The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

by Martin Walker

  ‘Yes, I even found a couple of banknotes he must have taken from the train. He had one clutched in his hands as he died.’

  ‘We’d love to have one for the museum, if you could ask his heirs. That would be young Paul, I suppose.’

  ‘You know him?’ Bruno sat up with a jerk.

  ‘Oh yes. He’d normally come along with his grandfather. I remember he sat in when we interviewed the old man for the oral archive. He was just as bad as his grandpa, railing against the thieves and crooks who stole the Neuvic money. It was all a capitalist plot, he said. Of course, his grandpa was in the FTP, the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans, the Communist wing. I don’t know if Paul is in the party but he certainly sounds just like his grandpa. He’s a regular on the bulletin board we set up on the Internet, always on the various history websites. The Neuvic train seems to be an obsession with him.’

  ‘That’s interesting because we’re trying to track Paul for another inquiry. It’s quite serious, so serious I doubt that he’ll even turn up for the funeral. Can you give me details of these websites?’

  ‘There are so many, I’ll send you a list. And I’ll look up some of Paul’s postings, ravings more like. I’ve got your email address at the Mairie and anyway I’ll see you at the funeral. There aren’t many of the old veterans left and I’d like to attend.’

  ‘What’s Paul’s email address?’ Bruno quickly wrote it down, rang off and checked his watch. School had started, but maybe Florence had no early class this morning. He tried her mobile without success and sent her an email instead, asking if she could track any activity on Paul’s account at orange.fr.

  He felt he was making progress, step by step. An image of Paul was beginning to build in his head. There was the photograph, that cheeky smile with its flash of intelligence. There was his relationship with his grandfather and their shared obsession about the Neuvic train, his fondness for serious films and his relationship with his sister. How often did siblings in their twenties go on holidays together? But there was so much yet to learn, so much of the image that was fuzzy or blank. What of the connection to Fullerton? Was it business or pleasure or both? And what would Paul have done with the vanload of Fullerton’s antiques? If he and his sister were looking for a camper van, they’d need somewhere to store Paul’s white van and the furniture. The old family farm had been sold, so that was ruled out. Perhaps Paul knew of an abandoned barn up in the hills, but that would not stay long undiscovered.

  There was a knock on his office door and a tall thin man with sloping shoulders and a mournful expression entered the room carrying a black briefcase. He shook hands as he introduced himself.

  ‘Bernard Ardouin, juge d’instruction. We have a mutual friend in Annette, who says I have to be sure to listen to you.’

  An interesting start, thought Bruno, and unusual. Under French law since Napoleon’s day, a magistrate appointed to be juge d’instruction in a case had almost unlimited control of the investigation. He could interview witnesses and review evidence, define the lines of inquiry the police should pursue, authorize arrests and prosecutions. Finally he or she would present the case to a court. Unlike the adversarial system in Anglo-Saxon countries, where a prosecuting lawyer and a defence lawyer fought the case to win a verdict of guilty or not guilty, a French juge d’instruction was supposed to discover the full truth, and had broad powers to do so. That was why the French novelist Balzac had described such a figure as ‘the most powerful man in the world’.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ said Bruno. ‘Do you want to chat here in the office or go down to the café?’

  ‘Let’s start here. Cafés tend to have lots of ears listening for gossip. And it’s not good for our reputation when people realize how little we know. All I have so far is the certificate of death and a preliminary pathologist’s report which says death was inflicted by a succession of heavy blows causing multiple fractures to the skull and facial bones. It also says that the victim was HIV-positive and taking the usual drugs to keep it at bay.’

  Ardouin removed a thin file from his briefcase and ran over the facts. The victim was a foreigner, Francis Fullerton, aged thirty-six, a British citizen and antiques dealer. The body was discovered by Yves Valentoux, aged thirty-five, of Paris, a French citizen, with whom the deceased was in a homosexual relationship. He looked up.

