Fatal Pursuit

by Martin Walker

  Bruno nodded. That was interesting; he hadn’t known that Félix was friendly with the garage owner’s son. Édouard was a good kid and a fine rugby player. He’d flattened Bruno with a hard tackle in the last juniors’ match against the old men. Bruno suppressed a smile at the memory and led Félix and his mother downstairs, where he pulled the old bike from the back of his van. “Could you fix this one up?”

  Félix lifted the front wheel, squeezed a tire with his fingers and then spun it. He tugged at the loose chain, lifted the rear wheel, spun it and tested the brakes. His movements were deft and confident. He put the bike down and used his hand to wipe dust from the seat.

  “It’s working already, but I could probably clean it up and tighten that chain. It could use a good going-over.”

  “You fix it up as best you can, and I’ll lend it to you,” Bruno said. “Then after school today, we’ll go to the riding school in my car, and if they like the look of you, they’ll give you a chance. You’d better shower and get into some clean clothes before you go. I’ll pick you up here at five, and you’d better be ready because there’s a catch. If you aren’t ready and looking presentable, the deal’s off. If the school decides after they try you out that they don’t want you or if you don’t turn up on time, I take the bike back. So rather than leave it out here at night, you might want to keep it in your room.”

  “Can I take it up now?”

  Bruno nodded and held the door open as the boy shouldered the heavy old bike and staggered up the stairs. When Félix had gone, he looked at the boy’s mother. “I’ll need you and Jacques to make sure the boy gets up on time every Saturday and that he takes care of that bike.”

  “I understand,” she said, squaring her shoulders before she went on. “He was always little for his age; that’s why he gets bullied a bit. It was fine while Édouard was in the same class, they got on well together, but Félix failed his exams and was kept behind for a year.”

  Félix trotted out through the door of the apartment house, shaking his hands as if he’d just washed them and grinning at Bruno and giving Balzac a pat before he set off beside his mother to the collège. Bruno watched them go and then led Balzac into his Land Rover and set off for Fauquet’s café for a real cup of coffee and a croissant before he started work.

  —

  From his office in the mairie, Bruno called Annette to tell her that Pamela was prepared to give Félix a chance at the stables and then asked if her English boyfriend had been serenading her with his troubadour songs. His name is George, she said, chiding him. She reported he’d been in good form the previous evening when they’d gone for dinner in Sarlat. She sounded happy about it, so Bruno didn’t mention that George had been seen driving his E-type when he was supposed to be too sick to be in the rally.

  He also briefed her on Fabiola’s decision to call for an autopsy on Hugon. She might want to warn the procureur that there could be a murder investigation to organize, and certainly an inquest into Hugon’s death. He promised to send her a report later that morning. Then he began to check his e-mails and found one from the mayor, attaching a copy of a memo from Alphonse suggesting that the mairie look into the possible benefits of organizing a rally for electric cars. The mayor asked for Bruno’s views.

  He raced through the rest of the e-mails, at least half of them from garages trying to sell him a rally car. He supposed they’d seen Philippe Delaron’s race report. Another one came from the Périgord rally club saying that he’d omitted to sign up for membership before competing, which meant they could annul the result unless he paid them a retroactive registration fee of fifty euros. He forwarded that one to Annette. He was just finishing his report on Hugon’s death when the mayor’s secretary, Claire, slinked into the room in a new dress that was too tight for her generous frame.

  “A Mademoiselle Oudinot to see you,” she said, batting her eyelashes and somehow putting salacious meaning into the words. That would be Fernand’s daughter, Martine, obviously reverting to her maiden name since her divorce. He asked Claire to show her in and to make two coffees from the mayor’s own blend, not the usual sludge from the communal pot.

  “This is business, Claire,” he said briskly, hitting the SAVE key on his report. “The mayor has become a rally enthusiast after the weekend, and we’re counting on my visitor to help.”

  Martine was dressed for business in a dark skirt and blue pin-striped blazer over a white blouse. Her hair was severely pulled back into a tight bun in a way that did little for her looks, but Bruno still found her remarkably attractive. She was wearing lipstick and a little more eye makeup than the previous day and was carrying a slim briefcase in black leather. He stood up to receive her, shook hands across his desk and sat down gingerly, trying to avert the usual squeak from his elderly chair. As always he failed.

  “I’ve put some thoughts down on paper about this electric-car rally we mentioned yesterday,” she said, pulling some papers from her briefcase.

  “Obviously we will need sponsors to finance this, and I’ve listed those I think most likely to be receptive to the idea. We’ll need the mayor’s influence to get the other communes up and down the Vézère Valley to cooperate, along with the regional council. I propose we call it the Lascaux Green Grand Prix, since that combines the most famous name in the region with an emphasis on the environmental aspect of electric cars. That should also guarantee support from the tourist board, and it gives media a second reason to cover the race. The combination of the most modern form of transportation with the prehistoric art of Lascaux makes a neat juxtaposition, too.”

  Bruno sat forward, resting his arms on the desk, trying not to show that he was impressed.

