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    Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery
    Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery
    Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery
    Ebook260 pages3 hours

    Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery

    By Louis Shalako

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    About this ebook

    Recently widowed and inspired by a boyhood fascination with Sherlock Holmes, the middle-aged Inspector Gilles Maintenon of the Surete is on a walking vacation of Dartmoor when he stumbles upon death in mysterious circumstances.

    When a plane crashes but the pilot has been dead just a little too long, Gilles becomes suspicious. When the woman he is falling in love with is brutally murdered, Gilles swears that he will never rest until the case is solved, the killer is caught, and justice is done. With a vein of dark humour running through it, the book deals with themes of loss, grief, remorse, and the unexpected consequences of the simplest choices. With one of the most original cave scenes in recent fiction, Louis Bertrand Shalako pulls out all the stops.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLouis Shalako
    Release dateNov 29, 2011
    ISBN9780986687181
    Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery
    Author

    Louis Shalako

    Louis Shalako is the founder of Long Cool One Books and the author of twenty-two novels, numerous novellas and other short stories. Louis studied Radio, Television and Journalism Arts at Lambton College of Applied Arts and Technology, later going on to study fine art. He began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines over thirty years ago. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time. Louis enjoys cycling, swimming and good books.

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      Book preview

      Redemption - Louis Shalako

      Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery

      Louis Shalako

      This Smashwords Edition copyright 2014 Louis Shalako and Long Cool One Books

      ISBN 978-0-9866871-8-1

      Design: J. Thornton

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased; or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. This edition not intended for sale or display in Norway.

      Redemption

      Part One: The Aviator

      Cold wind blasted at his face, the stench of petrol ever-present. Focused as he was, thoughts of fire reveled in the back of his mind. Huddled over the stick, bundled in layers of clothes, his guts still ached from the hours of shivering.

      Looking over the side, the crossroads he sought passed under his wheels. Huddled in the cockpit against the icy chill, inscrutable in the helmet, mask and goggles, the beauty of the land below, darkened in irregular blotches by patches of cloud, a low mist still hanging in some of the valleys, meant nothing. The brazen sun came in over his right shoulder, and the details leapt up at him, but there was no joy in this revelation. It was irrelevant.

      The clock on the instrument panel mocked his every desire, and reinforced his every terror. If only she knew what he knew, she would never forgive him. But for her, he had sacrificed everything, and it still wasn’t his fault.

      It wasn’t his fault and he didn’t want to pay the price. White knuckles gripped the control column, and his head swung on a pivot, his gleaming dark eyes probing everything with rapier-sharp focus from behind the thin glass. He had no choice in the matter.

      The fearful burden that he bore must go with him to his grave, for surely the truth, a truth so obvious, would never be accepted. It would never be accepted of him, never in a thousand years. One little lie to get somewhere in life, and it had led to this inescapable moment in time. The barrier looming ahead made his lower guts tighten up in anticipation. Heavy straps tugging at his body in the sudden turbulence gave little reassurance.

      The white fog obscured all vision and even dulled the sound of the motor. Rarely for him, the tension rose a thousand-fold, but this was different. There was no going back now. He stared at the turn-and-bank indicator in fixed concentration. What people said was absolutely right—there was just no way to tell if you were in straight and level flight inside of the cloud, or if you were in a one-way, one-gravity death spiral, with the cold and indifferent earth rising up to meet you. If the instruments had shaken, or tumbled, or gone off in any way, he might have given up and just let go, but they were serene in their confidence to measure simple forces. Theory was nothing when confronted by the reality.

      The parachute bulging so uncomfortably under him was of no comfort at all. The thought of using it for anything other than an emergency, a fire in the air perhaps, had always terrified him.

      People also said you couldn’t really tell the difference between vertigo and sheer horror. They said it was a kind of physical, totally-detached temporary insanity, where the whole world was spinning on you. In his experience, people said an awful lot of stupid things.

      Normally a very confident young man, he was finding that this one was unfortunately true. He felt sick, deep in the pit of his stomach, a feeling that had been constantly with him for many hours.

