Hugo Duchamp Investigates: The Second Trilogy

By Gn Hetherington

‘Hugo Duchamp Investigates: The second trilogy’ contains the fourth, fifth, and sixth 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.

‘L’hombre de L’isle’ (The Shadow from the Island) picks up after the shocking conclusion of Hugo’s last investigation and the action switches to Ireland where Hugo races against time to solve the brutal murder of a priest in his most personal investigation yet which will leave him questioning everything he thought he knew and believed in.

In ‘L’assassiner de Sebastian Dubois’ (The Murder of Sebastian Dubois) Hugo’s two worlds collide. His new life in Montgenoux is affected by an investigation from his past and he finds himself having to deal with a past he thought he had left behind and a pair of criminals who are determined to wreak their revenge on him. As he attends a crime scene at the newly opened Montgenoux prison, Hugo and Dr. Chapeau find themselves taken hostage and face a deadly race against time to escape their grasp of violent criminals with only one thing on their minds, Hugo’s death.
The discovery of a thirty-year-old skeleton buried under the Beaupain vineyard in Montgenoux (‘L’impondérable’) triggers a horrific series of events in the modern day resulting in the murder of a prominent citizen and a murder/suicide. It all seems like an open-and-shut case. Hugo faces a complex web of lies and crimes dating back to the eighties which have devastating effects on Hugo and those he has come to love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gn Hetherington
• Release date: Apr 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215459058

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)

L'ombre de l'île

by

Gn Hetherington

Part One

Cork, Ireland

May

o n e

Hugo Duchamp stepped through the electric doors and raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. He was a police detective, therefore he instinctively scoped the immediate area, assessing it as a potential crime scene, before realising he was not entirely sure what he was looking for or who he was expecting to see. He was not here for that. Or was he? All he knew for certain was he was a stranger in a strange place and the only person he knew there was far out of his reach.

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the weariness that had descended on him during the long flight from Nantes. It was five hours of his life that felt much longer as he struggled to squeeze his six foot four inch frame into a cramped seat, all the while struggling to compose himself for what he knew lay ahead. He pushed his mop of unruly blond hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear, and narrowed his piercing emerald green eyes that felt dry and weary.

For the preceding months it felt as if he had done little but go through the motions. He had known this day was coming. Each night as he climbed into his empty bed after a long, troublesome day as Captain of Police in Montgenoux, a small town in Southern France, he closed his eyes hoping he would sleep well.

As he fell into a fitful sleep he prayed that when he woke he would turn his head, push his hair off his face, wipe the sleep out of his eyes and smile at the person he had come to love more than life itself. But each morning as he turned his head all he saw was the white pillow with no head shaped dip, no curl on a forehead, no pursed, full lips that begged to be kissed, and he was returned to the moment as it all came flooding back to him, the remembrance of why he was sleeping alone. He would drop his feet to the floor, light a cigarette, pour a café and pad towards the bathroom to get dressed and then the day would begin again like a warped, twisted Groundhog Day.

Hugo looked around the bustling airport entrance and lit a cigarette, his hand shaking slightly as he moved the lighter towards the tip. The cigarette flashed red as he sucked the nicotine into his body, feeling the familiar calmness overcome him. His left hand rose to the scar below his left eye and he rubbed his fingers across it, as he did whenever his mind was troubled. The scar was a reminder to him that without it he would probably be dead. It was his reminder that no matter what was happening, things could always be worse. At that moment, however, Hugo was not sure it was true anymore.

He pressed his head against the wall, pulled the glasses from his windswept hair and looked around the busy concourse. People were rushing to and fro, running for a flight or stepping out into the fresh Irish air, their faces happy and light, full of anticipation for what their journeys promised.

He smiled as he saw an excited girl standing on her tiptoes, a bucket and spade swinging in her hand. Her father bent to kiss her head, his hand reaching around and pulling her close to him, as they moved towards a waiting taxi. The swing in their steps was unmistakable as that of those off to enjoy an adventure, their hearts light and their minds untroubled, their eyes dancing with the promise of adventure and laughter.

Just then, Hugo envied them more than he cared to admit. He had never been a man jealous of others but now he found he was and it filled him with the kind of disappointment in life he thought he had gotten over. He had let his guard down since he returned from a self- imposed exile in London to France, the place of his birth and where he lived out his formative years. In London he had lived life on his own terms, finding comfort in relative solitude, choosing friends or lovers only if he felt he needed them, which he did infrequently.

However, since being forced to return to France the previous year he had opened his heart to the possibility of a life he thought out of his reach, to dare to love and to dare to imagine living a life he once considered himself incapable of. His own family had robbed him of that hope, but in Montgenoux, despite his reluctance, he had seen the welcoming arms of a modern, nuclear family and he had allowed himself to be enveloped.

However, on this warm early summer day, as he placed his feet on Irish soil for the first time, he wished that he could, once again, be the man who needed no-one. He knew what he was about to face would be one of the most painful experiences of his thirty-five year existence. It was time to say goodbye.

t w o

Hugo stepped out of the taxi and handed the driver a twenty euro note, telling him to keep the change.

A sense memory appeared as he spoke in English for the first time in a long time. The last time he had spoken English his mouth was twisted by the harsh words that appeared when two hearts were torn apart, and he performed that cruel dance with the one he once loved. The cruel words that appeared when two hearts were torn apart. He shook his head. The present was enough to deal with without dipping his toes in the minefield of his past.

He looked at the condensation on the back window where only moments earlier he had absentmindedly traced a heart. He transferred his gaze to his finger and the drops of water falling to the ground. Lifting it to his lips he blew a silent kiss into the air and shrugged his shoulders, forcing the feeling out of him. This was not the time to wallow in self-pity. He had to regain the strength that had deserted him, he had promised himself that at least.