  ‘I interviewed Valentoux yesterday and was satisfied that he could be released. I understand it was you who worked out his movements through the garage and péage receipts. The Police Nationale tell me they are looking for a possible suspect, Paul Murcoing. Perhaps you’d take me through this from the beginning.’

  Bruno described the steps he had taken, the visit to Dougal, the postman’s identification of the van, the sign-maker and the warehouse at Belvès.

  ‘So the only evidence of his involvement is that this white van was seen by the postman approaching the gîte not long before Fullerton’s death,’ Ardouin said. ‘Plus this Murcoing had been arrested on suspicion of dealing in stolen antiques and may also be homosexual.’

  ‘He’s disappeared and so has his sister. She tried to rent a camper van on the evening of Fullerton’s murder.’

  Ardouin looked up again from where he was scribbling notes on a pad and gave Bruno a look of amiable scepticism. ‘And he’s the only lead you’ve got.’

  ‘True,’ said Bruno. ‘But if somebody goes to the effort of buying a fake sign for his van with a fake address and he pays in cash, then it’s reasonable to assume he’s up to no good.’

  Ardouin nodded. ‘But not necessarily murder. He could have met Fullerton by agreement, loaded his van with Fullerton’s antiques and then left him alive and well. Then someone else comes along and kills him for entirely different reasons.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Bruno. ‘Even so, he’s someone we very much need to interview. He was close to his grandpa who died two days ago and is due to have a full Resistance funeral. If he misses that, he’s on the run. Did the police send you the photographs of the furniture stolen from the other Englishman’s house and the list of wine?’

  ‘No, what other Englishman?’

  Bruno pushed across the desk a copy of Sud Ouest. ‘A very influential Englishman who has a team from the minister of the interior’s office babysitting his property with their own forensics people looking for any trace that Murcoing had been there.’

  ‘Could be coincidence.’

  Ardouin’s tone was matter-of-fact, rather than negative. Bruno got the impression of a solid, painstaking magistrate who would steadily let the evidence build, while remaining wary of hunches and theories. There were not many magistrates of this type. Many of them justified the usual police grumble that they were left-wing, feminist and Green. On balance Bruno had concluded that this was reasonable. The law leaned to the side of property and authority; and it was no bad thing for some magistrates to tend a little in the other direction. In any event, he’d much rather deal with a juge d’instruction like the lugubrious but dependable Ardouin than with someone more flamboyant.

  ‘Of course it could be coincidence, but when we have so few other leads, coincidences are worth exploring,’ Bruno replied. ‘I’ve also launched some inquiries into the local gay community to see what’s known of Murcoing, his usual associates, friends where he may be able to stay, that sort of thing. And we’ve circulated photos of the stolen furniture, in case something turns up.’

  ‘What do you plan to do next?’

  ‘I’m going to start looking into the brocante business, try to find people who might have known Fullerton and Murcoing. You probably heard from J-J that the Police Nationale have asked the British for any information they may have about the victim. His brother is arriving later today to make funeral arrangements and he may be able to tell me more about Fullerton that might help us. Apart from keeping up the search for Murcoing, I’m not sure what else I can do.’

  ‘The Police Nationale tell me you’ve been seconded to the Ministry to focus on the burglary of thi
s Englishman. Will that leave you any time to help me?’

  ‘If I’m right in suspecting the cases are connected, I’ll be working for you while working for them.’

  ‘Right, I’ll leave you to pursue your inquiries as you see fit, just keep me informed. An email each evening or a phone call will do.’ Ardouin gave Bruno an unexpected smile, a warm and genuine expression that lit up his usually mournful face. ‘And since it’s a warm morning, let me buy you a beer in that café you mentioned. Annette tells me you’re a keen tennis player, like me.’

  12

  Brian Fullerton had the look of a boxer going to seed and carried himself like a military man. He had big hands with a gold wedding ring and an amiable face with a broken nose, big ears and floppy grey hair that needed cutting. He wore a blazer with an unidentifiable club badge on the breast pocket, the bowl of a pipe poking from it, and well-polished brogue shoes. So far all Bruno knew of Francis Fullerton’s looks was his passport photograph; from that formal snapshot he would never have guessed the two men might be brothers. Recalling that Fullerton had been thirty-six, Bruno estimated this man to be about ten years older.