      Perhaps it would be just as well if he did lose control. He could die with a little dignity and his honour intact.

      Chapter One

      Dartmoor

      Birds and crickets chirped. Gnats and midges swarmed around his face, moist with sweat. He snapped the cover shut and put the dulled and worn brass watch away, snug and secure where it belonged. The blazing orb of the sun was becoming oppressively warm after the frosty chill of the dawn. Sundews, glistening with beads of ever so inviting, yet ever so deadly sap glowed under the low branches in a shady spot. He marveled at the song of the meadow pipits. The tiny birds darted about in his peripheral vision. They seemed to know when he was looking at them. When he looked away, they moved again. The cold breeze from the north tugged the hanging fog down from the high valleys, and when the clouds moved across the face of the sun, the distinct chill reminded Maintenon of the mountains of his childhood home. In the city, warmth and shelter, and heated taxis were taken for granted. The Metro was always a short step away. Here everything was so different. Admittedly, this was the point of the whole exercise.

      The moors glowed with a healthy vigour. Interspersed with patches of hardy wildflowers, smudges of rose-pink and purple competed amongst the glossy dark green of the heath-land, redeemed from winter’s frozen hell by the heat of the late spring sun. Patches of sweet-smelling plants crept everywhere underfoot. It should have been sublime, the sun glinting off of countless surviving dew-drops, shimmering in the rapidly-drying grass as the wind changed direction. Small flocks of tiny birds flitted from bush to bush and twig to twig in their endless quest for sustenance. They chattered back and forth amongst themselves, cocking their heads from side to side to take in the awkward-looking stranger.

      They were just birds, when you got right down to it. He had lingered for half an hour yesterday though, lurking on the bank of a wide but shallow river and watching a dipper at work. It was joy itself, to catch a glimpse of the sturdy, drab little bird, brimming over with the very essence of its short and innocent life, watching it clamber around underwater and upstream in search of bugs and small invertebrates. The simplicity of living had overtaken Gilles. It was only for a moment. Then he remembered that he was alone, always alone. As far as internal dialogues went, that one was a real conversation-stopper. Birds were cheerfully abusive, there was no denying it and aging detective-inspectors would inevitably become philosophers if they weren’t careful about the thoughts they had.

      Managing his perceptions could be a real chore at times. There was too much recent history, although the memory of pain faded quickly. There was still that dull ache of grief and remorse. It was pure emotion, and at times he wallowed in it, knowing all the while that it was unhealthy and self-destructive. One last kick at a dead love, he kept telling himself, knowing it was pure masochism.

      Maintenon was enjoying, or at least trying to enjoy, the wild remoteness of the moors. Gilles was taking his first holiday in years. The heavy canvas rucksack slung on his aching shoulders and the unaccustomed exertion annoyingly betrayed his age and lack of fitness. It also smelled rather moldy, a smell that he had been unable to escape from for a week now. For the fourth time in an hour, he wondered what cases Andre and the boys were working on, or what a good cup of coffee at Maxim’s would taste like at this exact moment in time. Reluctantly, he pushed the thought aside and soldiered on. A mental image of gleaming white linen and a tall, sparkling carafe of ice-water still haunted him. Gilles had a heavy camera in a tan leather case slung over one shoulder, and the hard mass clunked against his hip annoyingly as he constantly compensated for the lop-sided weight. He wanted to keep it handy, and had taken several photographs, which was a new thing for him.

      It was good to try new things, but he wasn’t exactly bitten by it. It was a forlorn hope.

      As for the early morning and the wheezing in his chest upon awakening, the smoking wasn’t doing him any good at all. He came upon another in a succession of small rises and began the climb. One couldn’t complain about all the fresh air. The top of his lungs felt tight, like his throat was half-closed by a hard knot of gristle. His arteries were hardening up with old age. It was a sobering thought.

      His breath puffed in his ears, and he resolved to exercise more in future. Upon awakening this morning, there were some complaints from his knees, but Gilles handled the first three or four kilometres well enough. He was hiking from inn to inn and village to village, at least in theory.