He dropped his bag onto the ground, pressed his hand against the crook of his back and stretched, pushing the pain that had festered there for the last year. He looked up and his eyes scanned the eight formidable pillars and the stone steps that led to Cork County Court and took a sharp intake of breath as the realisation of what was about to happen inside hit him. Having the support of someone would perhaps have been a good idea after all and he wished he had not decided to come alone. He thought he was strong enough, but he was not sure that was true anymore.

But, like the loner he was, he had insisted on coming alone and pushed aside everyone who professed to care about him, in the same way that he had been pushed away. Throwing his bag over his shoulder he made his way into the court. Somewhere overhead he heard a crash of thunder as a summer storm approached, dragging dark, heavy clouds, and pressing against his already throbbing temples.

Hugo squeezed into one of the small seats in the viewing gallery and strained his neck to look down, desperately searching for someone. Where was he? Why was he not there? As he wondered if he would even appear he considered, not for the first time, that perhaps this whole nightmare was just that, a cruel blip on the radar of his life, a colossal joke he was not in on.

Hugo looked around again and froze as his eyes locked upon the defendant sitting next to his lawyer, his head bowed and his cuffed hands folded in his lap. Hugo’s eyes scanned his face as if searching for something hidden from view, a glimpse of something he recognised. The face was thinner, gaunt almost, the usually bright eyes were dull and lifeless, the full lips were dry and cracked and his hair had been shaved, with only a fine line of stubble remaining. It shocked Hugo to realise that he did not recognise him. It could well have been a stranger.

The judge entered the courtroom and the bailiff indicated that everyone should stand up. Hugo could not draw his eyes away from the defendant, dressed in an oversized prison uniform that barely hid his bone-thin body. As if sensing Hugo’s gaze he turned his head, his eyes widening, his pupils dilating as his own eyes locked with Hugo’s. The flicker of pain he saw stabbed at Hugo’s heart and matched his own.

Hugo sank back into the uncomfortable seat, grateful for it as he felt sure he would fall without it. His legs were weak and his left leg began twitching, so he pressed his elbow onto his knee to stop it from chattering against the tiled floor. He could not pull his attention away, no matter how much he wanted to be rid of the electric current stabbing at his heart. The defendant, however, did, shooting Hugo a look that puzzled him as it was one he had never seen from him before. What was it? He could not process it. Irritation? Anger? Hugo could not tell for sure, but he knew it was not a look he thought he would ever see.

‘Will the defendant please rise,’ the judge said, his baritone voice firm and officious as if practiced at commanding the space and the people in front of him.

The defendant stumbled to his feet, steadying himself on the table, while his lawyer placed a protective hand on his back.

The judge shuffled his papers, his glasses dancing precariously on his bony nose. ‘For the record, please will you state your name and date of birth.’

Their eyes met again as he looked over his shoulder towards Hugo. ‘Benoit Beaupain, February 25th, 1989.’ Instinctively Ben’s hand rose to his forehead to push away the errant curl that usually bounced on his forehead. It was gone, and instead, his scarred finger scratched against his pale, dry skin. Hugo’s eyes followed him as if assessing every move Ben made, every stretch, every flinch, searching for something, anything. He was like a slave pleading with its master for some kind of acknowledgment of his existence. A dog lying at the feet of his master waiting for a crumb, a sign of affection. Something.

The judge nodded, frowning, puzzled as his gaze passed between Hugo and Ben. He coughed as if assessing what was of so much more interest to the defendant than the proceedings. ‘And you, Benoit Beaupain are charged that you did, on the 12 April 2016, murder Father Aidan Boyle, contrary to Section 4 of the Criminal Justice Act, 1964. Can you state, for the record, how you plead in this matter.’

Ben’s lawyer bent to Ben’s ear and whispered something into it, Ben shook his head vehemently before stealing another look at Hugo. He turned back towards the judge, his head jutting forward, his Adam’s apple rising and falling as if he was attempting to push air into his lungs to stop himself from suffocating.

‘Guilty. I’m guilty,’ Ben responded, so matter-of- factly, he could almost have been ordering a drink at a bar. The words did not sound real to Hugo, and despite coming from a voice he knew, it sounded as if it was coming from a stranger. A rustle of hushed murmurs broke out. Hugo could see the rest of the crowd, some of whom were waving their fists angrily. Hugo tried to blot it out, his eyes focused tightly on nothing but Ben. He could not believe what was happening.

The judge slammed his gavel down angrily. ‘Silence! If you don’t keep quiet I’ll have the courtroom cleared. Do you understand?’ he said tightly, his firm gaze spreading across the courtroom.

Everyone lapsed into an ominous silence, a thick, uncomfortable air spreading across the room. They knew this particular judge was not a man to be trifled with.

The judge looked back at Ben. ‘As no doubt your solicitor has informed you, murder carries with it a mandatory life prison sentence. Do you understand that?’

Ben nodded. ‘I do.’

‘And you still wish to forgo a jury trial?’

‘I do.’

The Judge frowned again. ‘And your solicitor has explained to you the ramifications of that? You do understand that by forgoing a trial, you are also foregoing your right to challenge the State’s evidence?’

Ben nodded. ‘I do,’ he repeated.

The judge nodded, a frown creasing his wrinkled forehead, a snarl twisting his mouth. He looked down again at his notes and sighed. ‘I have a request here from the Catholic Church. Apparently, there is someone who would like to make a victim impact statement.’ He sighed again, scratching at his cheek irritably. ‘Normally I would not allow such a statement, primarily because the deceased had no family of his own or anyone who is directly affected by his death, but I think, perhaps, that under the circumstances and the fact the deceased was a fundamental part of the community...’

A snort escaped from Ben’s mouth, and the judge shot him a warning glance.The judge continued. ‘And because of that, I will allow it before I continue with the sentencing.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Is there a Sister Abigail Nevin present?’

