The Shooting at Chateau Rock

by Martin Walker

  Bruno nodded, making a private note to look into Driant’s phone, and stood to take his leave, when Gelletreau asked, “Where are you going with this, Bruno?”

  “Just trying to put the minds of his two children at rest. They’d been expecting an inheritance, but he signed an insurance deal to pay for the place in that retirement home that left very little for the heirs.”

  Gelletreau grunted. “I didn’t know that. It seems he was even more of an old fool than I’d thought. Was this insurance deal all aboveboard?”

  “It looks that way. He made out a new will and was declared competent to do so by a tribunal of assessors in Périgueux.”

  “I see. I’m sorry for his children. I knew them both quite well, treated them when they were growing up. Indeed his daughter, Claudette, was one of the first babies I brought into the world when I arrived here. An impressive girl, very bright, always reading, she seemed almost to live in the public library. Driant could never reconcile himself to her way of life.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Claudette went to university in Paris, where she discovered or perhaps realized that she was gay. She became very feminist and then very successful with a high-powered management consultancy job in Paris.” Gelletreau shrugged and sighed and then sat back comfortably in his chair, the pose of an accomplished raconteur. “She couldn’t wait to get away from the farm, and her father could never forgive her for not presenting him with a clutch of grandchildren. He was already a grandpa through Gaston’s kids, but he was an old-fashioned man. Women should be getting married, looking after their husband and staying at home to produce lots of children—that was his view and he held to it very firmly.

  “I know it saddened him, both the way Claudette lived and the estrangement, but at least she came to the funeral, so I give her credit for that,” Gelletreau went on. “He was proud of her in his way, but he couldn’t express it. I understand his views because that was the way I was brought up. But I understand Claudette’s position too; times change and we have to change with them. Driant didn’t see it that way.”

  “Except for the Viagra,” Bruno said, with a rueful smile.

  “That was about the only aspect of modern life he had time for,” Gelletreau said, chuckling. “I think he knew his way of life was over. Now that they’ve slashed the hill farm subsidies, it can’t go on, even though he was barely in the cash economy. He used the subsidy money for his phone and electricity and buying diesel for that old truck. He lived on his mutton, his chickens and that patch of potager for his potatoes and cabbages. He kept his own timber in a woodstove he used for warmth and cooking. And he got his pocket money from selling his geese and that firewater he made.”

  “The best gnôle in the valley,” said Bruno.

  “Indeed it was, and I’m glad I have a few bottles to remember him by. Every time he came to see me he left me a bottle. In fact…”

  Gelletreau bent down and reached into the cupboard of his desk and brought out two glasses and an unmarked liter bottle two-thirds full of a colorless liquid. He uncorked it and poured out a generous glass for each of them.

  “Here, let’s drink to the memory of the old boy,” he said, handing Bruno a glass, clinking his own against it, and then each of them murmured, “To Driant.”

  “Hah!” said Bruno once the fire in his throat subsided. “Nobody makes it like that anymore.”

  “More’s the pity,” said Gelletreau. He emptied his glass and then stuck out his tongue to lick the last of the spirit from his bushy white mustache.

  “By the way,” said Bruno, “when you went there and pronounced him dead, did you see his mobile phone?”

  Gelletreau shrugged and poured himself another slug. “No, I don’t think so, but it never occurred to me to look.”

  Bruno walked back to his office, thinking about what he should say before he called Gaston Driant’s number in Bordeaux. He felt obliged to report that there had been a new legal will and that his father had been deemed mentally competent to sign it. And that Dr. Gelletreau was sure of his death certificate. But how far should he raise possible false hopes about the legality of the sale?

  “I don’t know if you were aware of it, but his doctor had been treating your dad for heart trouble,” he began when Gaston answered his phone. “The doctor had recently recommended that he should be fitted with a pacemaker, so it looks as though there’s not much question about the cause of death.”

  “No, I didn’t know that,” Gaston said. “He never mentioned it. But that was his way. He kept a lot of things to himself, so I’m not surprised.”

  “I’m not sure how much further we can pursue the inquiry, Gaston,” Bruno continued. “I’m sorry, but your dad seemed pretty sure that he wanted to go to the new retirement home. He went there for a look around and told Gelletreau that he liked what he saw. Still, I gather he left you and your sister some personal items and family jewelry in the new will, so it’s clear he was thinking of you.”

  “I suppose so, Bruno, and thanks for looking into it. What’s going to happen to the animals?”

  “That’s up to the new owner. The notaire assured me that he’ll take care of it, though we may be able to get them for negligence. I think they’ll send all of the animals to a local abattoir. But if you want to start raising chickens yourself, I’m sure there would be no objection if you took them away.”

