Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

by Martin Walker

  “Right, and that means the Police Nationale, not the gendarmes. They might even want to send a forensics team.”

  Bruno walked on to the row of parked cars and the small knot of locals to tell them there was no danger, that the show was over, and to ask them to move their cars so the fire trucks could turn around and leave. Big Stéphane the dairy farmer, a friend of Bruno’s from the hunting club, was there with his pretty young daughter Dominique. Their farm was just down the hill, probably one of the first that would have been hit if the fire had spread, and this was normally the hour when they would start the milking. Bruno shrugged off their questions and persuaded most of the onlookers back into their cars. Then he walked over to Captain Duroc to arrange for a gendarme to seal off the phone booth in Coux. It was just past 6 a.m. Fauquet’s café would be open, and Bruno needed a proper breakfast.

  Bruno walked toward two familiar cars, an elderly Citroën DS from the 1960s and an even older Citroën deux chevaux, a design with a canvas hood that traced back to the 1930s. His friend the baron, a retired industrialist whose trim figure belied his age, leaned against his big car. Beside him stood Pamela, the owner of the deux chevaux and of a local guesthouse, who was known to most of Saint-Denis as the Mad Englishwoman. Bruno had introduced them over a game of tennis, and Pamela and a visiting friend had thoroughly trounced them.

  “The baron woke me with a phone call. I hadn’t heard the siren,” Pamela said. A handsome woman whose features were too strong to be described simply as pretty, she was wearing an Hermès head scarf and a battered version of the English waxed cotton jacket that had become highly fashionable in France. Whether she was standing, walking or on horseback, Bruno could recognize her at a distance from her posture alone, the straight back and the proud neck, the bold stride of a woman wholly at ease with herself.

  “Where’s your horse?” Bruno asked, leaning forward to kiss her on both cheeks. She shrank back, laughing.

  “Sorry, Bruno. Normally I love this French obsession with kissing, but you look terrible and smell worse. Of burned wool and I suppose that awful foam all over your trousers. And I think you’ve lost your eyebrows. It’s hard to see under all the black smears over your face.”

  “I’m fine,” he said, touching his fingers to his eyebrows. They felt like the bristles on his chin.

  “I didn’t bring the horse,” she said, “because I thought the fire might frighten her. I only came up to see if we’d have to evacuate.”

  “What’s that building that was on fire?” asked the baron. “I thought I knew every inch of these hills but I never knew it was there.”

  “Nor I,” said Bruno. “There’s a break in the trees, and then a track that curves away toward the field so you can’t see it from the road. I want some breakfast. See you back at Fauquet’s?”

  “Good idea,” said the baron. “It’s far too late to go back to sleep. Pamela, please be our guest, so long as you promise to prefer our company to your English crossword puzzle.”

  “But of course, Baron. You’re more entertaining than any crossword puzzle. But I think Bruno needs to wash and change first.” She studied him. “You’d better throw those trousers away. I hope the town pays for a new uniform.”

  2

  Even in the age of computers, it was not an easy task to find out who owned the charred field and burned-out shed. Claire, the mayor’s secretary, pored over the cadastre, the giant map that listed every building in the far-flung commune of Saint-Denis. It also showed the boundaries of every plot of land, each identified by its own lot number. She wrote down the relevant numbers. Now they could cross-check it against the tax list to learn the identity of the registered owner.

  “There’s no building marked on the map anywhere up here,” Claire complained. “Are you sure you’ve got the right road, Bruno?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Showered, shaved and dressed in a spare uniform, Bruno was feeling himself again, except for the eyebrows. He came over to join her at the giant map, careful to keep some space between himself and Claire’s ample form. Even though irritated, she couldn’t resist flirting with him and batted her eyelashes from sheer habit. The only single man at the mairie, Bruno was used to Claire’s ways.