A nun raised her hand and pulled herself to her feet. She was slight, with a wisp of mousey hair escaping her habit that she pressed back inside. Despite her drab clothes, they did not hide the fact that she was an attractive early middle-aged woman. She cleared her throat, her head pointed directly towards the judge. She twisted her body away from Ben as if trying to erase him from her memory.

She cleared her throat again. ‘Thank you, your honour, for allowing me to speak.’ She raised a piece of paper that looked as if it had been folded and refolded many times like a piece of origami. ‘Father Aidan Boyle was the lifeblood of The Driscoll School in Ballyinis since it opened in 1980. He was instrumental in making the school one of the most respected in the world for its groundbreaking work involving troubled children.’

A snort escaped Ben’s throat again. The judge lifted his head. ‘One more, Mr. Beaupain, and I’ll have you removed. Do we understand one another?’

Ben nodded quickly, and swallowed desperately as if trying to push air into a body that had forgotten how to breathe.

‘The court apologises, Sister Abigail, please continue.’

Sister Abigail nodded. ‘In the thirty-six years since Father Boyle has been headmaster, he has helped hundreds of children go on to lead productive and decent adult lives.’

‘Bullshit!’ Ben hissed, spittle flying from his mouth.

Hugo watched helplessly, wanting nothing more than to be able to jump down from the gallery, take the man he loved in his arms and imagine this whole nightmare was not happening. He would kiss Ben’s head and tell him everything was going to be all right.

The judge waved his gavel angrily. ‘Don’t test me, young man, your sentence may be out of my hands but the time until you are eligible to go before the parole board is not. Sister Abigail will finish her impact statement without further interruption. Am I making myself clear, Mr. Beaupain?’

Ben nodded again.

‘I said, am I making myself clear? I want an answer.’

‘Yes,’ Ben responded, meeting the judge’s angry gaze defiantly. Hugo had seen that look many times when Ben was dealing with his father, Louis Beaupain. ‘You are,’ he added coolly.

The judge shook his head. ‘Again, apologies, Sister. Please carry on, you won’t be interrupted again.’ The judge stared at Ben, a world-weariness crossing his face. His lips pulled tight into a warning.

Sister Abigail nodded and cleared her throat again. ‘For everyone who knew Father Boyle, everyone who worked with him, and learned from him, his death is a tragedy, but for the children he had yet to save I feel nothing but despair. We will carry on Father Boyle’s work, his legacy, but we have lost the lynchpin that held The Driscoll School together. I was the one who found Father Boyle and I will never forget what I saw. I have prayed to our Lord to help me forget, to help me forgive, to give me strength to get over this, but,’ she paused to compose herself, ‘it is difficult. I saw Mr, Beaupain standing over the body, the bloody knife in his hand. There was blood everywhere, on him, on the floor, on the wall, on all of us. I still wash my hands until they’re raw because I feel as if I have his blood on my hands.’

She paused. ‘At first, I could not even tell it was Father Boyle,’ her voice broke. ‘There was SO much blood, blood everywhere,’ she repeated, ‘and then I saw his eyes. Those brown eyes that always shone with the light of the Lord upon everyone they looked at. But now, suddenly, there was no light.’

She swivelled her hips and pointed a bony finger towards Ben. ‘And HE just looked at me as if he had the devil inside him and that he didn’t care. It was as if he was happy Father Boyle, the saint of a man, was dead.’

Ben lifted his head. ‘That’s because I was!’

Sister Abigail gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. The judge’s face reddened as he struggled to keep his composure. ‘Sister Abigail,’ he said stiffly. ‘Are you finished?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. All I wanted to say, to make you understand is that Father Aidan Boyle was a good man and his loss will be felt all over the world. He did not deserve what happened to him.’

The judge nodded and waved his hand dismissively. ‘Yes, yes, thank you, Sister Abigail, please take a seat.’

Sister Abigail sank into her chair. An older nun, as wide as Sister Abigail was slight, patted her hand reassuringly.

The judge slammed his folder shut. ‘I’ve had enough of this whole sordid business, let’s finish it. Mr. Beaupain, please stand again.’

Ben and his lawyer rose to their feet. Hugo leaned forward in his chair, pressing his hand into his chin, covering his mouth, afraid he would cry out.

‘I understand from your lawyer, Mr. Beaupain, that you will not be applying to be extradited back to France, is that correct?’

Ben nodded. ‘Yes. That is correct.’

Hugo shook his head, mouthing the word, ‘No.’

‘Good. It would be a waste of everyone’s time. Your crime is against Ireland and you should repay your debt to Ireland,’ the judge snapped. He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Mr. Beaupain, you are hereby sentenced to the mandatory life sentence that the law demands for your crime. Throughout all our interactions, Mr. Beaupain, you have not only shown no remorse for your actions but I would go so far as to say that you have, in fact shown contempt not only for this court but also for the life you took. In fact, I do believe you are actually proud of what you did that day.’

‘You bet your ass I am! The priest got what he deserved!’ Ben yelled.

‘Ben, stop!’ Hugo hissed, jumping to his feet, his face contorted with sadness.

The judge looked up and shook his head, puzzled. Ben looked towards Hugo.

‘I’m sorry. Je t’aime,’ he mouthed silently.

‘In any event, and thank you for proving my point so eloquently,’ the judge added, ‘I don’t intend on giving you a moment longer to spout your diatribe. It is hereby this court’s determination that you are sentenced to life imprisonment in Cork Prison. It is also my determination that your supreme lack of remorse for your actions are such that I do not feel you should be allowed your freedom, such is the danger you pose to the general public. For that reason, I am extending the review period for any potential parole to the maximum the law allows me. You will not be allowed to be considered for parole until 2046, thirty years from now.’ He looked towards the Garda. ‘Officer, please take the defendant down. We are done here.’