      While there was no major pain at present, there were some sensations. He knew he would pay for this transient pleasure later. The important question was whether he would make it at all. Lovely as it was, so far this lonely path hadn’t offered up any passing strangers, herdsmen or young people on bicycles. A corner of his attention was still focused upon the marvelously open country, and the blue haze upon distant hills.

      Somewhere a red grouse, growing scarce these days by village talk, thrummed the ground with stiffly-held wings. The air was thick with scent, good enough for one long, deep breath, and then it was gone again. You couldn’t deny the beauty of the place after half a lifetime spent in the narcissistic and inward-looking world of Paris, the self-proclaimed centre of world culture and scholarship. Paris was a place which smelled depressingly the same, day after day.

      Hopefully, the next village lay just ahead and around the bend. The map was very deceptive in terms of reading the distance. Wonderful for fantasizing over his dining table, it was woefully inadequate for navigation in the field.

      ***

      Growing up in the small village of Bagneres de Luchon, near the border with Spain in the high Pyrenees, Gilles was an athletic boy, but that was decades ago. For a boy from a small place, the Tour coming through was a big thrill, offering the allure and the temptation of a greater world. The village was located at the confluence of the One and Pique rivers, thus his original love of the outdoors, long forgotten in the lifetime since. He had once prided himself on his endurance in the saddle of a bike, such a youthful accomplishment. It had no meaning anymore.

      Perhaps it had been one too many decades. So far, his heart was fine, but the lungs seemed tight before he got going in the morning, and of course all the little twinges and jabs of pain couldn’t be ignored entirely. It did not speak well for the future. He was well into the process of becoming a cranky old widower with rheumatism, lonely as anything, and boring people to death with a long list of ailments. If he wasn’t careful, he would end up sitting on benches and feeding the pigeons as a matter of daily routine.

      Gilles topped the hill and saw another valley, with the white trace of the path running across it and up the other side. Standing there, he watched the subtle caress of the wind on the heather, with the marks of its invisible touch shooting here and there, and then touching his face with its warmth. The sky was pristine in the big blue holes, with a thick smear of cumulus huddling low to the west. For the first time in years, he was looking at a horizon.

      There was nothing on it. The tops of chimneys, a column of smoke, or most especially, the dull glint of roofing tiles, would have been a welcome sight.

      ‘Merde," he said in disgust, trying to work up some spit without draining his small water bottle too quickly.

      Behind his right shoulder there came a droning, like a fly at first, but then growing louder and more distinct. It was an aircraft, coming up from the south, bearing to the northwest by the look of it. It was intent on some lonely mission of its own. Gilles wondered what it would be like to see the moors from the air. The buzzing machine went behind a cloud, reappeared, and then continued on, oblivious to him and his opinions. He enjoyed the sight of its shadow on the far hillside. Up and over the shadow went.

      Shielding his eyes from the slanting rays of the late morning sun, he tried to make it out. It was just a dark blotch of black, bug-like in its initial impression. It was approximately due east now. The machine was like an ugly black fly, intent upon some distasteful business, perhaps laying its eggs in a pad of manure or somewhere else equally disgusting.

      The aircraft sailed serenely on, oblivious of Gilles and his plight. Putting a foot wrong, he wobbled and felt a sharp jab. His knee now ached terribly, and he suddenly understood that this was not just the first, but also his last walking holiday. The noise of the aircraft finally faded off into the distance. Gilles stood for awhile, regaining his breath, and trying for all he was worth to enjoy the stillness of the moors.

      But it was no good. He could not maintain a state of denial forever.

      Lord, love a duck, he said, to the sound of that exact animal off in the distance.

      Quack, quack, quack.

      One would hope that where there was one duck, there must be others…but no joy.

      It was just that one loud and anonymous duck.

      Its raucous complaint mocked him with a faint sense of the ridiculous. What in the hell was he doing out here, all alone and with no one to talk to? Not for the first time, he wondered at the folly of the middle-aged bachelor, out for ‘an adventure.’