  “This is my list of what needs to be done by the mayor, by the Périgord rally club whose backing we will also need and by the gendarmes, who will have to submit a report on the feasibility of the race route I have proposed. It will be my job to recruit the sponsors. I know several of the key figures in the various firms I’ve listed, and it’s an area where I have a lot of experience. Here’s my CV with a list of references from companies I’ve worked with.”

  Martine then handed him a map that showed the route she suggested for the race, starting at the parking lot by the Lascaux exhibition center, going through the heart of Montignac and across the narrow stone bridge leading out of the village. The route then turned off through the picturesque village of St. Léon-sur-Vézère, past the Château de Losse and up around the prehistoric park of Le Thot. It took the curving hill road after Tursac and turned off to swing around the Château de Marzac and then returned to the main road through a long, narrow street in Les Eyzies. From there it took the long straightaway to the turn that led to the Grotte du Sorcier and through the woods to come down through St. Denis with the finishing line at the far side of the bridge.

  “You’ll see that I’ve tried to include as many tourist sites as I could,” she said. “But I’m sure we can adapt the route if there are any I have left out or any that we need to add for political reasons.” She smiled at him, a sudden hint of playfulness in her eyes. “We certainly don’t want any of the mayors to feel left out.

  “I’m proposing three different kinds of sponsor, starting with the various car companies themselves along with Électricité de France and all the renewable energy companies we can recruit,” she went on. “The second tier would be governmental, the European Union’s energy commission, its environmental commission, its commission for tourism and equivalent bodies from France. The advantage of that is that the EU commissions only provide matching funds, so if they offer money the French authorities are under real pressure to provide funds of their own. The third tier would be the international public, starting of course with every school in the Périgord, since we will promote this race as being about their future. We challenge every schoolchild to donate five cents toward the cash prize we offer to the winner of the race—the publicity value will far outweigh the money we raise that way.”

  She hande
d over another sheet of paper. “Here’s my marketing plan for targeting these different tiers. You can see that my preliminary calculations suggest that with my estimated income target of three million euros the race should cover its costs and make a reasonable profit, which will naturally go to financing green energy at all the other tourist sites in the region, starting with the Lascaux Cave itself.”

  He sat back, blinking partly in admiration, partly in surprise, at the figures in her proposal. “This is admirable, Martine. You must have put a lot of work into this, and you didn’t have much time. I’m really impressed.”

  “Good,” she said coolly. “Here’s a note on my proposed terms. We will need to establish a nonprofit foundation to administer and run the overall project as well as the race itself. The foundation will contract with my company for the exclusive marketing rights, from which I will take an agreed percentage of all the outside funds that we raise under my plan. Fifteen percent is the usual rate in the public relations industry. I will also organize and commission all the advertising, to include press, broadcasting and electronic media, and take the standard ad agency rates.”

  Bruno scribbled down notes as she talked and did the math. He looked up. “Your fifteen percent of three million euros would net you four hundred and fifty thousand. We could never sell that to the council. Once the press got hold of that they’d all be thrown out at the next election. The average income per head in this commune is less than twenty thousand a year. The mayor would reject the whole idea. I wouldn’t even take it to him.”

  “But I don’t get a penny unless I make this work by raising the money,” Martine snapped. She sat back, her eyes blazing at him. For a moment he thought she was going to walk out. Instead, she sipped at her coffee and then gave him a crisp smile.

  “You said you were impressed by my proposals. These aren’t just ideas, Bruno, it’s a serious marketing plan. I’m experienced at this. What’s more, I’m a woman from a local family, and I want this to work.”

  “Yes, I said I was impressed and I am.” He knew he was dealing with an experienced businesswoman who must have gone through many negotiations such as this. She would have presented and sold many marketing plans and met similar hesitation when prospective clients saw the bill. Bruno was out of his depth, but he knew his local politicians.

  “I was impressed first of all by your understanding that we’d need to get the enthusiastic support of all the local communes, which means their mayors and councils,” he said. “I know you were born and raised here, but you don’t live here. I do and I know these people, their concerns and the kinds of budgets and payrolls they are accustomed to dealing with. They simply won’t understand these fees you’re proposing. They’ll be shocked. They’ll dig their heels in, which means this goes nowhere.”

  She was looking at him thoughtfully.

  “I’m sure you have a plan B,” he said. “And you probably have it in your briefcase ready to show me because the one thing I’m missing here is what happens after the race. This can’t be just a one-off event, because if it works half the regions in France will be fighting to stage their own race. We need a long-term plan for another race next year and every year after that. If this is going to work, it will be because the Vézère Valley becomes a household word for racing, like Le Mans or Silverstone or the Nürburgring.”

  “Of course I envisage that,” she said. “There’s a note on the list of prospective sponsors that says we’re looking for a five-year commitment. That means it will be the biggest boost to the tourism industry this region has ever had,” she said firmly. She was still full of self-confidence and showed no sign of backing down from her fees. After a moment, she smiled at him. “Your mayors and council members will all see that, or they will when we explain it to them. You can sell this project, Bruno. They trust you.”