The Garda pulled Ben towards him. Ben turned his head as Hugo watched, willing him to turn around and look at him. He did not. Ben bowed his head and began walking down the staircase that led to the cells. Hugo sank into his chair, his head shaking, his eyes wide, his lips trembling.

t h r e e

The green, lush hills of Ballyinis were the first thing Hugo saw as the taxi glided over the lip of a mountain. At first, he was reminded of the more rural aspects of his native France, but there was something crisper about the Irish countryside, as if years of rain had polished the rocks to a fine shine. As if on cue, the summer clouds parted and the warm rain spat down. The taxi driver flicked the wipers on and they seemed to groan as if weary of performing the same task over and over.

Hugo wound down his window, pressed his nose against the gap and inhaled the fresh, damp air. He watched as the cottages that lined the narrow road whizzed past, beautiful homes with nameplates and flower boxes that seemed quaint and old-fashioned compared to the more fashionable, modern apartments he had just seen in Cork. Under different circumstances, Hugo believed he might like Ballyinis very much.

‘You sure you want the Garda station, sir?’ the driver asked.

Hugo strained to hear above the whip of the wind. ‘Oh, yes, please.’

The driver nodded and murmured something as he studied Hugo is in his rearview mirror.

Hugo sank back into his chair, hoping that whatever lay ahead he might finally find some answers.

Hugo stepped out of the taxi and looked around the busy town centre, noticing that his arrival was creating a great deal of interest. He was thankful that so far at least, his relationship with Ben had not made the news. The newspapers had, however, made a great deal of the fact that Ben was the son of a multi- millionaire vineyard owner, much to Louis Beaupain’s chagrin.

Hugo suspected due to the fact he was in Ireland to find out what happened once and for all, it was likely that their association could soon be made public. He could not worry about that. All he had to do was to find out what happened to Ben and try to get them both back to Montgenoux. The irony of the insurmountable task was not lost on him, especially as Ben was refusing to talk to him, or anyone else for that matter. His mother, Miriam Beaupain, and his best friend Irene Chapeau had tried and been unsuccessful in trying to speak with Ben.

Ignoring the stares Hugo stepped across the road, dodging a tractor, and pushed open the door to the Garda office. An officer sitting at the desk looked up, his eyebrow raised in interest as if he was not used to seeing strangers in his town. He rose to his feet. Hugo took him to be in his late twenties, and obviously prone to working out due to the way his muscles strained against the crisp, white starched shirt he wore. He appraised Hugo with cool, almost black eyes that matched his hair, and stroked the stubble on his chin.

‘Can I help you?’

Hugo dropped his bag and held out his hand. ‘Hello, my name is Hugo Duchamp, Captain Hugo Duchamp. You must be Sergeant Farrell, we spoke on the telephone.’ He stopped, confused by the man’s puzzled expression. He swallowed, the English words that rolled around his mouth felt strange to him after getting used to being back in France again.

‘I’m not Sergeant Farrell, I’m Garda Gray.’ He yelled over his shoulder, ‘Cathal, there’s someone here to see you.’ There was something about the way he looked at Hugo that puzzled him. Almost as if they had met before, which, as far as Hugo knew, they had not.

Another man, the physical opposite of Garda Gray stepped into the room. He was small and slight, with a mop of blood red hair and a face full of freckles. He smiled and his small upturned button nose that looked as if it had never grown into the face it belonged to twitched. He reminded Hugo of a schoolboy who had not quite grown into his adult body.

‘Can I help?’ His lilt was lighter, his accent thicker than his colleagues, and to Hugo, he sounded friendlier.

Hugo held out his hand again, this time it was taken and firmly shaken. ‘My name is Hugo Duchamp.’

A flash of recognition lit his eyes. ‘Ah, Captain Duchamp from the French National Police.’

A flicker of interest crossed Garda Gray’s face as he shuffled forward as if suddenly realising this was important or something interesting was happening.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Sergeant Farrell,’ Hugo said.

Sergeant Farrell smiled. ‘It’s Cathal, and this here is Seamus. Take a seat, Captain,’ he said gesturing to the seat opposite his desk, ‘but as I said on the telephone when you rang from France, there’s not a lot I can tell you, really,’ he added softly in a practiced, gentle voice.

Hugo sat down. ‘Whatever you can tell me I would be very grateful. I know very little you see.’

‘What’s this all about?’ Seamus asked, his gaze fixed firmly on his Sergeant’s face.

Cathal shot his colleague a weary look as if he was dealing with a petulant younger sibling. ‘Captain Duchamp is here about the murder of Father Boyle.’

Seamus’ eyes widened. Hugo thought he saw a glimpse of surprise, or was it something else?

‘And what is it to do with you?’ Seamus asked. ‘I know the killer’s a French dude, but why are you so interested? He pleaded guilty, he doesn’t want to go back to your country. Case closed.’

‘Seamus,’ Cathal said warningly.

Hugo took a deep breath. ‘It’s all right.’ He paused, ‘Ben Beaupain is my partner.’

‘What, he’s a cop too? Sorry, flic you call them, don’t you?’

Hugo shook his head. ‘No, Ben’s not a cop. By partner, I mean, my partner,’ he said slowly.

Seamus’ eyebrows knotted. ‘Huh?’ he scratched his head. ‘By partner, you mean partner?’ he repeated.

Despite his mood, Hugo smiled. He could not shake the feeling that there was something about Seamus. He had studied enough body language to know the signs. The way their eyes met, a small flash of awareness, suggested to Hugo that he not only knew who he was, he was aware of his relationship with Ben. It seemed too rehearsed to him, but for the life of him he could not figure out why that would be. ‘Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,’ he retorted, meeting Seamus’ gaze in a way intended to show that whatever Seamus Gray was selling, Hugo Duchamp was not buying.

Seamus turned his head, hitting Cathal with another look. Cathal turned his head. ‘And whilst you have my sympathy, Captain Duchamp, as my colleague here said, Mr. Beaupain has pleaded guilty.’