  “It’s a nice thought, Bruno, but we haven’t got the space in the garden, let alone enough room in my car to move them all, and it would cost me a tankful of gas to come up again. Feel free to take any of the chickens you want and give the others away if you can find a home for them. I’d rather that than send them off to some butcher. Dad was fond of those birds, and the eggs were pretty good.”

  “Aren’t you going to take some of the furniture? That was all left to you and Claudette along with his tools.”

  “I took the tools plus some small things we remembered, mementos, really, some of the plates and cutlery, the books and family photo albums. Frankly, my wife took one look at the furniture and said we should have burned the carpets right then and there. I had enough trouble from her when I suggested we might keep his sheepdogs. She really put her foot down. Still, I took the rocking chair he’d made for himself, even though she’s banished it to my garden shed.”

  “Just one last thing, or rather two. Did you ever find your dad’s mobile phone?”

  “No, but I can’t say I was looking for it. Do you have the number?”

  “Yes, thanks. I found it on an old bill. If you want to read your dad’s new will, I can get you a copy, but it might not be easy reading. Your dad was kind of harsh about your sister’s lifestyle. Gelletreau said he could never reconcile himself to it.”

  “That’s true enough, although I’m sad to say it. And I never saw any sign of Dad’s phone.” He spoke quickly, as though wanting to end the call. “Well, that seems to be the end of it and I appreciate what you’ve done.”

  After Gaston hung up, Bruno thought that was the end of the matter until J-J called to invite Bruno to lunch in Périgueux along with J-J’s friend from the fisc.

  “I told you I’d check with him, and it turns out he was already interested in this Périgueux notaire of yours, Sarrail, having come across his name in some other funny business. Any new developments at your end?”

  “I just interviewed the doctor who pronounced him dead of a heart attack,” answered Bruno, “and he’s sure of his diagnosis. The old man already had heart trouble and was scheduled for a pacemaker. I also got the name of the insurance company that was supposed to pay out for Driant to go to the fancy retirement home, Euro-Trans-Med. It seems to be based in Cyprus, Malta, Monaco and Luxembourg. Our local notaire had never heard of it.”

  “Nor have I,” J-J said. “But my antennae start to twitch whenever I hear of something involving money that’s based in Mon
aco. I think the man from the fisc will be more than interested in that.”

  “What day is this lunch? Remember Tuesday is our market day so I’ll be stuck in St. Denis until midday at the earliest.”

  “I know, that’s why I’ve arranged the lunch for Wednesday. My friend will take the train from Bordeaux that gets in at eleven-thirty, so I’ve booked us a table for noon.”

  “Where are we eating?” Bruno asked.

  “Where do you expect three cops to eat in Périgueux? Where I can eat tête de veau? And I seem to recall that last time we ate there you raved about that turbot they do in a pot-au-feu with the scallops.”

  “Ah, the Hercule Poirot,” Bruno said. “Poireau means ‘leek’ in French but all the cops preferred to name it after the fictional detective Hercule Poirot. That lovely old room with the arches just over the square from the cathedral. What was it, fourteenth century or something? Is your friend an Agatha Christie fan?”

  “Of course, and, better still, his name’s also Hercule, Hercule Goirau. You probably know him by reputation. He was the one who cracked that big wine scam a couple of years ago, sent a couple of négociants to prison. You remember, the one with the fake labels of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that went to China. He’s head of the Bordeaux office these days, and not a man you’d want to have looking into your accounts. He’s got quite a reputation, so I hope you’re up to date with your taxes.”

  “You hardly make it sound like a lunch I should look forward to,” said Bruno, laughing, “even though I’m far too poor to have tax problems.”

  “I’m kidding. Hercule is all right, even gave me a few investment tips. But you know these boys from the fisc, brains like adding machines. Still, he likes his food and wine, so you’ll have to admit that proves he’s sound at heart.”

  Chapter 8

  Making gazpacho was for Bruno much more important than preparing a simple soup. It marked the moment when spring had turned indisputably into summer, when he routinely ate in the open air, and the garden provided most of his meals. He put on Macrae’s tape as he washed, trimmed and deseeded the vegetables before cutting them into chunks and putting them into his blender. He usually prepared a soup for six or eight people, and he’d make enough for three separate days to help Meghan with her brood of hungry young guests, and another for himself.

  One peeled cucumber, one red and one yellow pepper and a half kilo of ripe plum tomatoes went into the blender with five tablespoons of olive oil, two glasses of Bergerac Sec white wine and a glass of water. He added salt, pepper, three well-chopped cloves of garlic and a third of a bâtard of pain aux céréales, one of two small loaves of brown bread he’d bought to thicken the soup. He tasted the result, added a pinch more salt, a tablespoon of tomato purée and a small glass of oloroso sherry and gave the now-full blender another brief whir.

  Bruno poured the result into a big glass jar and repeated the entire process three times. He put all four jars into his fridge, three for Meghan and one for himself. He poured two tablespoons of olive oil into his largest pan and chopped the remaining bâtard into crouton-sized chunks and put them into the oven to crisp.

