Fatal Pursuit

by Martin Walker

  “Gelletreau was treating him for heart trouble,” said Bruno.

  “I’m not in the least surprised. In fact, I’d have been surprised if he wasn’t being treated for it. He’s very overweight and florid, so he must have had high blood pressure. There are nicotine stains on his fingers, so I assume he was a fairly heavy smoker. I found a bit of bruising that could well have happened when he collapsed. Are you sure this is a suspicious death?”

  “No, I’m not sure, but there are some circumstantial things that worry me.” Bruno explained his doubts about the absent file and notebook.

  “I see.” She paused and then said, “I presume you asked for an autopsy. What did J-J say?”

  “He was reluctant but said to ask if you could take a look to see if you thought an autopsy was justified.”

  “Not so far, it isn’t. But I’ll take some swabs and get back to you. Will you be at the rally, watching Annette? I may see you there.”

  “You certainly will, and you may get a surprise.” He laughed, closed the phone and looked at his watch. It was noon; there would be no more time for practice laps.

  “Tell me what happens in the real race,” he said to Annette.

  “They already drew lots, and we go off fifth. That’s good because the track and corners won’t be too badly roughed up. There are twenty-four contestants, and we start at three-minute intervals. Those who finish first and second in this regional heat qualify for the national championship. Can I buy you some lunch? I need a sandwich.”

  “No, thank you. I think I’d lose it on the first turn.”

  “Make sure you drink some water, though. We need to meet up by one-thirty. Regulations require flame-retardant gear, just in case, so you’ll need to change. I’ve got them in the back along with George’s overalls, which should fit you. Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “Drop me in town. Give me the clothes, and I’ll change in the mairie. We can meet there later. I ought to show my face at the Alsace market first, just to say hello to the various stallholders. You could get something to eat there.”

  “Good idea, but stay away from the wine kiosk,” she said with a smile. “I want you keeping all your wits about you, so not even a taste of Riesling, please. But I’ll buy you a bottle after the race.”

  The midday sun was warm, and the square in front of the mairie was full of people gathered around the dozen or so stalls. Annette paused at one that was offering embroidery and lace, oven gloves and aprons with Alsace motifs. She bought a set of tea towels, murmuring to Bruno that she felt she ought to support them. Bruno leafed through a picture book at a stall run by the Alsace tourist board, recognizing one of the old concrete forts from the Maginot Line that he’d visited with Thomas and Ingrid. He pointed it out to Annette.

  “That’s just outside the town,” Bruno said. “It’s a museum now with a good account of the battle that took place there. The French held out for two days. You can see it had two turrets. The Germans knocked out one with artillery and the second with an attack by Stuka dive-bombers.”

  “I thought it was supposed to be impregnable,” she said.

  “Nothing is impregnable. The Germans simply went around it and invaded through Belgium, while half of the French army was locked up in the Maginot Line, barely able to get involved in the war.”

  They walked on, glancing at a stall where Alsace sausages and cheeses were being sold. Bruno greeted his friend Stéphane, the cheese maker, who was tasting the wares while chatting with his visiting counterpart. The busiest stall was the one offering tastings of Riesling, Sylvaner and Pinot Gris. Bruno heard his name called. It was Thomas, who had been called in to help the stallholder cope with the demand.

  “A glass for you, Bruno?”

  He gestured at Annette behind him and called back, “Not when I’m driving.”

  Annette bought herself a flammküchen. Every table on Fauquet’s terrace was taken, but Bruno bought two bottles of water, and he and Annette walked over to the stone balcony overlooking the river. She asked about Fabiola’s call, saying it sounded like it could mean work for her or some other magistrate. It was too soon for that, Bruno said, but told her of his concerns over Hugon’s death.

  “Was that an overweight, elderly man, used to work for the archives in Périgueux?” she asked. Bruno nodded. “I knew him. We hired him from time to time to do research on cases, tax issues mainly. He was a perfectionist and had a very good reputation. I can’t imagine him not keeping all his notebooks up to date.”

