“That’s fine. He’d have wanted you to have it if you needed it. Bye, Bruno,” said Alphonse, coming forward to embrace him, and then he turned and walked slowly back into the cheese barn.
“A strange kind of policeman you are,” said J-J as they walked back to his car. “It’s just as well there were none of my recruits here to see that. Giving away your computer password. It would set their training back years.”
“Maybe it’s exactly what they need. It would do them all good to spend a year as a village policeman. You’ve said as much yourself, J-J, more than once.”
“I’d probably had a drink or two when I said that. Still, if you’ve got your old phone, I’ve got someone on my team who can do wonders with phones. If he can’t fix it, he’ll transfer all your numbers into that new one in a couple of minutes with his laptop. And I think we’ve got a couple of spares in the mobile unit.”
“We’ve solved one crime,” said Bruno. “But now we’ve got a bigger one to tackle.”
“Crime never sleeps,” said J-J. They saw the postman waiting at the car and climbed in. J-J drove up the bumpy narrow lane, wincing as branches scratched the sides of his Peugeot. “Putain, putain, putain. I knew we should have taken your van.”
“We needed your car to bring the postman. My van has only two seats,” said Bruno. “One thing a village policeman knows is never to leave a cooperative witness stranded miles from anywhere. I’m surprised you don’t teach the recruits that in the Police Nationale.”
32
Bruno was a fatalist, like most soldiers who had been shot at and lived. The bullet would either get you or it wouldn’t. So while he admired people who prepared their meetings and their conversations in advance, he could never do it himself. Even if he was making official inquiries or was involved in an interrogation, whatever line he’d planned to pursue was soon diverted into unexpected directions. On the whole Bruno thought these tended to be more rewarding than his intended approaches, rather like being forced to take a detour when traveling; the surprises were often more interesting than the planned route. So as he headed for Hubert’s cave, he thought he would just ask Jacqueline the simple questions: When and where had she last seen Max? Where had they planned to meet next? Had she heard any more from Bondino? That should cover it, he thought as he greeted Nathalie and looked at Hubert’s latest special offer. With the tourist season over and space needed for the first of the Beaujolais and the new deliveries, this was the time when Hubert started selling off some stock cheaply.
“Salut, Bruno. I was just closing. Have you come in for that Gigondas?” she asked. “Word’s getting around and it’s going very fast. It’s an amazing buy at four euros.”
“I was looking for Jacqueline, but I’ll take three bottles if it’s that good.” He handed over a twenty-euro bill.
“You just missed her. We had a long day doing inventory, so I said she could go when I started to lock up. Since it’s you, I’ve got half a case left of that Gigondas, which you can have for that twenty.”
With the half case of wine cushioned by his sports bag, Bruno took the familiar road past the railway bridge and along the path to Pamela’s home. It was one of his favorite spots in the region; the familiar mixture of the honey-colored stone and the dark red roof tiles, the crushed chalk castine of the courtyard and the lush greens of garden and countryside had come together here in a particularly satisfying harmony. Perhaps it was the way the hill curled down to nestle the property like a jewel in its setting, or the contrast between the shielding stand of tall poplars and the lower cluster of buildings. There was something comforting and fitting in the way that it still had the appearance of a working farm, with its large vegetable garden and the two horses idly munching grass, the placid cows on the hill that Pamela leased to a neighboring farmer. And Bruno’s own fondness for the owner and the life she had built probably also played a part. But other than his own house, for which he had the fierce affection that came from having built so much of it with his own hands, there was no other house in his district that made him feel quite so content.
“I tried to call you, but your cell phone’s still dead,” said Pamela, coming out to greet him in the courtyard. He was careful to kiss her cheeks, but he could not disguise his smile of pleasure at the sight of her, dressed for gardening in green rubber boots, a wide floral skirt and what looked like a man’s old white shirt, all topped with a big straw hat. She carried a large hoe. “I was just going to weed the vegetables. Did you want to see Jacqueline? She’s in her gîte. I just took her a cup of tea.”
Bruno smiled at the Englishness of it, the firm belief that tea was the answer to every crisis. He enjoyed the way that Pamela fulfilled so many of the beliefs the French held about their neighbors across the channel, from her perfect complexion and her love of horses to her belief in the healing powers of tea.
“Yes. I have to ask her some routine questions.” Bruno did not intend to reveal that Max’s death had now become a murder inquiry. For Pamela, and presumably for Jacqueline, it was still a tragic accident. “How about you? You look like you’re over the shock.”
“Life goes on. The weeds keep growing; the horses must be seen to,” she said. “I find that routine tasks can be rather soothing in difficult times. Would you like some tea, or coffee, or a petit apéro? It’s late enough for one, and you must have been very busy.”
“No apéro just now, thanks, and yes, we have been busy. We solved the first crime, of the fire. Keep it to yourself, but it was Max, and we know when and where he bought the gas, how he got to the research station. There’s no doubt about it. So if he hadn’t died, he might well have been heading to prison.”
“Heavens,” she exclaimed. “I’ll make some coffee. You look as though you need it. Come on into the kitchen.”
