imagine his surprise, when,’ Irene said, appearing by his side, and with a dramatic yank, pulled the tent flap back, ‘he saw this.’

Hugo’s eyes were immediately drawn to the body lying in the middle of the tent. Or rather, what remained of it. It had obviously lain undisturbed for some time. Fragments of clothes and shoes were still on the remains, and it had long strands of light-coloured hair. He turned to Irene. ‘What can you tell us, Dr. Chapeau?’

Irene stepped onto the tiles she had arranged around the body. ‘I haven’t done a full examination yet, I’ll do that when I get back to the morgue, but from my initial examination I can tell you we are looking at an adult female. There are a few strands of possibly blonde hair, still attached. I may be able to extract DNA and we can of course check that, but,’ she sighed, ‘there’s not a lot to go on, I’m afraid. She’s likely been buried here between ten and twenty years, no longer, I believe. There is no obvious sign of cause of death.’

‘Nothing at all?’ Hugo asked in surprise.

Irene lifted off her visor and replaced it with her glasses. She moved closer to the body. ‘As I said, I’ll go over it with a fine-tooth comb back at the morgue, but I see no obvious trauma to the skeleton, no obvious fractures to the torso, or to the skull. These are usually the clearest indications as to the cause of death. I may be able to extract some evidence for testing. There are still some teeth remaining, and as I said, we have some strands of hair, so DNA is possible to help identify her. But as it stands at this moment, all I can really say is the cause of death is unexplained. I hope to have more for you later.’

Markus snorted. ‘Dead people rarely end up buried in a field unless someone wants to hide something.’

Irene tipped her head. ‘You are probably correct, Lieutenant, but my job is to identify the cause of death and not how she ended up here. That’s your job.’ She turned to Hugo. ‘We’ll meet at the morgue this afternoon, 14H00, is that suitable for you?’

Hugo nodded, stepping out of the tent. His eyes scanned the sprawling Vineyard again, the usual sinking feeling appearing in the pit of his stomach. He hoped that whatever they had unearthed this time, did not have such as devastating outcome as the last time they had found a body in the area.

d e u x

Irene began the slow process of unzipping the body bag. As always, she took her time, oblivious to the often anxious and impatient eyes that watched her every move. She had always made it clear. She would not, could not rush it. For many reasons, it was her foremost intention to disturb the body as little as possible - for their honour and to ensure that whatever she saw and found, would be preserved and be used to help discover what had happened to them.

Ben Beaupain appeared by her side, pushing the unruly brown curls from his forehead into the cap he was wearing. He was a nurse, working mainly in the major part of the hospital, but such was their friendship, Irene always requested him to assist her whenever she could. ‘What do we have today?’ he asked. His voice was soft and warm, which endeared him to anyone he came into contact with.

Irene finished unzipping the bag.

Ben gasped. ‘Oh, the poor woman. Where did you find her? Is that why they called Hugo out early this morning?’

Irene nodded. ‘She was discovered in a field… in a field near your… rather, your father’s vineyard.’

Ben steadied himself on the gurney as if he was suddenly lightheaded. ‘Dieu, not another one!’

Irene touched his arm. ‘We don’t know that. We don’t know it has anything to do with what happened to your father, or because of your father, or on his land. She wasn’t even discovered on the vineyard.’

Ben’s eyes widened. ‘But near it? Putain, this has my father and his sicko friends written all over it.’

The whoosh of the air-conditioned doors indicated they were no longer alone. Ben spun on his heels, a smile appearing and leaving his face as quickly when he saw the long, purposeful strides of his husband, closely followed by Juge d'instruction, Renaud Deshors. Ben stole a look at Hugo. His eye twitched as if he was fighting the urge to wink at him.

Ben turned to Irene. ‘Why does this feel like it’s something to do with Papa and his cretin friends?’ he blurted. ‘Is this their handiwork?’

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ Renaud hissed through gritted teeth. He was a tall, slight man, with salt and pepper hair and a tight, gaunt face. He was a formidable but fair judge who enacted his job with intense seriousness. ‘Because it already stinks of him and his rotten gang of miscreants.’

‘We don’t know anything yet,’ Hugo said passively. ‘And we may not for some time, so let’s just take this one step at a time and not get ahead of ourselves.’

Ben shook his head angrily. ‘Non, Renaud is right. This has Papa’s and those disgusting friends of his written all over it.’ He wagged his finger. ‘We all know what they were capable of, the vile things they did.’ He looked at the remains on the gurney. ‘So, it’s not much of a stretch to imagine this poor woman was just another one of their victims.’