  “His wife may have ditched them to try and avoid tax claims,” he replied before drinking some water from his bottle. “But she was very open about what he was being paid for the latest job, and there were a thousand euros in his wallet. If she was worried about taxes, I think she’d have pocketed the money before I turned up.”

  “I hardly think she’d have been thinking about taxes if she walked in to find her husband dead. How long were they married?”

  “Over forty years.”

  “And what was he working on?” asked Annette, finishing her flammküchen and pouring some of the water onto her hands before drying them with a paper napkin.

  “It’s not clear, but it had something to do with the war and the Resistance,” Bruno said. “I’ll try to find out what he was researching at the archives. Maybe that’s where he left the missing file and notebook.”

  Bruno stood up as he saw the mayor heading toward him, waving to friends right and left as he bustled through the crowd. He began speaking from five meters away.

  “I hear you’re going to be taking part in the race, so good luck to you both, but a couple of things have come up,” he said. He apologized to Annette and then took Bruno’s arm and led him a few steps away, his voice dropping to a murmur.

  “First, there’s Jérôme’s amusement park—he wants to buy some land from the town to enlarge the place and put in some new attractions. Could you go see him and get an idea if it’s the kind of thing we should approve? He doesn’t want to go to the expense of hiring an architect and getting a survey done if it doesn’t have much chance of getting past the council.

  “Another thing: that fellow with the Bugatti, Sylvestre Wémy, buttonholed me this morning to ask for my help regarding some property his grandmother left him. You know the place, that pretty chartreuse on the road to the St. Chamassy cemetery.”

  The term meant “charterhouse,” but in this part of France it was used for a historic building that was larger than a manor house but not quite big enough to be called a château. It was usually a long, low building just one room wide with a single floor, although sometimes there were mansard windows to allow small bedrooms in the roof. Sylvestre wanted to turn the place into several expensive apartments and then sell them, the mayor explained. But the inheritance was divided between him and the St. Denis side of the family, and some kind of family feud had now developed. Sylvestre was hoping that the mayor might find some way to resolve matters, since St. Denis stood to lose the extra property taxes and the prospect of employment for gardeners and cleaners.

  “You know the family, the Oudinots. He’s a stubborn old devil. Could you go and see him, Bruno, and find out what the problem is from his side?”

  Fernand Oudinot and his wife, Odette, were in their early sixties and still ran their farm raising ducks and geese; they also kept bees and ran a very productive walnut plantation. Bruno knew Fernand through one of the local hunting clubs, and he had a soft spot for Odette. She used her own honey and nuts to make the best tarte aux noix in the district; although she had shown Bruno how to make it, he could never get his pastry to turn out like hers.

  “I’ll find out what the problem is, but I don’t want to get involved in a family quarrel,” Bruno said. “I’m too attached to Odette’s tarte aux noix.”

  “So am I,” said the mayor. “But I had a call from my colleague in Alsace, one mayor to another, asking if I could help. You know how it is.”

  Bruno nodded and said, “I’ve got to do
this rally first, but I can talk to Sylvestre later and then see the Oudinots tomorrow. They’re decent people. And I’ll go and see Jérôme, too.”

  “There’s no rush on the amusement park. If you could get us a preliminary report for the next council meeting, that would be fine.” Returning to Annette, the mayor kissed her cheeks as he wished her luck in the race. “Just don’t damage our town policeman. He’s got too much to do.”

  “I’ll do my best,” she said, looking at her watch. “And now Bruno and I have to get into our driving clothes.” They went into the mairie to change, Bruno using his office and Annette the ladies’ room. They emerged in white Nomex overalls, all but their hands and faces covered in the material. They got some startled glances as they walked back to the car.

  “I’m not sure I can operate that paper roll if I’m wearing gloves,” he said.

  “I’m the same—I hate driving with gloves. And don’t forget to hit the stopwatch when we start because I’ll have my hand on the gearstick.”