Hugo nodded. ‘That’s as may be, but as I’m sure you know, there are times when people confess to crimes they did not commit, for any number of reasons.’

‘Are you saying he lied?’ Seamus asked.

‘Yes. I am saying that.’

‘And what did your partner say to you about it?’ Cathal asked.

Hugo looked down, his head felt heavy suddenly.

‘Nothing. I haven’t seen nor spoken with Ben since he has been on remand. He has refused to see me, or any of his friends or family.’

‘Sure sign of guilt,’ Seamus said offhandedly, more angry than he should have been. Hugo noted this man was wearing his heart on his sleeve but he could not understand why.

‘Or a sign of hiding something from people he knows will see right through him if he lies to them,’ Hugo retorted angrily.

Cathal took a slurp from his tea and scratched his head. ‘When was the last time you saw Mr. Beaupain, then?’

Hugo closed his eyes. The memory was ingrained on him as the last time they spoke it had descended into a horrible argument, their first. ‘The 5th of April.’

‘So, five days before the murder.’

Hugo nodded.

‘And you knew he was coming to Ireland? What did you think he was coming here for?’

Hugo stabbed at the strawberry shaped scar below his eye. He had gone over the events of the last few months so much it felt almost as if he was imagining it, as if it was a series he had watched on television. ‘It began in February. Someone Ben knew a long time ago, a man called Felix, killed himself after committing some terrible crimes back in the town where we live, in France. Ben took the whole business very badly, he blamed himself and he blamed the people who his friend claimed had abused him. Afterwards, it was clear to us all Ben was badly affected by what happened and he had gotten into his head that he wanted to get some kind of justice for Felix.’

Cathal frowned. ‘And what does this have to do with him coming to Ballyinis?’

‘Well, Ben discovered that in 2003 Felix was sent by his father to The Driscoll School. It was at this school that Felix claimed he was abused, both physically and sexually.’

Hugo saw the look exchanged between the two Garda and made a note to question them on it. He surmised that it was not a look of surprise. He continued. ‘Ben wanted to come to Ireland, I suppose to see if he could find any proof of what happened to Felix. I wanted to come with him, but I was in the middle of a criminal trial and I couldn't get away. I begged Ben to wait a week or two and that I would come with him and we would look into it together. He wouldn't wait. I can’t tell you how much I regret letting him come on his own. If I hadn’t then perhaps none of this would have happened.’

‘So, he didn’t say he was coming to kill the person he alleges abused his friend?’ Cathal asked.

Hugo did not answer immediately. He had spoken at length about this with Ben’s mother, Miriam. Ben had in fact made such threats. Threats they had all dismissed as coming from a man wracked with grief and his own guilt. They had not imagined it could possibly have happened. ‘Ben was angry, but homicidal? I don’t believe so,’ Hugo said as much to convince himself as them. He continued. ‘I spoke to him a few times during that week and everything seemed fine. He told me he was making progress but he was cagey. He didn’t really want, or wasn’t able, to go into detail. I didn’t think too much about it really, the trial I was involved with was, for my part at least, drawing to a halt and I was making plans to take time off and fly to Ireland to join him, but then...’ he trailed off.

‘But then, he knifed Father Boyle to death,’ Seamus concluded.

‘We don’t know that for certain,’ Hugo sniffed.

Cathal looked at him sadly. ‘But we do. We were the first responders to the crime scene. We saw it. And, we did meet Mr. Beaupain a few days before the murder, so there was no doubt it was him, we’d already seen him and spoken with him so we knew exactly who he was.’

Hugo looked at him, surprised. ‘I didn’t know that, in what capacity?’

Seamus glared at Cathal and answered. ‘It doesn’t matter what.’

‘It matters to me!’ Hugo roared.

Cathal raised a hand. ‘Please, Captain,’ he said soothingly. ‘I realise this must be difficult and I am trying to extend you professional courtesy.’

Hugo nodded. ‘I’m sorry, please go on.’

Seamus continued. ‘As we said, we were the first responders at the scene. We saw the aftermath of what your partner did and how he did it. Even if he hadn’t pleaded guilty, there’s not a chance in the world a jury wouldn’t have convicted him.’

Hugo closed his eyes for a moment, realising he was not going to get anywhere just yet and would have to think of a plan. ‘I don’t know what you saw, I haven’t been privy to any of the evidence,’ he snapped again realising how out of character it was for him to struggle to contain himself. He was not used to this lack of control that coursed through his body. ‘Things aren’t always what they seem.’

Seamus jumped back angrily, causing his chair to slam against the wall. ‘For fucks sake, the man all but cut the priest’s throat! Dr. Miller said there were eighteen different wounds. Hell, he even practically cut off the old man’s...’

Cathal interrupted. ‘Seamus, shut up!’

Hugo stared between them. ‘He did what?’ Sergeant Farrell looked at him with sadness. ‘Look,

Captain, I know this must be tough for you, but you have to understand that we can’t go into all of the details of the case.’

‘Why?’ Hugo questioned. ‘As you said, Ben is in jail now. What possible reason do you have for not sharing what you know?’

‘It’s not a question of that. My boss said to keep quiet and I’ve learned that when he says that, it’s better if I keep shtum,’ Cathal replied.

Hugo nodded, and rose to his feet. ‘Very well, if that’s all you can do for me, I thank you for your time.’

Cathal nodded. ‘That’s okay, Captain, go home. I know it must be hard, but it’s all you can do.’

Hugo picked up his bag. ‘No, it isn’t all I can do. You don’t know me. I have no intention of going home until I have Ben with me. I understand your hands are tied, but mine aren't. If your boss doesn’t want to help me I’ll go further up the chain until I find someone who can tell him to help me.’

‘He won’t like that,’ Seamus warned.

