Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

by Martin Walker

  “Do you have time to meet me?”

  “If we make it quick.”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. Make that three. Meet me at the rugby men’s bar.”

  Bruno went back into the gendarmerie and told the desk sergeant that if J-J wanted him, Bruno had gone to see the mayor on some local business. Bruno left for the Bar des Amateurs. A large sheet of plywood still covered the broken window. He took a table outside, far from the only other occupied table. His glass of pression arrived at the same time as the baron’s big Citroën DS drew up outside the bar and he and the mayor climbed out. Bruno wasn’t surprised to see the baron.

  “Bonsoir, Bruno,” the baron said, shaking his hand. “I was dining with the mayor, and he wanted me to come along.”

  “We weren’t just dining, we were planning,” the mayor said, rubbing his hands together in that way Bruno recognized. Bruno felt his antennae quiver. The mayor was up to something. He’d expected his boss to be in despair at the prospect of losing the Bondino project.

  “That point you made about other businessmen possibly being interested in the vineyard project, it got me thinking,” the mayor said. “So the baron and I put our heads together, and maybe we can make a modest version of this scheme work even if Bondino pulls out.”

  “I really don’t see him wanting to stay involved with Saint-Denis after this,” said Bruno. “When I left the cell they were just about to hold him down and take DNA samples by force.”

  “Is he guilty?” asked the baron.

  “As I told the mayor, I don’t know. Probably. His fingerprints show he lied about not being at Cresseil’s. He’s an arrogant young pup, thinks he can get away with anything with his money. But I can’t quite see it. He’s not a big guy, and he’s out of shape. Max was bigger, stronger and in peak condition. You’ve seen him play rugby; Max was hard as nails. I wouldn’t have thought Bondino would have had the couilles to tackle him, but then he did just that one night right here in this bar. That’s how the window got broken. If he took Max by surprise, or found him passed out in the vat, then it’s possible.”

  “If we just let the law take its course, what happens?” asked the mayor.

  “He can be held until J-J brings in a juge d’instruction, and the story probably won’t reach the media until then. With the fingerprints, there’s enough evidence for the magistrate to hold him after that, at least until the DNA evidence comes back. But by that time, we’ll have an international incident on our hands and half the foreign press corps camped out at this bar. ‘American wine tycoon’s son held on love-triangle murder charge after a body is found in a wine vat.’ You can imagine the headlines.”

  “Would they keep him here for the three days?” the mayor asked.

  “More likely they’ll move him to Périgueux. But the TV cameras will all descend on us anyway to get pictures of the wine vat, photos of Max on the rugby field, interviews with Jacqueline when they learn about the bar fight. Still, the main focus would be Périgueux, and the sooner Dupuy and the diplomats get involved, the sooner they’ll move him and bring in the lawyers.”

  “That settles it,” said the mayor. “You call Dupuy. I’ll call a man I know at the Quai d’Orsay who’s just back from our embassy in Washington.”

  The baron got to his feet and looked toward the mayor. “I’ll go and see Julien at the Domaine and set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I think Bruno should be there, along with Xavier and Hubert and the bank manager. Perhaps I’ll bring one or two more people. Ten tomorrow morning, Bruno, at the Domaine. Let’s see what we can save from this mess.”

  The baron climbed into his car, and Bruno and the mayor began working their phones. Bruno had just reached Dupuy, in a restaurant from the sound of it, when he saw J-J come out of the main door of the gendarmerie. He put his hands on his hips and glowered in Bruno’s direction. Bruno held J-J’s gaze but spoke rapidly as the detective came down the steps toward him.

  “Monsieur Dupuy, this is Chief of Police Courrèges in Saint-Denis. Monsieur Bondino has been arrested on suspicion of murder. He’s under garde à vue at the Saint-Denis gendarmerie. You need to alert his embassy and get a lawyer fast. The arresting officer is Commissaire Jalipeau of the Police Nationale in Périgueux. I’ll call you back when I can.”

  He closed his phone and stood up. J-J was red-faced and steaming as he approached, angrier than Bruno had ever seen him.

  “If you’re interfering in my case I’ll have you in that damn cell, Bruno, you know that.”

  His voice was so loud that people peered out of the bar at the scene on the terrace. The mayor turned to J-J, frowning in reproach, put a finger to his lips and turned back to his phone call.