Hugo did not know what to say. He stared at the remains of the woman they had just discovered and had to admit to himself the connection could not be ruled out. Louis Beaupain, Mayor Willum Bitand and Jean Luc Missero - three supposed pillars of the Montgenoux community, had considered themselves to be above the law and had been involved in the murder of several people. They were all dead now, but their crimes, and the legacies, were still resonating around a devastated town.

He moved closer, stopping in front of the young woman. ‘Let’s just take this one step at a time, before we leap to any conclusions. D’accord?’

Irene stepped next to him. ‘I agree. Let’s see what this jeune femme has to tell us, shall we?’

An hour later, Irene flicked off her latex gloves and visor. She turned her head slowly, meeting the gaze of the three men watching her. Her cheeks flushed, and she turned away again. ‘Well, I hate to say it,’ she mumbled, ‘but I have nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ Juge Deshors repeated. ‘Rien? How can that be possible?’

Irene moved to the water dispenser and poured a cup. She sipped it. ‘It happens,’ she added with a shrug. ‘More often than we would choose to admit, but it does happen. Sometimes we, and by we, I mean science, can only do so much.’

Hugo stood up. ‘Then you have no cause of death?’

‘Non,’ she replied. ‘I’ve taken as much evidence from her as I can. We’ll spend the foreseeable future examining it, extracting, probing, trying to understand, but as it stands, all I can tell you with any degree of certainty is that I found no evidence of anything other than a natural death.’

‘There’s nothing natural about ending up buried in a field with no grave,’ Ben bristled, ‘and I just know my father had something to do with it.’

‘We know no such thing, Ben,’ Juge Deshors snapped, ‘and we won’t speculate otherwise. Montgenoux is just starting to get over what has happened in the last few years. I will not allow us to go down that road again unless we know for certain and have evidence we are dealing with something untoward.’ He turned to Hugo. ‘What about you, Captain Duchamp. What are your thoughts on this turn of events?’

Hugo’s cheeks flushed. He did not answer immediately, instead moved towards the gurney. He flicked on his glasses, staring with reticence at the corpse. ‘It is my experience that just because we don’t have a determinable cause of death, does not mean a crime hasn’t been committed. We treat this death as suspicious until we know otherwise and can explain why she was buried in such a way without the authorities being informed. We do so by retracing our steps, establishing a timeline and checking missing person reports, and,’ he smiled at Irene, ‘waiting patiently for the DNA evidence to arrive.’

Juge Deshors clapped his hands. ‘Bon. We’ll reconvene at a later date, non? Au revoir.’

Ben watched the Juge leave. He turned back to Hugo and Irene. ‘If my father had anything to do with this one, I’ll… I’ll…’ he trailed off as if unable to finish the sentence.

t r o i s

Hugo’s eyes flicked over the report; his lips twisted into a grimace. He looked across his desk to Irene and with a shrug of her shoulders, told him she agreed.

‘Je suis désolé,’ she said.

Hugo shook his head. ‘You really found nothing?’

‘Rien,’ she replied. ‘The blood was negative for anything substantive. The hair follicles showed no sign of drug use. And there are no visible injuries to the skeleton and therefore because of all of this, I have to rule the poor woman’s death as undetermined.’

‘Hmm,’ Hugo mused. ‘We’re checking missing person reports but there’s no match so far. Not from France at least. We’ve widened the net, mais…’ he trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence. He did not need to. Irene was aware of the limited resources available to them all. ‘There’s nothing you can tell me about her?’

Irene took back the file and flicked it open and gave a resigned sigh. ‘She was definitely in the ground for at least ten years, not over twenty. By her measurements, I’d say she was a well-nourished female of average height and build, probably in her late twenties to early thirties. She had given birth. The fragments of her clothing which remained tell us nothing. A possible floral pattern on the dress, daisies perhaps. Black leather boots, but nothing to show where they came from or who made them. No jewellery - necklaces, rings, watches, nothing like that. Her hair was blonde and shoulder length.’

Hugo took this all in. ‘What about facial reconstruction? You can do that, right? You’ve done it for me before.’

Irene bit her lip. ‘I’d love to, Hugo, but I ran it past my boss, and he said non. You know what it’s like at the moment for us all. Budgets are tighter and tighter and the truth is, he has a point. We would spend an enormous amount of money on something we can’t say with any certainty was anything but a natural death.’

‘Then how did she end up buried in a field?’ Hugo posed.

She shrugged. ‘There could be many reasons. Funerals are expensive. Perhaps her family couldn’t afford it, or perhaps she wanted to be laid to rest there, next to the brook. You saw it, it’s a particularly beautiful spot.’