  ‘My condolences on your loss. You made very good time from Bordeaux,’ Bruno began, glancing at his watch. He hadn’t expected the man until much later in the afternoon.

  ‘I cancelled the booking the Consulate had made for me and took the Ryanair flight to Bergerac instead,’ said the brother, in excellent French. ‘It seemed a lot closer. Here’s my passport, just to confirm I am the brother you’re expecting. I haven’t checked into the hotel yet, it seemed a bit early. They’d booked me into Les Glycines in Les Eyzies but that’s rather too pricey for me so I looked on the Internet and found a place in town, the Hôtel St Denis. It looked cheap but reasonably comfortable.’

  It was the place Bruno would have picked.

  ‘Where’s my brother’s body?’

  ‘At the morgue in Bergerac. The autopsy should be finished by this evening. It will then be up to the magistrate whether the body can be released for burial. He was a bit worried about identification. Now that you’re here, we can probably confirm that through your DNA. I’m afraid the head was too badly damaged to be recognizable.’

  Fullerton frowned. ‘That sounds bad.’

  ‘It was an extremely brutal killing, and we’re determined to bring the murderer to justice. Allow me to compliment you on your French.’

  ‘That’s mother. She’s French, met my father when she came to work for some neighbours as an au pair back in the early Sixties.’

  ‘Were you and your brother close?’ Bruno pulled out his notebook and began writing.

  ‘Not really, Francis was eleven years younger and we led very different lives. But we tried to do the usual family things like Christmas and the occasional holiday so he could get to know my children. I’m a civil servant, married with a family, rather conventional, and Francis was the complete opposite.’

  ‘You mean that he was homosexual?’

  ‘Ah, you know. Not only that, although it took our parents some time to adjust. We’re an old-fashioned family.’ He went on to explain that Francis had never really settled down, perhaps had never really grown up. He’d been intelligent and managed to get a degree even though he dropped out from university for a while, but he kept getting into trouble with drugs and debts.

  ‘When Francis went to prison it broke my mother’s heart. He was her favourite of course, the last baby, born long after my sister and me, and he always had this angelic look as a child.’ Fullerton frowned again. ‘I suppose I have to get used to referring to him in the past tense.’

  ‘We didn’t know he’d been in prison,’ said Bruno, startled by the news but not altogether surprised. ‘We’ve asked the British police if anything was known about him but these things take time to come through official channels. Why was he sent to prison?’

  ‘Receiving stolen goods,’ said the brother. After some wild years in London and then in America, Francis had settled down with a steady partner called Sam Berenson. He was an older man, in the antiques business in a part of Brighton called The Lanes, full of antiques shops. Francis claimed that he’d been the fall guy when the police found a haul of stolen silver at their shop. One of the burglars had turned Queen’s evidence, and since Francis refused to testify against his partner he was sentenced to three years and was out in two.

  ‘But he stayed in the business?’

  ‘Berenson died of AIDS while Francis was in prison, and he left Francis the lot; a house in Brighton, the shop and all the stock.’ Fullerton shook his head ruefully. ‘Almost worth it for two years inside, that’s what my wife says.’

  ‘Did he specialize in silver?’

  ‘No, that was the odd thing. The shop specialized in antique furniture, rugs and paintings. Francis sold it and the house he’d been left at the top of the market, just before the recession. He made quite a lot of money and then started his new business. He began going back and forth to France, selling British stuff over here and then buying French furniture to sell back in Britain. He seemed to do very well out of it, drove a Porsche, bought a house in Chelsea when the prices dropped. He always had a good eye for a bargain.’

  ‘So he kept up his links to his mother’s homeland. How often did he make these trips to France?’

  ‘At least once a month. He had a big warehouse outside Brighton where he kept his stock. And he went back to the States a few times, using his old contacts in Los Angeles. Then he started exporting English antiques over there.’