  “Your suspect is absolutely within his rights to refuse to say anything to you until he has been allowed to contact his embassy and get legal advice,” Bruno said quietly. “It’s the law.”

  “Don’t tell me about the law,” J-J shouted. “I live the law. I am the law. And what kind of cop do you call yourself?”

  “I’m a cop who obeys the rules. You know them as well as I do.”

  “Damn it, Bruno, I’ve got a murderer in there.”

  “No, you don’t. You’ve got a suspect. And now you’ve shouted that allegation to the whole town. Control yourself. This is not a conversation to be having on the street.”

  “Putain de merde, you’re supposed to be on the side of the law, Bruno,” J-J said, more quietly now. “I suppose this is another time when your Saint-Denis comes first. Well, I don’t get it, because you’ve got one of your own Saint-Denis boys dead and cold and you’re trying to protect some fat foreigner who killed him.”

  “Oh, sit down and have a drink, J-J. And say hello to the mayor.” Having noticed that the mayor had just finished his phone call, Bruno wanted to defuse the tension.

  “Monsieur le Maire,” grumbled J-J, forced to shake hands and accede to the etiquette of the occasion.

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve stopped shouting, J-J. For a moment there I thought you were going to have a heart attack, and that would have been very embarrassing for Saint-Denis, very sad for you and a great loss to the Police Nationale,” said the mayor. He was hanging on to J-J’s hand and shaking it slowly and repeatedly as he deliberately rambled on. Bruno realized that J-J’s anger was being diluted with every emollient phrase.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you again, J-J. I remember very well that excellent work you and Bruno did together on that bank robbery we had, and again on the murder of that Arab. I always thought the two of you represented a model of what good relations should be between the various arms of the law here in our little part of the world. Now do as Bruno says and sit down and let’s have a drink. Cognac for me. And you, J-J?”

  J-J looked at the mayor, who still clung to his hand, looked at Bruno, who was beaming innocently at him, glowered briefly at the small knot of spectators in the doorway of the bar, let out an enormous sigh and sat down.

  “Scotch whisky,” he said, and turned his face up to the evening sky. “There are 36,565 communes in France. Why do I always have to end up in this one?”

  “Because we make you feel so welcome,” said Bruno from the doorway, where he was calling to the barman. “Cognac for the mayor and two Glenfiddiches from your special bottle.

  “Now that you’re here,” he went on, returning to the table, “let me tell you why it might be a good idea to release Bondino overnight and let him sleep in his hotel just down the road. He won’t be going anywhere. You’ll have his passport and you can take his car keys and wallet, and I can stay in the suite with him, if you want.”

  “I’ll take some convincing,” said J-J as René brought the drinks.

  “Your big problem is that so far you don’t have a formal statement of unlawful death from the pathologist. Until you get that, you don’t have a crime. That’s the first thing the juge d’instruction will want to see, and as soon as Bondino gets a high-priced lawyer on this case that’s the first thing he�
��s going to demand.”

  “I’ll have it tomorrow,” J-J said.

  “Even if you do, any smart lawyer would file a complaint against you for keeping him in jail overnight before you have it. Release him into my custody and you’re covered.”

  J-J took a thoughtful sip of his drink.

  “Bondino is the son of an extremely rich and well-connected industrialist who was introduced to us by the American ambassador,” Bruno went on. He turned to the mayor. “Isn’t that right?”

  The mayor nodded solemnly, confirming the stretched truth. “I’m told the father is a big political fund-raiser,” he said. “We’re not just talking about political influence here, but about great wealth and the lawyers and publicity it will inevitably bring. This is a powerful and prominent man, so his son’s arrest for murder will be a big news story and probably an international incident.”

  “The mayor’s right. It will be a media circus. You can write the story yourself, the killing in a wine vat of a sexual rival after a squalid barroom brawl. Look, J-J, you haven’t got a juge d’instruction, so right now it’s your head on the block and only yours. If the juge decides to detain him, it’s no longer your responsibility. And you can still have him to interrogate all day tomorrow if you want. But from what I saw in there, he’s not going to give you anything except a demand to call his embassy. Leave him to me overnight, good cop to your bad cop, and I might even get something out of him.”