  He traced the road he had taken that morning. “The microwave tower was there and the water tower was over there, so the water line must have run along the road to that point,” he muttered to himself, placing his finger firmly on the spot. He was sure he had the correct lot, but Claire was right. There was no building marked on the map. That was not just very odd, it was also a criminal offense, since it meant the commune had granted no construction permit. And because the land was also served by a water line and a standpipe, the commune was being cheated out of its annual water fee. Still, he had the lot number. He left Claire to roll up the map, and went into the cramped room that was called the registry to check the name of the owner in the tax files.

  The owner was a société anonyme, a company called Agricolae with a registered office in Paris, and the lot had been purchased from the Ministry of Defense three years earlier. Agricolae—that had been the name on the metal flag Bruno had plucked from the ground and put in the pocket of Albert’s pompier jacket. He’d have to get that back. The file showed that no water fee had been paid, no building tax either, and there was no building permit. That meant the company called Agricolae was in trouble. He was just reaching for the phone in his office to call Albert when Claire peeked around the door to tell him he had a visitor.

  “The most important man in Saint-Denis after the mayor and they still keep you in this miserable hole they dare to call an office,” declared Commissaire Jean-Jacques Jalipeau, the chief detective of the Police Nationale for the département. He took a half step into the room and at once seemed to fill it.

  “Christ, you look terrible, face all red and eyebrows burned off,” J-J went on. “Sure it wasn’t you who started that fire? You certainly got too close to it.”

  “I certainly got far too close,” Bruno replied, smiling at his colleague. “Heaven help whoever started that damn fire if I get to him first.”

  Bruno liked J-J despite his friend’s regular and justified accusation that Bruno’s concept of justice owed more to the interests of Saint-Denis than to the code criminel. They had worked on a couple of cases successfully and enjoyed some fine meals together. Bruno led J-J down the ancient stone stairs of the mairie and through the arches into Fauquet’s café, where J-J ordered two Ricards.

  “How’s Isabelle?” J-J asked. “She must be heading up to that new job in Paris any time now.” Isabelle had worked for him as a detective in the regional headquarters in Périgueux before her karate skills and her looks had caught the attention of the minister of the interior. J-J had taken a benign interest in the affair Bruno started with her that had blossomed throughout the summer, flattering himself that he had played a role as matchmaker.

  “She’s already left,” Bruno said, trying to keep his voice neutral. “They said the minister had some foreign trip coming up and he wanted her in the delegation.”

  “Well, you always knew she’d be leaving,” J-J said. “And you had three happy months.”

  Bruno nodded. When Isabelle had announced that she would leave, putting her career in Paris ahead of whatever she and Bruno had between them, he had accepted her decision. But the walls he had kept around his heart since his last love had been snatched from him, defenses that Isabelle had started to dismantle, began to rebuild themselves in a way that he could almost feel. In their last week together, he had lain awake at night, knowing from her breathing that she too was pretending to be asleep, and he could almost feel stone piling upon stone within him. Strangely, it had made their lovemaking even more intense. But the final parting at the Saint-Denis train station had been dry-eyed.

  “I miss her,” J-J went on breezily. “My new inspector isn’t much of a replacement. Another woman, but not half so easy on the eyes.”

  “You’re not bringing her
in on this case?”

  “Not yet. We haven’t even gotten a formal notice of arson from the pompiers. But I had one of those discreet calls from Paris just after lunch saying they wanted this sorted out fast. It’s not just their usual worry about eco-saboteurs. There’s some high-level interest pushing this. What can you tell me?”

  Bruno related the events of the night, the unusual nature of the water supply, the former ownership by the Ministry of Defense, and finished with a description of the tax and building permit delinquency of the Agricolae company.

  “I’m not sure about the eco-saboteurs, though,” he added. “Don’t they usually want publicity and bring along their journalists and cameras?”

  J-J shrugged and swirled the ice cube in his glass; he added water and watched his Ricard turn a milky color, then took a healthy sip. “I’ve got a formal letter of request to your mayor from the prefect, asking you to be assigned to the case to lend us poor city flics your local knowledge. So consider yourself conscripted. I’ve got a team up in Périgueux, collating all the names of militant écolos, and the forensic team from Bergerac will be up at the field by now. What can you tell me about the local écolos?”