  Bruno smiled inwardly. She was changing her approach from combative one moment to appeasing the next. Didn’t she know that every policeman in France had learned to play good cop/bad cop within months of starting the job? Bruno might not know much about business negotiations, but he knew how to get what he wanted from interrogations, and this meeting wasn’t so different. He returned her smile and sat forward. His hands were relaxed on the desk, and he opened them, spreading his arms so that his body language suggested agreement and understanding.

  “Yes, Martine, you may be right about that. And I recognize that you’re an expert in your field and you’re probably worth every centime. But you don’t want these people whose support we need to think you’re being greedy. You have to make this about them and their valley and their local businesses. Right now, I’m worried that they’ll take one look at your proposed terms, and they’ll think it’s all about you.”

  She raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands and gazing at him with interest. “So, as the local expert, what do you suggest?”

  “Don’t try to take all the money up front. Delay the payments. Cut your fee to three percent the first year, and raise it in stages for subsequent years. That gives you a stake in the project’s long-term success.”

  “I’ll then have skin in the game,” she said. “That’s the current business school jargon for sharing the risk.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “Around here we’d say bread today, jam tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” she said, stretching out her hand. “Three percent the first year, five percent the second year, seven percent the third and then ten percent thereafter.”

  He held up a hand. “You mentioned you would expect the standard agency rate for all advertising. I don’t know what that is, but we’d better have it on the same sliding scale.”

  She withdrew her hand a little and eyed him, considering. Ah, he thought, she’s playing the silence trick, putting pressure on me to fill it. But he knew how to do that.

  “Of course, all of this is speculative until I take you in to convince the mayor and then introduce you to all the councils in the valley to make your presentation. But on that basis, a sliding scale for both fees and advertising commissions, you’ll have my full support.”

  He held out his own hand. “Do we have a deal?”

  She remained still, but she did something with her eyes that made them unreadable. “What about you?”

  Bruno raised his eyebrows. Could she possibly be thinking he would take a bribe? He stared at her levelly and said nothing.

  “What’s in this for you?” she said, cocking her head as though simply curious. “Would you want to be hired as security consultant?”

  “I’m the chief of police for St. Denis, so I’ll do that anyway as part of my normal work,” he said. “I believe we can make this work for the good of my town and the whole valley. That’s enough for me.” He paused. “There is just one more thing.”

  She arched her eyebrows. “And what is that?”

  “If we shake hands on this, I’ll take you to lunch, then we go to see the mayor.”

  Without a smile or any other visible expression on her face, she reached forward, took his hand and shook it once. “Agreed.”

  Then she smiled, and suddenly she looked like a different woman, still entirely professional and businesslike but very much more human.

  12

  Even though Martine had relaxed sufficiently to loosen her hair from its bun so it floated free, the lunch had been a mistake. Bruno was too well known to be permitted an undisturbed meal with an attractive stranger. Ivan himself came from the kitchen to hover and to be introduced. He was followed by Bruno’s hunting partner, Stéphane, a local cheese maker; Julien, from the town vineyard, and Rollo, the headmaster at the local collège. Then Dr. Gelletreau arrived, declaring proudly that Martine had been one of the first babies he had brought into the world after opening his practice in St. Denis. He promptly sat down at their table.

  Once they had finished Ivan’s plat du jour of steak-frites and returned to Bruno’s office, Martine took from her briefcase the thinnest laptop he�
�d ever seen to amend the papers outlining her terms and printed them out at Bruno’s desk. After a brisk and businesslike hour of discussion with the mayor, Bruno excused himself when his mobile rang with the special tone that signaled someone from the brigadier’s secure network was trying to reach him. With the sense of foreboding that always came when he heard from this powerful official from the interior ministry, Bruno took the call in his office.

  “Bonjour, Bruno,” came the brigadier’s crisp voice, sounding suspiciously affable. “I’m calling to let you know this is official, and we’re giving full support to a multinational operation that’s being led by Eurojust. It has to do with money laundering, possibly with a terrorist connection, and it’s being led by an old friend of yours, Commissaire Perrault. It seems you parted on difficult terms, so she asked me to smooth the way.”

  “Would this be the operation in Luxembourg that went wrong?” Bruno asked.

  “Where did you hear about that?”

  “Just a rumor among cops. Commissaire Perrault used to serve down here, you’ll recall. She has a lot of friends in the region.”

  “Sounds like our friend Jean-Jacques has been indiscreet again. It wasn’t serious, just a bureaucratic dispute. It just delayed things a bit, but it’s all being straightened out now.” The brigadier’s tone changed, becoming brisk again. “I’m sure you’ll be entirely professional and give her your complete cooperation. I’ll fax the usual letter to your mayor. And remember, Perrault is in charge, and she’ll call you shortly.”

  It had been a long time since Bruno had thought of Isabelle as Commissaire Perrault. Even after the passing of time and the pain she had caused him, his heart still skipped a beat at the thought of her. The brigadier’s “usual letter” attached Bruno temporarily to the minister’s staff. The letter to the mayor, Bruno’s nominal boss, was simply a formality. If the brigadier chose, he could activate Bruno’s reserve status in the French army and place him under military discipline. That would be disagreeable, but coming under Isabelle’s command would be disagreeable in a different and deeply personal way.