  “Bruno’s right,” the mayor said. A long silence ensued while J-J pensively sipped his whisky.

  “If I transfer him to your custody and you sign the receipt, it’s your head if he disappears,” J-J said.

  “And mine,” said the mayor. “Bruno works for me, and I authorize this.”

  “Okay,” J-J said, nodding. “I want him back at the gendarmerie at eight a.m. sharp and I’ll take him to headquarters in Périgueux.”

  “You’ll probably find the American ambassador and a small army of very expensive bilingual lawyers in your office by midday,” the mayor said, slipping a banknote under his glass to pay the bill.

  “Come on, let’s get him out of there,” said Bruno, finishing his drink and rising to his feet.

  36

  His shoulders bowed and his eyes blank, Bondino was silent as Bruno led him up the stairs of the gendarmerie. When Bruno opened the passenger door of his van and gestured for him to enter he looked startled, but he complied. As Bruno drove off, Bondino asked, “Where are we going?” and Bruno simply said, “My house. Again.” Then the American fell silent, eyes fixed on the dark country road ahead. The passing tree trunks flared and faded in the yellow light of Bruno’s headlights, and then they were on the bumpy lane to his cottage.

  Gigi welcomed them with a single bark of greeting and sniffed at Bondino’s trousers, probably trying to decipher the rich mix of scents picked up in the cell, then gave his ear a lick of sympathy as Bondino kneeled down to fondle him. Almost at once Bondino found all of Gigi’s favorite places: the two spots on either side of his backbone, the place on the side of his belly that made Gigi pump a rear leg in ecstasy. Bondino was smiling and murmuring softly, and Gigi jumped up to rest his paws on the American’s chest. He liked dogs, that was clear, and had a way with them, and dogs liked him. Bruno could not see him killing one.

  “Tonight, you’re in my custody,” Bruno said. “You can stay here or in your hotel, it’s up to you. But I have to stay with you. Now I have to feed my dog.”

  Bondino and Gigi followed him into the kitchen, where he took leftover soup from the refrigerator and warmed it on the stove, and then poured it over some crumbled dog biscuits. Bondino looked around at the shelves of homemade preserves, the rope of garlic, the framed photo on the wall of Bruno and Stéphane in hunting gear. A dead deer was slung on a long pole between them, Gigi standing proudly by Bruno’s feet, his head cocked and his tail high. Bruno refilled Gigi’s water bowl and then showed Bondino the spare room.

  “Here or the hotel?” he asked.

  “Here,” said Bondino. “I like your dog. And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow, more police, more questions,” said Bruno. “Now you’ll need the bathroom.” He handed Bondino a fresh towel from the cupboard. Once the American closed the door behind him, Bruno went to double-check that his guns were locked away and the ammunition sealed in its separate case.

  “A drink?” he asked as Bondino came out, looking much fresher. “Coffee, beer, wine?”

  “Wine, please.”

  Bruno opened one of his unlabeled Pomerols and poured them each a glass. He sat in his armchair by the chimney and Bondino took the sofa, a coffee table between them that carried a booklet on amendments to the law that Bruno was supposed to study, a historical novel by Brigitte Le Varlet from the Saint-Denis library that he much preferred to read, and the latest well-thumbed copy of Chasseur magazine, with a photograph of a stag on the cover.

  “Very good Bordeaux,” said Bondino. “Merlot, just a little cabernet. A Pomerol?”

  Bruno nodded, impressed.

  “Why are you kind to me?” Bondino asked.

  “My dog likes you.”

  “You think I’m a killer?”

  Bruno shrugged. “I know you can be violent. You attacked me when you were drunk. You attacked Max in the bar. And your fingerprints are on a glass that was found near the body.”

  “Somebody must have put that glass there deliberately.”

  “And you and Max were rivals for the same woman,” Bruno went on.

  “Jacqueline is beautiful. She makes me crazy,” Bondino said, with a wry grin. He raised his glass to Bruno and said, “L’amour.”

  Bruno nodded, and drank in turn.

  “When I first saw her, in California, I felt it here.” Bondino tapped ruefully at his heart.

  “California?” asked Bruno, suddenly alert. “I thought you met here in Saint-Denis.”