She put down the hoe and took his hand and almost pulled him inside, sat him down at the table and began bustling at the stove with kettle and filter paper and pouring the beans into an old hand grinder that was attached to the kitchen counter.
“Have you eaten today?” she went on.
He shook his head. “I’ll get a pizza later, probably with J-J, the detective from Périgueux that I worked with on that other case, the dead Arab. He’s going to have to stay here for a day or two, clearing up Max’s case.”
“I’d rather like to meet your J-J, from what you’ve told me about him,” she said, piling cups and sugar onto a tray as the familiar smell of fresh coffee reached Bruno’s nose. “There aren’t many men you admire, but you certainly think highly of him. Bring him here for a meal this evening, rather than make do with pizza.”
“Well, thank you. That would be something to look forward to. And I can provide some very nice wine, a Gigondas I just bought at Hubert’s place.”
“The stuff on special offer at four euros a bottle?” she asked, then laughed. “There’s my six bottles over there. I haven’t put them away yet.”
Bruno smiled broadly. “She’s a good saleswoman, Nathalie. And you make good coffee, Pamela. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. You know, I’m sorry we won’t have the chance to enjoy Max’s wine. I think he was going to be a rather special young man, despite what you say about the fire.”
“That reminds me, what time did Jacqueline get back the night before you found Cresseil?”
“Late. I was still reading in bed after midnight, and I didn’t fall asleep straightaway. You know how it is when your thoughts start churning. So she didn’t get back before one, maybe even later. And she can’t have been with Max; I’d have heard the motorbike.”
“Did she ever say what she was doing that night?”
“No, except that she was planning to help Max pick his grapes. She said something about his wanting to pick them at night, after the heat of the day. I didn’t pay much attention.”
“But you’re sure that she wasn’t back here before one in the morning?”
“Well, almost sure. It’s possible that I may have dropped off a
nd didn’t hear her return.”
“And when did she leave the following morning?”
“The usual time, not long after eight-thirty. The cave opens at ten, but Hubert wants the staff there before nine to prepare for the day. That’s what she said.”
“Do you like her?”
“I’m not sure. She hasn’t been here long.”
“You must have formed an impression,” Bruno said.
“Hmmm. Do I like her? It’s too soon to say. Our dealings have been very matter-of-fact; we haven’t had the kinds of conversation that lead to intimacy or friendship, and I rather doubt we will. I suspect she’s one of those girls whose behavior is very different with men than with women.”
“I think you’re right,” said Bruno. “Maybe that’s how it has to be for pretty girls, accustomed as they are to getting so much attention from men. You’d know that, Pamela.”
“I think you just paid me a compliment, so thank you. But no, even when I was younger I don’t think I was that different when I was with men as opposed to women. It’s just the way Jacqueline is. Some women are like that.”
“Did you ever come across any other boyfriends of hers, apart from Max?” Bruno asked.
“She’s hardly had time for other suitors, has she?”
“Remember I told you about the American, the drunk who was pestering her in the street? He had a fight with Max in the bar over Jacqueline. He seemed to think he had prior rights.”
“I never saw him here. Max seemed to be her regular date. Rather good taste on her part, I thought.”
33
Wearing jeans and a sleeveless blouse when she opened the door to his knock, Jacqueline smiled a welcome and invited him in. She was made up and wearing fresh lipstick, which to Bruno suggested that she had her emotions well under control. Her laptop was open and running, and one of her big wine books was open next to it, a stack of manila files to one side. Perhaps the affair with Max had been just a casual thing, like that dalliance with Bondino. Bruno kind of liked this young woman, even if he wasn’t quite sure he approved of her.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Jacqueline, because I know you were close to Max, but I have to ask you some questions about him. It’s just routine when there’s a death.”
“That’s okay. I understand. And I wanted to thank you for dinner. I should have sent a note.” She sat down in an armchair and gestured to him to take a seat on a chaise longue opposite her. “I liked Max a lot, and our relationship might have grown into something more. He was so young and full of life.”
“A few years younger than you, right?”
“Well, so what?” She almost snapped the words out, instantly on the defensive. “He was mature for his age. And he could talk about things other than sports.” Unlike most men, she seemed to be implying as she looked at him almost angrily. Then she appeared to take hold of herself and sat forward, fumbling for a tissue from a box on the low table beside her and holding it to her eyes.
“When did you last see him alive?” Bruno asked. He had observed many people under police questioning, had noted their shifts of mood and posture and manner, their varying attempts to exert some control over a process in which the police always had the upper hand.
“Not long after we saw you, after that scene at the café. We walked back to where I’d left my bike and said good night.”
“So you left Max, what, five minutes after you saw me outside the café?”
“Maybe ten minutes, not much more.” She gave a timorous smile and put her hand to her cheek, as if remembering a tender moment.
“And you came straight home, back here?”
“Yes.”
Bruno sat back, looking at her. She seemed to straighten her posture under his gaze. She was certainly acting, but why was she lying? Pamela had been almost sure she had not returned before one in the morning, and the fight at the bar had been before eleven. And what about Max’s having had sex before he died? He took out his notebook and pen and began writing, aware that she was reaching for another tissue. He continued to write, letting the silence build, the oldest trick in the interrogator’s book.