  “Nothing special. One was elected to the town council, an elderly hippie named Alphonse who runs a commune in the hills. He’s a sweet man—has a heart of gold, takes in waifs and strays, has been here over thirty years. Then there’s a group that holds protest rallies demanding we close down the local sawmill because of pollution from the chimney. But no real militants. The Greens don’t even get ten percent of the vote, except for Alphonse, and he gets elected because everyone likes the cheese he makes. Let’s go to the fire station and see Albert. He won’t have the lab reports yet but he should be able to give us some idea of whether this really was deliberate or not.”

  “Deliberate?” said Fauquet, the café owner, who was proud of his reputation for being first to hear all the gossip. He leaned over the counter. “Did you say that the fire might have been deliberate?”

  “No, I didn’t say that,” snapped J-J. A big and burly man, whose crumpled appearance concealed his keen brain, J-J could be very intimidating indeed. “And if I hear that you did, I’ll be back here with an army of suspicious health inspectors and a warrant for your arrest. This is serious police business. Do you understand me, monsieur?”

  3

  Bruno thought “Agricultural Research Station” was a grand name for the modest single-story building that had been erected alongside an old farmhouse on the road to Les Eyzies. Securing the station for Saint-Denis had been one of the mayor’s prouder achievements. It housed four scientists, four technicians and half a dozen locals employed to run the farm and greenhouses. The director and chief scientist, Gustave Petitbon, kept his office in what had been the best room of the old farmhouse. A tall and very thin man with a pronounced stoop, he sat perched on the front of his desk and looked defiantly at the two policemen.

  “I can’t tell you what the crop was, not without authorization. It’s a commercial secret,” he said. Bruno knew Petitbon slightly from the few town rugby games Petitbon attended, and from a couple of mayoral receptions, at which Petitbon stood aloof in a corner with a glass of wine. He lived quietly in town with his wife, and they had no children.

  “Monsieur Petitbon, I’ve been ordered by the minister of the interior in Paris to conduct this inquiry,” said J-J firmly, his voice starting to grow louder as he went on. “I don’t think that would have happened unless somebody pretty senior in the Ministry of Agriculture, your employer, asked them to get the chief detective of this département to take charge of the inquiry. I’ve put off one murder, two rapes and a bank robbery to come down here. So rather than waste my time, I suggest you call your ministry in Paris and get whatever authorization you need before I call my ministry and tell them I’m going to arrest you for obstructing my inquiries.”

  Petitbon, startled by the volume that J-J’s big frame could generate, went behind his desk to make the call. Then he ostentatiously turned his swivel chair so his back was toward them. He mumbled into the phone and then listened attentively as the voice on the other end of the line barked what sounded like orders. The phone was evidently slammed down at the other end before Petitbon could finish his last deferential “Oui, Monsieur le Directeur.” Petitbon jumped slightly, turned and put the phone down.

  “What I am about to tell you must go no further than this room,” he began self-importantly, sitting up very straight. “The crop that was burned was a project of national importance, backed by the Ministry of Agriculture but initiated by the Ministry of Defense. Concern about the implications of climate change led the defense ministry to recommend a special project on drought-resistant crops that might flourish on marginal soil. The project included one pharmaceutical and one agrochemical corporation, and a new company was formed, Agricolae SA, to organize and fund the research. We have been working with a number of crop varieties, soya and other beans, maize and potatoes, some vines. Those were the crops that were destroyed. It is a matter of urgent importance to establish who is responsible, and indeed, who might have known of the project. It was highly confidential.”

  Bruno remembered the little flag that he had recovered from the fire station. “So a small metal marker that said ‘Agricolae Séch’ would be yours? I found it at the site.”