‘I don’t give a flying fuck whether he likes it,’ Hugo snipped. ‘I’ll be in touch, gentleman,’ he said. He stopped by the door. ‘One last thing, when I mentioned Felix was abused I couldn’t help but notice the look that passed between you both.’

Cathal looked at him quizzically. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Hugo shook his head. ‘I may be outside my jurisdiction, Sergeant Farrell, but I am still a trained policeman. Before I was Captain of the French National Police I was a Superintendent at the Met Police. I know lies when I see them. Have there being allegations of abuse at The Driscoll School? I remind you that I will find out one way or another.’

Cathal sighed. ‘There have been allegations, sure. But nothing provable, and you’ve got to remember that a lot of the kids who go to the school are pretty messed up, to begin with. They come there because their own folks can’t cope with them. I can’t say I know too much what goes on at the school, but I know for sure spoilt kids who don’t listen to their parents are certainly not going to like a teacher trying to tell them what to do. The school insists that the kids lied, and I’m afraid as far as the Garda could tell there’s no proof to the contrary.’

‘That’s as may be, but I promise you I’ll find out who is lying and why. Please don’t think I won’t,’ Hugo said. ‘And I know it’s not Ben. Whatever he’s mixed up in it’s because he believes it’s the right thing to do. He didn’t kill anyone and I’m not just saying that because of our relationship. Something has happened here. Whether it’s tied to the past or the present I don’t know. Ben walked into something when he arrived in Ireland and he’s paying the price for it. I won’t let that lie, you can count on that. I’m not leaving until he’s with me and I can take him back to France.’

Hugo glared at them and pushed the door open. As he stepped outside he wondered if he had enough favours he could call in to get Ben the help he needed.

f o u r

Hugo smiled as the thin face of Montgenoux forensic expert, Etienne Martine, filled the screen on his laptop. Hugo thought he had never been so grateful to see such a bright, colourful shirt on what was an awful, dull day. The rain was lashing against the window of the hotel room, waterfalls of drops tumbling down the panes.

‘Can you see and hear me, chief?’ Etienne called out.

Hugo smiled. ‘Loud and clear,’ he said in English, ‘Sorry,’ he said switching back into French, ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ Etienne said softly, ‘but more importantly, how are you? We’re all rooting for you and Ben. I really wish you’d let me go with you. I don’t like the thought of you being there alone.’

Hugo smiled gratefully, wishing again he was not facing this alone. He scolded himself for wallowing in pity whilst Ben was now locked up in a prison in a strange country. He had so far been unable to process what the man he loved would be going through. Still, it felt good that he had friends in Montgenoux who cared about him, about both of them.

Hugo nodded into the webcam, unsure what he could say. ‘Did you manage to do what I asked?’

Etienne nodded, a smile creasing his face. ‘Sure did, although the Minister of Justice put up a bit of fight, He’s extremely busy, don’t you know! Anyway, I have them on standby, shall I connect you to them now?’

‘Yes, please,’ Hugo replied, looking out of the window of his hotel room whilst waiting for the connection.

Moments later a split screen appeared and Hugo could see the faces of France’s Minister of Justice, Jean Lenoir, and Montgenoux Juge d’Instruction, Renaud Deshors. Both powerful men in their own right, but more importantly, men Hugo felt he had done enough for to warrant asking for their help.

‘Ah, Captain,’ the deep voice of Renaud Deshors bounced out of the laptop. ‘How are you?’

Hugo shrugged. ‘As well as can be expected.’

‘What’s this all about, Captain?’ Jean Lenoir snapped. He was not a patient man at the best of times and Hugo could only imagine he was not going to be very willing to offer him any help now.

‘It’s about Ben.’

Renaud nodded. ‘We have heard about the sentence. Miriam is distraught. You know she wanted to be there but Ben made it quite clear she was not welcome.’

Hugo knew Ben blamed his parents for their part in the downfall of Felix Missero. Felix had sent Ben letters whilst he was a resident at the Driscoll School but Ben had never received any of them. Miriam and Louis Beaupain had decided, for their own reasons, it was best to keep Ben and Felix apart. Ben had made it quite clear in the aftermath of Felix’s suicide that he believed his parents were as culpable as Felix’s abusers for what happened to him.

‘Is he planning on asking to be extradited back to France?’ Jean Lenoir asked, his voice thick with concern as if his mind was swirling with a dozen possibilities, none of which he found palatable.

Hugo shook his head. ‘Apparently not.’

Jean Lenoir nodded, relieved almost, it seemed. ‘Well, I suppose it’s admirable that he saved the taxpayers the cost of a lengthy and costly trial.’

‘Ben is innocent,’ Hugo snapped.

‘Hugo,’ Renaud said softly. ‘I’ve known Ben all of his life, and if you were to ask me if I think he was capable of such a horrific crime, then I would have said no, absolutely not.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘But the fact remains, and it’s an indisputable fact, that Ben has pleaded guilty to the crime. We have to accept that.’

Hugo lit a cigarette, ignoring the no-smoking sign on the wall. ‘I don’t have to accept any such thing.’ He exhaled, covering the screen with a cloud of smoke. ‘I may not have known Ben for as long as you have, Renaud, but I know him plenty well, and enough to know he isn’t capable of such a terrible act.’ Hugo closed his eyes, aware his judgment was clouded. In his career he had found the expression good people can do bad things was quite true. He shook the thought from his head. He knew in this case, it was not true. He just knew it and that was all he needed to keep going.

Renaud looked at him sadly. ‘But Miriam told me what he said to you both. He did promise to find whoever it was who abused Felix Missero and that he would kill them for it. Is that not true, Hugo?’

‘It is, but you know it was just in the heat of the moment. Felix killed himself right in front of us. Ben was covered in his blood, he held him as he died. That sort of thing scars a person.’

‘Exactly, and some scars don’t heal.’