“You know,” she said into the silence, “most young men are static. What you see when you meet them is all there is. It was like Max was older, more mature. He had the depth of an older man.”
Bruno glanced up from his notebook. She was looking at him with wide eyes, her lips parted, her arms to her sides and pressing her breasts forward. It was a—he had no other word for it—flirtatious pose. He looked back down at his book and kept his pen at the ready as he asked his next question in a flat, almost bored tone of voice.
“Was Max in good health when you left him that night? Did he seem normal or depressed?”
“Completely normal and in good spirits.”
“You’re sure you didn’t go to Cresseil’s place with Max after leaving the bar? He didn’t ask you to tread the grapes with him?”
“He asked me to go back with him, but I was tired. I’d been working all day, and we’d been picking grapes all evening. I needed to rest.”
“When you said good night to him, was it affectionate, a long embrace?”
“He was my boyfriend.” She smiled. “We kissed good night for a while.”
“Did you make love?”
“Damn it, Bruno,” she said, jumping up and glaring at him. “This is none of your business. No, we didn’t, but what does that have to do with his death?”
“Because from the autopsy we know that Max had sex shortly before he died. If it wasn’t with you, then we need to find out who the partner might have been. This is not about you, Jacqueline; it’s about him.”
“Well, yes, we did make love,” she said defiantly, as though daring Bruno to disapprove. She went to the dresser and lit a cigarette and began smoking as she spoke. “In the field by the trailer park on the other side of the river. We liked to make love in the open air. And then I came back here.”
“And Max? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know for sure. To Cresseil’s place, I guess.”
“He was alone when he left?”
“Of course. We’d just made love.” This time, she said it almost proudly, a kind of arrogance about her as she began to stride back and forth across the room. It felt somehow false to Bruno.
“How did he leave, on his motorbike?”
“No, on foot. I don’t know where his bike was.”
“Did you talk about the fight at the bar?”
“A bit, just saying that Bondino was crazy. That’s all.”
“You didn’t see Bondino again that night?”
“No. Not after the fight and after you came.”
“Max didn’t ask you why the American seemed so persistent?”
“No. He was just angry that Bondino wouldn’t take no for an answer.” She sounded bored as she said it, and stubbed out her cigarette with three savage jabs. Bruno had the impression that in her different moods she was copying the mannerisms of some actresses she had seen, as though trying to invent emotions like anger and boredom that she would be expected to display. None of it seemed to come from her. Perhaps it was time to jolt her.
“Had you always said no to Bondino?”
At that, she stopped her pacing and looked down at him with real surprise. Then she put her hands on her hips, tightened her mouth and released genuine anger, or perhaps another emotion.
“Bruno, this is very hostile questioning into my personal life, and I don’t see any relevance when it comes to Max’s accidental death. If you want to ask any more of these dirty old man questions, I’m going to call a lawyer.”
“That’s up to you, Jacqueline,” he said calmly, scribbling in his notebook and avoiding her eye. “We can always continue the questioning at the gendarmerie, but you’d have to stay in jail under what we call garde à vue, and I doubt you’d get to see a lawyer for some time. In any event, this is France, and we can hold you for questioning for three days. I repeat, had you a
lways said no to Bondino? I’m trying to understand why he felt he had some claim on you and why that led to a fight with Max.”
She turned her back on him. “I got drunk one night and let Bondino into my room. It was a mistake. I’m not usually like that. It made me feel like a slut.”
“Thank you for telling the truth. Had you lied, I would have known because I already talked to the hotel about this. You can stop answering my questions at any time and call a lawyer, but I and the magistrate investigating Max’s death would draw the appropriate conclusion. And as far as we know, you were the last person to see Max alive. That makes your testimony very important.”
“That’s what feels so strange about this,” she said. “He was fine when we parted, happy and affectionate. And the next thing I know, he’d dead in this bizarre way. It’s a shock. You don’t expect someone young and healthy to die just like that.”
“You have no reason to believe that his death was anything other than an accident?”
“What do you mean? Of course not. An accident is what I heard. If you know any different, tell me. He was my boyfriend, damn it. I have a right to know.”
“The precise cause of death has not yet been established, Jacqueline. It was clearly an unusual death, so we have to be thorough in our investigation. Besides which it seems that Max may have been involved in something else we’re investigating. Did he ever talk to you about that fire up in the hills a week ago?”
“Not specifically. People were talking about it in the cave and at the bar at night. Most people seemed to approve of it—I mean, to applaud whoever it was who burned the GMO crops. They’re not too popular around here.”
“Max never talked about GMO crops with you?”
“Sure, when the topic came up in the bar. He was against them. He was very green-minded, interested in producing organic wines. …” She smiled, and for the first time, Bruno felt she was showing a genuine emotion.
He stood up, not returning her smile. “I’m sorry about all this, but it’s my job. I’ll type this up as a statement and then you’ll have a chance to correct it before signing it. I should warn you that under French law, a signed statement is a very serious document. Any lies or misrepresentations in it can lead to prison or other dire consequences.”
Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard Page 20