  “No, when she was in college she was a student of a professor I know. My family gave money for a Bondino chair of global wine studies. I was asking the professor about France, where I should look if we wanted to buy land. Jacqueline came into his office when I was there. It was the only time I saw her until I came here, just for a few minutes, but I didn’t forget her.”

  “What did your professor say?”

  “He said there were very good possibilities in the Dordogne and he said to see Hubert de Montignac and his cave here in Saint-Denis. The professor wrote us a report on the history and prospects of wine around this valley. That’s when I got in touch with our embassy in Paris and they recommended Dupuy. Apparently he used to work for President Mitterrand and he’s well connected.”

  Bruno nodded and sipped at his wine. So Jacqueline knew that Bondino was coming to Saint-Denis. She must have had some motive for making the same trip. He needed to find out exactly when she’d arranged to get her job at Hubert’s cave.

  “Do you live alone? There’s no sign of a woman here.”

  Bruno nodded and said, “There’s no woman here just now.”

  “No woman in your life?” Bondino asked.

  “I wish I knew,” said Bruno. “I think it’s probably over.”

  He stopped. Bondino looked at him expectantly. Bruno shrugged.

  “Women can make life very complicated,” said Bondino, raising his glass. This was a strange conversation to be having with a suspected murderer. Bruno refilled the glasses, pulled out his phone and rang Dupuy again.

  “Chief of Police Courrèges. This time I’m calling from home and we can speak now. I have Bondino with me.”

  “So he hasn’t been formally charged?”

  “Not yet. The police will start questioning him again tomorrow.”

  “Is he all right, not too shaken up?”

  “He’s fine, enjoying a glass of wine and petting my dog. You want to speak to him?” He handed his phone across to Bondino, saying, “Your man Dupuy.”

  A long conversation in English followed, too fast for Bruno to follow; Bo
ndino’s eyes kept returning to Bruno as his free hand caressed Gigi. He handed the phone back.

  “I cannot thank you enough,” Dupuy began. “Monsieur Bondino’s father is taking a plane from California to Paris and then a charter that will land him at Bergerac airport sometime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll meet him there with Maître Bloch from Bordeaux, the best lawyer I could find at this hour. The U.S. Embassy is also sending someone. We’ll come directly to Saint-Denis.”

  “By then, he’ll probably be at the Police Nationale headquarters in Périgueux. That’s where they’re planning to take him.”

  “Might I ask why you’re sticking your neck out like this?”

  “It’s not just me, it’s the mayor as well. But Bondino has a right to contact his embassy and to see a lawyer. And I wouldn’t keep a dog in those gendarmerie cells.”

  “I won’t forget this, and I’ll make sure the Bondinos understand what you’re doing. I’ll call you tomorrow when I’ve talked to Monsieur Bondino’s father and to the lawyer. Will that be okay?”

  “That’ll be fine. We’ll stay in touch.” Bruno closed his phone and filled the glasses again, the bottle now close to empty. He looked across the table at Bondino. “Tomorrow, you’ll have your father, and a lawyer.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “Did you kill Max?”

  “No!” Bondino shook his head. “No.”

  They drank in silence, studying each other, Gigi lying comfortably between them, his head on Bruno’s foot, his rump against Bondino’s leg.

  But if he didn’t, thought Bruno, who did? And who killed Cresseil’s dog?

  37

  Just after eight the next morning, his prisoner safely deposited back at the gendarmerie, Bruno took his dog along the riverbank for the long stroll to Fauquet’s café. He had to stop at the mairie to pick up his notes on land and vineyard prices and his research file on the Bondino project before the meeting at the Domaine, but for the moment there was time to enjoy the beginning of a perfect September day. Gigi loved the river, darting in and out of the shallows to chase the ducks and splashing through the shaded waters where the willows hung low, and then looking back to see that his master was properly admiring his feats. As they rounded the bend past the old manor house, now converted into a tourist information center, Bruno’s favorite view of his town unfolded: the three arches of the great stone bridge flanked by the mairie and the church’s bell tower, and directly ahead of him the wide stone steps that led up from the river to the market square. He walked on along the quay that ran beneath the bridge to greet Pierrot, who was sitting by the base of one of the great arches with a fishing rod in his hand and two small trout already in his bucket.