Chapter III – October 2007 En route to France

Pierre had planned every single detail of his trip with minutiae that bordered on insanity. He was in England on business and had completed both tasks he had come to perform. From the signing of the contract with the UK publisher to distribute his latest book to Isobel’s grand disappearing act, everything had worked as smoothly as expected. “The Dead Don’t Speak” was a perfect title, so perfect in fact, that he could even have dedicated it to his dead wife. The thought was tempting but it might be an imprudent indulgence.

The bottle of perfume purchased on his way to England was for his sister. He never failed to bring her a gift back from his travels. The bottle he had used earlier that day had belonged to Isobel and would be untraceable.
The compost had come from a garden centre. Out of the twenty bags purchased a few days ago, he had only used five. The rest, were scattered in Jane’s garden, his previous neighbour with whom he had remained in contact after returning home to France for good. Jane had been the only one not to turn her back on him all these years ago when he was under suspicion of murder.

The gloves had been paid in cash at another garden centre that was so busy, no one would remember the inconspicuous middle aged man in jeans and jumper who had made the purchase. He had stayed with Jane for a few days, whilst doing business in London, then checked into a B&B in Steyning for the remainder of his stay. He knew the area well, having rambled his way on the South Downs many times, something he did whenever he was visiting England. Again, there was nothing unusual about this.

The return ticket for the speed ferry to Caen was for the 5pm crossing and after checking out of the B&B in the afternoon of the previous day, he had made his way towards Portsmouth. The puncture had been another engineered plot that had forced him to stop at a garage just outside Chichester. They would remember him there. Having missed the ferry and arranged to be booked on the next available fast crossing, which was going to be the 5am departure the following morning, he had not headed for Portsmouth straight away. Instead, his destination had been Horsham to pick up Isobel.

Pierre had been very careful, yet there was no reason for him to be accused of Isobel’s murder. He had already stood trial for this very reason and Isobel had been declared officially dead five years previously. It had been a case of death in absentia.

Now, standing on deck the ferry, smoking a cigarette in the fresh English morning air, he smiled, remembering how, once, many years ago, Isobel had told him that when she died she wanted to be buried with Chanel Number Five. He always kept his promises.