  “Agricolae Séch—short for Sécheresse—that’s the drought-resistant strain we are trying to develop. We have some of the crops on the farm here, but we also wanted to do some tests on marginal soil. That’s why we planted up there on the plateau. And it looks like the crop is all gone, along with a lot of files and research notes. Three years’ work.”

  “Do you have any particular reason to think it might have been deliberate?” Bruno asked, keeping his tone light. “Any enemies, aggrieved ex-employees, jealous husbands?”

  Petitbon smiled, and his thin, almost severe face became quite pleasant. “I’d prefer the latter. But no, no enemies I can think of, except maybe those crazy eco-saboteur types. Was it arson?”

  “We’re waiting for the lab results.”

  “Well, I may be able to tell you. We had a webcam set up in the shed, playing back to a computer here at the research station, so we could check rates of growth, color, ripeness and so on. It should also have a record of anybody behaving suspiciously in the field or around the shed, even in low light or at night. We can probably enhance the image a bit.”

  “Wouldn’t it have burned? How did you power it?”

  “We had a solar panel up there, and that was more than enough. The camera is probably destroyed, but the image will be stored on the computer. I was going to take a look when you arrived.”

  “I’m sorry about your three years’ work, monsieur.”

  “Thank you. Let’s go over to the lab. That’s where the equipment is.”

  “Just one thing,” Bruno added. “These crop varieties you were working on, were they genetically modified, the controversial stuff that people protest against?”

  “Of course. That’s why it was all kept confidential. And we made real progress with some of the soybean strains up there.”

  “How many people here at the station knew about this project?” J-J asked.

  “Just about everybody, I imagine. All the scientists and technicians, and the men who did the actual farming. They’re all aware that this is confidential. We were told not to discuss it even with our wives.”

  “So altogether, ten or fifteen people?” J-J said.

  “Fourteen. And I have no reason to question the loyalty of any one of them.”

  “I’ll need their personnel files and a room here for my team. It will be more discreet here than back in town.”

  “Okay,” said Petitbon. “I suppose you’d better take this room. I can always make do over in the lab. And now let’s see what the webcam can tell us.”

  Fixed under the eaves of the shed, the webcam showed nothing until the digital timer displayed 3:02 a.m. Then
the first sign of distant movement began on the western edge of the field. At 3:06 there was more movement on the northern edge, and then the camera seemed to shudder.

  “That could be the intruder trying the door,” said Petitbon. “It was locked, but from the way the shaking goes on and gets violent, I suspect the door was forced.”

  At 3:09 came the first faint glow of light, very close, and then a sudden flare of flame. The webcam stopped transmitting at 3:18.

  “Well, at least we have the time frame,” said J-J. “Can you make a copy of that footage for my forensics team? They may be able to enhance it, get something from that bit of movement. But if you ask me, whoever was spreading that gasoline knew exactly where your webcam was and what it did, so the first line of investigation will have to be whether this was an inside job.”

  “Just one more thing,” added Bruno. “Do you have any more of these web cameras?”

  Petitbon nodded. “Yes, we monitor some other crops.”

  “Well, I think you’d better put them up around here, around the offices and the greenhouses. Whoever burned your crops may want to come back and finish the job here at the research station.”

  4

  After three fruitless days of interviewing the staff of the research station, Bruno was relaxing in the barber’s chair for his monthly haircut when the call came from Nathalie, the cashier at the wine shop of Hubert de Montignac. Listed in the Guide Hachette des Vins as one of the finest such caves in France, it was one of only three businesses aside from the vineyard itself to offer every year of Château Pétrus from 1944 to the present. For Bruno, who understood that a great part of the law’s duty was to uphold the grand traditions of France and of Saint-Denis, the cave was close to being a shrine. He leaped from the barber’s chair, forgetting for the moment Baptiste’s flashing scissors, tossed aside the smock that covered him and thrust his official hat upon his half-shorn locks. Pausing only to put the magnetic blue light on the roof of his van, he roared off.