Hugo raised his hand. ‘We’re going to have to agree to disagree, Renaud. I can’t explain it other than I have faith in Ben. I don’t want to fall out with you, but I do need your help. Help from both of you.’

Jean Lenoir raised an eyebrow. ‘Captain, what is it exactly that you think I can do for you? There is nothing I can do, as Minister, to interfere in the legitimate legal procedures of another country. Even if I wanted to, there is nothing I could do.’

‘I have to agree, Hugo,’ Renaud Deshors added sadly.

‘I understand that,’ Hugo added. ‘Listen, whatever is going on at the Driscoll School has been going on for a long time, the Garda here as much as admitted that.’

Renaud raised an interested eyebrow. ‘They did?’

He nodded. ‘They may be hiding behind the fact that the school deals with troubled children to explain these complaints of abuse away, but as far as I’m concerned, and I’m talking here in my official capacity as a Captain of the Police, where there are multiple reports of abuse, that does, at the very least, warrant further investigation.’

‘How do we know they haven’t investigated this, Captain?’ Renaud asked.

‘We don’t know what they have or haven’t investigated. They won’t tell me. All I know is Ben admitted to a crime he did not commit, and that is an indisputable fact.’ He raised his hand again to stop the two men from interrupting. ‘I don’t know why he did that and until my hands are untied I won’t. Ben is lying, perhaps to protect someone, I don’t know, but there is a reason and I need to find out what that reason is.’

‘I’ll repeat my last statement. What do you expect me to do?’ Jean Lenoir said wearily.

‘I expect you to help. That is what I expect, Minister. Like it or not, Ben Beaupain is practically family to you now.’

Jean Lenoir’s mouth fell open, a gurgle escaped it, but no words.

Hugo went on. ‘Dr. Chapeau considers Ben as close to being a brother to her as if they had in fact shared parents. She is distraught that the man she intended raising her child with is locked up for a crime she, like me, knows he did not commit. She is sick with worry and that is not good for her or the child she is carrying.’ He stopped to allow his words to land.

‘Be very careful, Captain Duchamp,’ Jean Lenoir said through gritted teeth.

Hugo shook his head. ‘The time for being careful has passed, Messieurs. I’m fighting for Ben’s life and by proxy, the lives of all of those who love him. Both of you gentleman know the fallout from this will devastate people you both love, whether or not you care to admit it.’

Renaud bowed his head. ‘What can we do, Hugo?’

Hugo raised his hand. ‘I have two weeks until I need to be back for the trials in Montgenoux. I’ll honour that, but in the meanwhile I’m going to stay here and get to the bottom of it. I need you two to do whatever you can to pull strings, call in favours if you have to, make promises if you need to, I don’t really care. I need you two, or people higher than you if necessary to make sure I get all the help I need. I need access to reports and crime scenes.’

‘I need to piece together what happened and I don’t care who wants to stop me,’ he continued. ‘If they think they have bigger friends than me, I want you to find me friends bigger than theirs. I want to spend the next two weeks finding out what happened and I don’t want anyone or anything hampering that. More importantly, I need you to find a way to get me in to see Ben. He’s refusing to see anyone and until I see him face to face, I don’t think we’re going to find out exactly what happened that night.’

‘You’re asking a lot, Captain,’ Jean Lenoir said limply, as if defeated. ‘My power may be wide reaching, Captain, but a prisoner can’t be forced to have visitors, you know that. As there is no active crime being investigated, there is no reason for authorities to interview him. There is little even I can do in that instance.’

Hugo nodded. ‘Maybe so. What I am asking is that we save Ben’s life, the man who draws the three of us together in the love we have for the people in our lives.’

Jean Lenoir moved forward, his massive face filling the screen. ‘Captain Duchamp, Hugo. Are you sure there is no doubt in your heart, or especially your head, that Ben did this?’

Hugo threw back his head defiantly. ‘I don’t know what mess Ben has gotten himself into, or even how. But I do know he has the best heart of anyone I ever met. He did not kill this priest but he’s saying he did because he thinks he has to. I don’t know if that’s because of the guilt he feels for what happened to Felix or some other reason. Those left to pick up the pieces all need to pull together, as the modern nuclear family that we are, and prove his innocence.’

Renaud nodded, his finger tapping against his jutting jaw. ‘I’ll speak to the Procurer and we’ll both liaise with the Director of Public Prosecutions in Ireland. We’ll find a way to get them to release the files to you and to offer any help you may need. I don’t know how we are going to do that, but you have my word that I won’t rest until I have them for you. For us.’

‘Merci, Renaud.’

‘Don’t thank me yet, Hugo. We don’t know what good it will do, nor what we will find. If Ben is hiding something we don’t yet know what that is or what the implications of it are.’

Hugo nodded. ‘But the answer lies at the school on that island. Get me access to that school and we’ll find out what exactly is going on here, I’m sure of that.’

‘And what do you want me to do?’ Jean Lenoir asked reluctantly, his jaw clenched and his lips bloodless with tension.

Hugo considered this. ‘Well, if Juge Deshors and the Procurer need help, you may need to step in. I need access to the Driscoll School. From what I understand it’s built on an island off the coast here and it’s a privately run business, owned by a local businessman. But it’s also connected with the Catholic Church. They aren’t going to want me asking questions about the murder or any suspected abuse, we all know how touchy they can be about that. I need you to find a way of getting me in the door and keeping it open.’

‘And how do you propose I do that?’

Hugo shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Do what I have had to do, beg, bare your soul and call in favours that weren’t yours to call. I know for sure a man of your position racks up favours like chips in a card game so you can use them later. I understand this is not the game you would want to cash them in on, but for Irene and YOUR child, I’m asking you to do so. We have little time, Ben is in jail now and apart from us, no-one is concerned why, no-one is looking into this case anymore and I don’t think they even looked too closely at it to begin with.’