  They went through the ritual of shaking hands with the other drivers before getting into the Citroën, donning their helmets and heading for their place in the queue of cars lined up before the start. The lead car took off at the marshal’s signal. Bruno felt his heart pounding as they rolled forward to the starting line. He looked across at Annette, wondering if he should wish her good luck, but settled for the all-purpose French word that team members exchanged at the start of a rugby match.

  “Merde,” he said.

  “And merde to you,” she replied, her voice sounding odd through the headphones. A second later the marshal’s arm flashed down to release them. Bruno hit the stopwatch on the dashboard and was then rammed back into his seat by the acceleration, Annette taking off faster than ever before, and began reading from his roll.

  “Eighty meters on tarmac then a ninety-degree left turn onto gravel.” He remembered the phrases and the sequences as she slammed the car into a skidding turn.

  “Forty meters straight to a sixty-degree left turn into a dip. Watch for the bad camber…”

  And on it went, his body lifting and then slamming back down, jerking from left to right. He tried to brace himself with only his feet, which were pressed hard against the bulkhead. Annette’s hands were braced on the steering wheel, but his were occupied by the roll. He knew when the straightaways were coming and, from time to time, could risk a quick glance at the road.

  “Ninety-degree right turn at the bottom of this slope and onto tarmac for two hundred meters…”

  A blur of faces marked the turn, the people safely sheltered behind hay bales. They were waving, but because of his helmet he could hear nothing except the howl of the motor and the new thrust as the turbo kicked in. Then almost at once she was braking for the next bend, and he was telling her to watch for the tunnel after a thirty-degree right turn.

  He almost lost it once when the paper ballooned up and he had to use his knees to hold it down in the well of the car, but he found his place just in time to warn Annette of the next bend.

  “Beware of water in the dip at the bottom of this slope, then make an immediate ninety-degree left turn going into the S-bend…”

  As she hammered the car around the sharp turn, he was aware from the corner of his eye of another car on its side in the ditch along the side of the road.

  Then they were through the S-bend and onto gravel, a short straight stretch rose steeply ahead, and then they seemed to sail through the air for a long second before slamming down and into a sixty-degree left turn with a bad camber. There were more faces and hay bales and a short straightaway with a banner over the road and a marshal holding a checkered flag. She went past him at high speed and began braking hard as Bruno hit the stopwatch. It read 15:08. Fifteen minutes and eight seconds. Annette had said they would have to beat fifteen minutes in order to win.

  6

  “Great job, you’re in the lead,” said a large, middle-aged man with a beard, opening Annette’s door and hauling her out into an embrace. Beside him was a slender youth on crutches, one leg in a cast.

  “Bonjour, Marcel…Bonjour, Fabrice,” said Annette. She removed her helmet and turned to introduce Bruno, who was still trying to sort out the tangle of his paper roll. Finally he rolled it neatly back, took off his helmet, released his safety belts and clambered out. He felt light-headed, and his legs were still trembling from the strain of bracing them throughout the race. He leaned against the car and waved at the two strangers, not quite up to the expected handshakes and polite greetings.

  “This is Bruno. He stepped into the breach when my navigator got sick. It’s his first rally,” Annette said. “Bruno, this is Marcel, the garage owner whose car this is, and this is his son Fabrice, who really should be driving.”

  “I don’t think I could do that course in fifteen-eight,” said the young man. “You were great.” He looked at Bruno. “Your first ride? Chapeau.”

  “It was the car,” Annette said. “All that power, great brakes and perfectly tuned.”

  She turned to look at the large blackboard on which the times of each car were marked. They were mostly around 15:15, and one was 15:20. Fifteen-ten was the nearest to their time. Marcel handed Bruno a water bottle, and he drank, gratefully, aware of other drivers and navigators in overalls staring at him curiously. He recognized one of the drivers from a rugby match in Limoges, and another one waved at him, the son of one of the big winegrowers in Bergerac. Bruno waved his hand in return and then saw the slight figure of Félix edging through the crowd and looking shifty as he avoided Bruno’s eye.

  Another car jumped over the hill toward them and raced for the finish line. Fabrice clicked the button on his stopwatch and called across, “Fifteen-thirteen.”