      He had come to love his comfort too much. Crickets surrounded him, their volume swelling now in intensity as he stood quietly. When he moved forward, a small wave of grasshoppers leapt away in all directions, evading the dark and menacing predator. Their perceptions were so utterly simple, but not unique.

      A notion struck him.

      Let us hope that is the alleged village! Or at least a farm, he said, to no one in particular. Maybe even one that has ice-cold water in the well. And a real live chair to sit on, if only for a moment.

      Gilles was getting tired of walking around in the hot sun, lugging a damned heavy load, and sitting on the hard, sun-baked ground all of the time. If nothing else, it put civilized life in its proper perspective, something that we inevitably lose over too much time spent in relative comfort.

      ***

      His fascination with Sherlock Holmes as a child, combined with a certain lack of inspiration in his vacation choices, had brought him to this. He ignored the obvious traces of a barrow off to his left, and grimly soldiered on, focusing on Berlioz, ‘Grande Messe des Mortes,’ the ‘Lachrymosa,’ of all things, and ignoring the insistent pain. It was so annoying when a musical score would not go away, a sign of too much stress. This was persistent, mocking narcissism. It occurred to Gilles that neither Sherlock, nor Conan Doyle for that matter, had ever actually tried to sleep in such pathetic ruins, or if any true fugitive had ever holed up in one for any length of time. Another youthful fantasy crushed! These places had all been flattened millennia ago. He felt oddly let down by this, as if the reality had been over-romanticized. This had to be true of the most popular fiction, mostly written for children of course, but it was still a disappointment. Most readers had no chance of ever getting here, and so it made no difference. All it did was to deepen his ennui towards anything with a superlative attached to it, and added to his mistrust of living too deeply or too superficially. Lately he was convinced that he had been doing too much of one or the other. Which one exactly, he wasn’t too certain of, but it irked him all the same. Even Brook Manor House, which Conan Doyle had immortalized in ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles,’ was a let-down. Located to the west of the village of Buckfastleigh, the house in the book was actually modeled after Cromer Hall in Norfolk. He had a feeling his photographs would reflect his own sense of disappointment.

      Ancient Roman ruins were scattered all over the Bagneres de Luchon area, and even Strabo had mentioned the hot springs. They had been popular as baths for millennia, probably since humanity first discovered those long valleys buried deep in the craggy mountains.

      Another useless observation, muttered a cranky Gilles Maintenon.

      Gravel crunched under his feet. The trail was rutted, uneven and prone to muddy holes. The gravel was a relief.

      There either had to be something more, or something less to life. But to go on as he had would be intolerable. This field narrowed to a point, and judging by the length of the grass, or hay perhaps, it hadn’t been grazed recently. Its golden colour meant it must be hay, he concluded with a bleak smile at his own ineptitude.

      Again he heard a duck quacking and prayed for relief. Ahead lay a fence, complete with a heavy gate and a weathered wooden stile to climb over. One looked as bad as the other. He discovered the wire fastening the gate had been put on by a gorilla. He gave up quickly. His hands were too soft. No cows or sheep would ever undo that! With a sigh, he un-slung his pack and dropped it over on the other side of the wire. He was committed now, and he gingerly pulled himself up the steps, using his hands and arms as much as possible. With the trees closing in on each side of the beckoning laneway, it was even warmer here. There was a bustle in the hedgerow immediately nearby, which at night would have made his hair stand on end. The daylight revealed the unseen creature to be nothing more than a hedgehog, or more likely a squirrel. His boyhood insight was that a rabbit was dead silent except when running full pelt on hard ground, or when it was being killed. A rabbit did not rustle in the underbrush.

      Hmn! he grunted.

      Since he could hold his right knee straight with relatively little pain, it was a climb on the left leg mostly, and that knee had some pain as well. The real problem was at the top. This was where the stiffness in his hips and lower back came into play. It was tricky when he didn’t want to bend at the knee. The thing was ridiculously narrow. Reaching tentatively with a toe,

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