His breathing slowed. ‘I know he thinks he’s tough, but he isn’t at all. He’s in jail now and he’s a convicted priest killer. I’m not sure that is going to make him many friends, and remember at this stage we don’t know if Father Boyle was a paedophile, but we do know he appears to have been widely respected.’

He swallowed his breath, his head tilting to the side. He suddenly felt the need to lie down, to close his eyes and to press the world away from his brain. ‘Au revoir Messieurs, and please know I am sorry for embroiling you in this. If I had any other choice I would have taken it, but I don’t. Time is of the essence. Ben is in danger and I don’t want him to spend a day longer in jail than he needs to. I’ll await your calls.’

He leaned forward and disconnected the video calls. He lit another cigarette, his hand trembling, surprised at himself. He had come out fighting in a way that surprised him. He had never done it before and just hoped it would be enough to get to the truth, whatever it might be.

Part Two

Two months previously

o n e

Dr. Irene Chapeau turned her head and glanced around Montgenoux Hospital’s morgue, drinking it in, as if looking at it for the first time. She knew these rooms better than she knew herself. She could probably call it her home, she certainly spent more time there than she had in in the house she owned. She lived and breathed her job in the hospital and she firmly believed the air there was as essential to her as the oxygen she breathed into her lungs.

A few months earlier she had almost lost her job, her reason for living, and the thought of it had almost crucified her. She did not know who she was without her name tag attached to her chest. Her hand rose and she pressed the tag against her, the coolness of the clip against her naked skin comforted her. She WAS Dr. Irene Chapeau again. She was her career, and she had always prided herself in her ability, she never took it for granted and she never thought she knew it all. Her job was to keep reading, to keep learning. She was a torch for the dead, illuminating their paths into an afterlife she was not sure she believed in, but was sure it was her responsibility to help guide them towards. All she knew for certain was that their last journey should be one that befitted them.

The morgue had been closed for over a month, primarily because it had been an active crime scene and then, after the crime scene tapes were removed, the builders had moved in and begun the extensive refurbishment, removing the stains of death that had sprayed the mortuary’s cold clinical walls.

The hospital decided as a result of the events of the previous month that a complete refurbishment was called for. It seemed as if the powers that be had decided that gutting and rebuilding the morgue from the ground up was enough to erase the stench of evil that had permeated it. It could not, it would not. Irene had seen the face of evil up close and she would not forget it, even if she wanted to she knew she could not.

Not a single person who had been in the morgue that day would every really get over what happened, but the only thing Irene knew for sure was that she had a responsibility to move forward. To find a light at the end of the tunnel. To move on and to give a voice to the dead and make sure those who were guilty paid for their crimes. That was the best way to make sense of the madness that had invaded all of their lives.

She pulled the cardigan around her stomach and as she looked down at it, she smiled. It seemed to be expanding by the day and she was still surprised by it. She had not allowed herself to think too much about the new life growing inside her for that would mean she had to make decisions she did not yet know how to make. She shook her head, realising she should concentrate on matters she could really focus on.

She looked around her, a smile appearing on her face as she cast an approving look at the top of the line appliances and design that had replaced her old, tired mortuary. These were things she asked for, no, things she begged for in all the years she worked in Montgenoux and had always been told there was no budget for. In the end, all it had taken was to be suspended after being framed for a crime she did not commit and held hostage by the man who replaced her as the extent of his and his cohorts horrible crimes were revealed.

The irony of her position was not lost on Irene. She now had her job back and her compensation was a modern morgue that she should have had anyway. She guessed it had cost the hospital less to give her what she wanted than risk having her sue them. The thought had never occurred to her. All she wanted was her job back and a chance to help those who came through her door. Irene was not at all sure what it was she believed in but she was sure her vocation was to help the dead have their final say and if they were wronged, for those wrongs to be put right.

She stopped next to the gurney in the centre of room and dropped her head. It was clean, gleamingly so, as was the tiled floor beneath her, but she did not have to go too far into her mind’s eye to see Ben Beaupain spreadeagled on the floor with Felix Missero lying on him, Ben’s hand pressed helplessly at the gaping wound on Missero’s neck and the blood from his carotid artery blinding Irene as she worked to try to save a life she knew she could not, all the time hearing Ben wailing at her. ‘Don’t let him die, Ree, don’t let him die. This is all my fault.’

Felix had died and his death had been hanging over them all like a grim reaper ever since, casting a shadow over their every waking moment. She was not proud of herself but Irene hated Felix Missero for the darkness he had thrown over their nice settled lives. She had seen her best friend, Ben, her honorary brother, lost in a shroud of guilt that was not his to carry. But it did not matter, she knew the cruel words from the twisted mind of Felix Missero that he had directed at Ben were not right. She knew it, Hugo knew it, everyone knew it, apart, of course, from Ben.

Ben had heard he was responsible for the horrific ending of his childhood friend, his first love. Irene was sure Felix had not wanted to kill Ben, but he wanted to make sure that Ben would suffer as some sort of recompense for the dire path his own life had taken. It was nothing to do with Ben, but she knew he was carrying it. Felix had succeeded in sharing his pain and Irene felt as if she had never hated another person in her life as much as she did Felix Missero for what he had done to them all.

‘Irene?’

She jumped and spun around, a wave of relief passing over her as she saw Hugo standing in the doorway.

‘’I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

She went to him, kissing him on the cheeks, inhaling his heady, musky scent. When she first met Hugo she felt as if she could have fallen for him herself, such was his attraction, but as time went by she was more happy than she could express that he had come into all of their lives, especially Ben's.

He handed her a bunch of realistic looking fake flowers and smiled. ‘Nothing says welcome home like a bunch of plastic colour.’

She smiled and took them. ‘They’re beautiful. Merci, lovely man.’

‘Good to be back?’

She considered this. ‘Well, you know, actually it is. We can’t forget what happened here, but we can move on, we have to move on.’ She looked at him. ‘Tell me, how is