  “That’s Montjoie over there with the blond girl in the red jacket,” said Marcel, pointing into the distance. “He made the national championships last year and he did fifteen-ten, so now you and Annette are the team to beat.”

  “It was all Annette,” said Bruno. “I was just a passenger. Jesus, I feel too old for this sport.”

  “You’re the cop in St. Denis,” Marcel said. It wasn’t a question. “Was this really your first race?”

  “And my last,” said Bruno.

  “Not if you qualify in this heat,” Marcel replied. “If you get into the national finals, it has to be with the same team that qualified.”

  Damn Annette, thought Bruno. She hadn’t told him that. “No exceptions?” he asked, hopefully.

  “Death, serious illness with a medical certificate, military orders, that’s about it.”

  “Then I’ll just have to hope there are faster cars to come.”

  “There’s one who can beat you, maybe two more, and only two teams qualify.”

  As Marcel spoke, Annette came around to Bruno’s side of the car to hug him. He knew her well but was momentarily startled as he remembered how small she was, the top of her head barely reaching his chin. Somehow in the course of the last few hours she seemed to have grown in his imagination as she demonstrated her mastery at the wheel.

  Another car came across the finish line. This time the marshal at the blackboard wrote down “15:11.”

  “We’re still leading,” she said, looking up at him gleefully.

  “Does that mean I can go and change?”

  “Sorry, no. If there’s a dead heat we might have to do it again. That shouldn’t happen, though, because the marshals time us to tenths of a second.”

  Bruno was aware of his name being called and saw a group of his friends—Thomas and Ingrid, Gilles and Fabiola, Crimson and his daughter, Miranda, waving at him from behind the hay bales at the finish line and giving him a thumbs-up. He waved back, and then the mayor was at his side.

  “I hear you’re in the lead,” he said.

  “I’m counting on you to get me some military orders to save me from having to do this again,” Bruno replied. “Apparently that’s the only acceptable excuse, apart from death or serious inj
ury. And shouldn’t you be behind those protective hay bales with the others?”

  “Rank has its privileges, Bruno. And here’s the inevitable Philippe Delaron with his camera.”

  With the ease of a practiced politician, the mayor insinuated himself into the photo for Sud Ouest, Annette between the two men, and then Philippe came forward with his notepad as another car came over the finishing line. The marshal had just finished writing “15:12” when he clutched at his waist and pulled out a mobile phone. He listened briefly and then shouted, “Ambulance,” and began clanging a bell.

  “Sector seven, the corner by the sawmill at Petit-Paris, a car’s gone into a tree,” he shouted at Ahmed moments later. Leaning out of the window of the urgences vehicle, Ahmed waved acknowledgment, put on his siren and roared off, not quite as fast as the rally cars but at a very impressive speed. Philippe ran to his own car and followed Ahmed, again at a speed that Bruno would have found terrifying before today. Lespinasse followed in his tow truck.

  “Don’t worry,” Annette said to Bruno. “You saw the roll bars and security cages in the car. It’s unusual for anyone to be hurt.”

  “In that case we ought to install them in every car that’s built,” Bruno said. He’d seen the results of too many car crashes in his years as a policeman.

  The marshals halted the remaining cars that were waiting in line for their own runs. There were only half a dozen still to go. Last in line was Sylvestre’s Volkswagen. To Bruno’s surprise, Sylvestre was the navigator, and his Indian friend Freddy was at the wheel. As he looked, Sylvestre turned, caught his eye and gave a casual wave before rolling down the window and calling for Annette. She strolled across, bent to listen, smiled and backed away with a wave.

  “He was just paying us a compliment on our run,” she said when she returned.

  “I’m surprised he’s not driving,” said Bruno. “He seemed like the kind of man who’d like to be in the driver’s seat. And he seemed pretty quick when he caught up with us this morning.”

  “Sylvestre is very good, but Freddy’s better. He came in second in last year’s desert rally in Qatar. That’s a big international event with serious prize money. And a team is a team—either one can drive. The navigator is formally known as the codriver. That’s why I could race after Fabrice broke his leg.”