  ‘Do you know if Francis made a will?’

  ‘Yes, I checked with his lawyer before coming over here. Everything goes to me and my sister to be kept in trust for our children. I’ve got a letter from the lawyer saying I’m the executor. I made some copies so here’s one for you.’ He pulled a file from his briefcase and handed Bruno the letter.

  ‘I suspect his dying in France may complicate the inheritance. You may want to consult a lawyer.’

  ‘I’ve done so. I’m told his British property will be covered by the will, but the French property will be different.’

  ‘What French property?’

  ‘An old farm in the Corrèze, very picturesque but a bit remote for me and the children. We only visited a couple of times as a family. I came down again last year with him, just the two of us. He bought the place when he sold the shop. That’s why I was surprised to hear that he died here at a gîte he was renting. It seemed a bit strange when he had a place of his own.’

  ‘Does it have barns?’ Bruno asked. ‘Could he have used it as a warehouse?’

  ‘Yes, that’s why he got it. It was cheap, of course, but with the new autoroute he could get around to the various brocantes and estate sales from Bordeaux to Lyon.’

  ‘I think we’d better go out and take a look at this place. Where is it exactly?’

  ‘Just south of Ussel, about twenty minutes off the autoroute. I need to go there myself to see his notaire. Is there anything more you need me to do?’

  ‘If you know what you want to do with your brother’s remains, I can introduce you to the local undertakers. But first I must consult with the juge d’instruction. I think he’ll want you to give a DNA sample, just to confirm the identification, and I’m sure he’ll need to interview you. Let me see if he’s still in St Denis.’

  Bruno called Ardouin, who was still at the St Denis Gendarmerie, gave him a swift explanation of what he’d learned from Brian Fullerton and arranged to escort him there. On the way back to his office, he stopped at Father Sentout’s house to check on the details for Murcoing’s funeral and called in at Delightful Dordogne to see if Dougal had heard any news from Yvonne Murcoing. Not a word, he said, and he was about to clear out her room at the staff house to make way for a replacement. On his way out Bruno met Philippe Delaron coming in to pick up a list of new rental addresses to be photographed for Dougal’s website.

  ‘When’s the English spy coming back to his house?’ Philippe
asked. He was wearing a new leather jacket that looked expensive. His sideline in news photos was evidently paying better than the family camera shop. ‘I’ll need to take a photo. Gaëlle says she thinks he gets back tomorrow.’

  ‘In that case, she’s probably heard more than I have.’

  ‘Why have they got Gendarmes guarding the house?’

  ‘Ask the Gendarmes.’

  ‘Come on, Bruno, be a sport. Surely you can tell me something.’

  ‘The Procureur has appointed a juge d’instruction into the murder inquiry and the victim’s brother has arrived from England,’ Bruno said, trotting down the steps. At the last step, he stopped. ‘Have you had a request from the Police Nationale to publish a photo of anyone they want to find urgently?’

  ‘You mean a suspect? Not that I’ve heard. Give me a minute.’ Philippe thumbed an autodial number on his phone, fired off a quick question and then shook his head. ‘Not so far.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Bruno and called J-J as he walked back down the Rue Gambetta. J-J said that the press officer was supposed to issue Murcoing’s mugshot from his earlier arrest later that day.

  ‘What if I let Sud Ouest have the more recent photo from the surveillance camera? They’ll give it more prominence if they think it’s their story rather than a routine police request.’

  ‘Go ahead. But don’t get quoted saying this guy’s a suspect. Let them take the responsibility for that and we’ll give a no comment.’

  Bruno described what he’d learned from Brian Fullerton and said he planned to drive out to the Corrèze farm as soon as he’d finished with the juge d’instruction. Back in his office, he texted Delaron to come and see him, prepared another copy of Murcoing’s photo for the paper, and began printing out the pictures of Crimson’s rugs, paintings and furniture that had been deposited with Crimson’s insurance agent.