Hugo gave her a doubtful look, showing his uncertainty. ‘If somebody died, surely there would be a report in one form or another.’

‘People disappear all the time. The family may have chosen not to tell anyone. There is rather a lot of red-tape attached to anything like that,’ Irene reasoned, ‘or, of course, she could have died accidentally, and they panicked no-one would believe it…’ She stood up. ‘As much as we’d like to sort this out, we have to accept that sometimes it’s just not possible.’

Hugo nodded. ‘You’ve uploaded the DNA to all the databases?’

‘Oui,’ she replied. ‘Nationally and internationally. If she’s ever been in the system, we should get a hit, but…’ She blew him a kiss. ‘See you tonight for dinner?’

Hugo smiled. ‘I’m looking forward to it. Bonne journée.’

q u a t r e

At first, Hugo could not discern what the sound was. He dropped his glasses onto his desk and frowned, cocking his ears towards the door, unsure if Lieutenant Markus Garrel was playing music too loud in the main office again. The sound continued, the gradually loudening whoosh-whoosh, at first faint but rapidly growing to a crescendo. The realisation of what it could be surprised him. Surely it really was not the sound of an incoming helicopter? But he could not think of what else the sound could be, but the scrapes of blades growing angrier and more urgent the nearer they got to Montgenoux Square.

He stood abruptly, patently aware it was a market day and that Montgenoux Square would be full of people going about their business, unaware that at any moment a large-bladed chunk of metal would land on the well-travelled cobbles. He pressed his way out of his office, passing Markus and Marianne, receptionist Mare-Louise Shelan and forensic expert Etienne Martine as he did.

Hugo called over his shoulder. ‘Etienne, do you know what’s going on?’ He frowned again. ‘I hardly dare ask, but is there any chance we were expecting a helicopter?’

Etienne shook his head, rubbing his finger across a faded Hawaiian shirt. ‘Not to my knowledge, and normally I get emailed if anyone files flight plans over this part of France.’

Hugo frowned as he pulled open the door. ‘Then, it’s a surprise,’ he said, not sure what it meant but confident it was probably not good. The sudden gust of wind knocked him back, causing him to have to steady himself against the doorway. He squinted, trying to see through the dust cloud blowing in his direction. The deafening roar indicated he had been correct as the helicopter lowered itself onto the street in front of him. He stood stock-still, waiting for the pilot to kill the engine before moving closer to it. The door swung open and a man jumped out, crouching as he moved clear of the now slowing blades.

‘Are you Captain Duchamp?’ he called out in English over the roar.

Hugo stared at him in surprise, wondering how he knew who he was. He thought he detected an accent, but he did not recognise it.

The man held out a hand. Hugo shook it. It was surprisingly soft and yet icy cold. ‘My name is Salem Abt,’ the man said. ‘And I need to speak with you as a matter of urgency.’

Hugo nodded. ‘Very well. Shall we go into my office?’

Salem Abt flashed a tight smile. ‘Thank you very much, lead the way, Captain.’

Salem Abt took the seat opposite Hugo’s desk, affording Hugo the chance to appraise him. Hugo imagined he was probably in his late twenties, tall and lithe with a mop of blond, curly hair atop a smooth, tanned face with piercing eyes as dark as night. Hugo could not shake the thought he recognised him but found himself unable to figure out from where.

‘I am very grateful to you for giving me your time,’ Salem said. His voice was light but deep, ‘and I apologise for my rather overly dramatic entrance, but I was impatient to get here and didn’t want to wait. I am often scolded for my impatience,’ he added with a warm smile, ‘but I have become somewhat spoiled these past few years. I am not used to waiting, or being made to wait. It has left me a slightly changed, impatient man.’ He paused and smiled. ‘I am working on it.’

Hugo cocked his head, still unsure why he thought he recognised the young man. He was almost sure they had never crossed paths. ‘Why were you impatient to get here?’ he questioned.

Salem clenched his hands together so tightly it appeared to hurt him. The dark eyes bore in to Hugo with burning intensity.

‘I can’t tell you how long I have waited for this moment,’ Salem whispered. ‘Actually, I can. Today is my twenty-fifth birthday.’ He laughed. ‘And while this may be the strangest present I have ever received, it is also most probably the best. To answer your question and to be precise, I have waited exactly fifteen years for this moment.’

Hugo frowned, his fingers inching towards the packet of cigarettes on the corner of his desk which he knew he could not smoke. His instinct told him whatever business Salem had in Montgenoux, it was not necessarily going to mean good news for Hugo.

‘My mother disappeared on