  He found himself enjoying Macrae’s new songs even more this time and especially the duet of the Rodrigo concerto that he’d played with his son. When it ended, Bruno put his original version by Paco de Lucía into his player and found that he preferred it but that the Macrae adaptation stayed in his head, perhaps because like so many of his generation he was so accustomed to the sound of an electric guitar. When had they become common? he wondered. Probably in the 1950s. Had they been available in their day, would not Mozart and Beethoven have written for an instrument so distinctive? With his thoughts on this track, he reflected that the saxophone was also a relatively new instrument and where would jazz be without it?

  But this was no day to lounge around indoors, Bruno chided himself, and went out to his garden, taking the hoe to start weeding between the rows of vegetables he’d planted earlier in the year. Balzac watched him for a moment and then bounded off to visit the ducks and chickens and to patrol the grounds. Bruno paused to watch him and then raised his eyes to the view that stretched out ahead, the field of pasture that rose to the next ridge, and then rising again to another yet higher crest. On and on went the landscape, rising and falling, some with trees and others with bare moorland, until the highest ground Bruno could see stood out starkly against the bright blue sky to the east.

  It was a view he never tired of, but he went back to his weeding, breaking off only when he remembered that he had still to unload the washing machine that he’d filled before making the soup. He brought the wet clothes out in a big wicker basket and hung them out to dry on the lines he’d strung between the trees. Then he whistled for Balzac, ready to set out to stroll along the ridge and enjoy the afternoon until it was time to head for the riding school to give Hector his evening exercise. He’d barely set out when he was interrupted by a phone call from Amélie in Paris.

  “Those songs from Rod Macrae, they’re great,” she said after greeting Bruno. “Will he be around when I come down?”

  “Yes, all through the summer, and his kids, too. His son, Jamie, is the classical guitarist on the instrumental track.”

  “Do you think he’d mind if I performed that one, ‘Watching You Sleep,’ when I come down? I’d give him the credit and everything, but I think it’s beautiful. Do you know him well enough to ask for me?”

  “Yes, I’m going to his place for dinner tonight. I can ask him then.”

  “I’ll send you two songs I’ve recorded at home from what you sent me, just a recording app on my laptop, but he might like to hear what another singer makes of it. I mean, I’m not normally this forward, but…”

  “Oh yes, you are, Amélie,” Bruno interrupted, a chuckle in his voice. “You’re wonderfully forward in the nicest possible way.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a compliment or what, but I’ll e-mail you the two songs, one of them with my voice doing a very gentle backing track, like a chorus. And the other is my version. Ask him what he thinks. And don’t forget to tell him I think the songs are terrific and his voice is great. It’s way past time for him to make a comeback.”

  “I won’t forget,” Bruno replied. “I was going to give Rod exactly the same advice tonight, but whether he takes it, I don’t know. He’s depressed because his wife wants a divorce. But at least he has the prospect of a future through music, and his son is ready to join him in that.”

  It was a conversation that stayed with Bruno as he drove to Château Rock. As so often when he discussed a problem with someone else, he’d begun to see things a little differently and found himself able to put his new perception into words. Whether Macrae wanted to pay the slightest attention to Bruno’s advice would be up to him, but also, Bruno reflected, on the way that Bruno delivered it. In Bruno’s experience the best way to deliver advice was to make it sound like something else. So if Bruno let Macrae think he was doing St. Denis a favor by singing at the town concerts, he might be more tempted to try it.

  Bruno had always got on well with Rod and Meghan, but his real connection was with their children. He smiled to himself as he realized how much he was looking forward to seeing them on the brink of adulthood, and to meet this girl that Jamie was said to be interested in. It was Kirsty who came bounding forward, almost like a puppy, to hug him as he climbed out of the Land Rover. She bent down to caress Balzac and tell him what a fine boy he was, and then hugged Bruno again. Like her brother, she took after her father, the same tall and rangy build. Not a conventionally pretty girl, she had good eyes, a generous mouth and thick, brown hair with a natural curl. She’d grow into her looks, Bruno thought.

  “You’re looking terrific,” he said. “Something has made you happy, and if it’s love, whoever he is, he’d better be worth it.”

  “No, it’s not that. It’s that I’ve finally decided
what it is I want to do, and it’s not law and it’s not Edinburgh.”

  “Don’t keep me in suspense. Have you told your mother and father?”

  “I’ve told Mum, and she sort of agrees, but I’m waiting to tell Dad until he’s more relaxed after dinner. I’m counting on you to help him see things my way. I want to go to the University of Bordeaux and do a degree in wine and make that my career. It’s a four-year course, with the prospect of vacations working in Australia, California, Chile, Italy, and it means that in the long run I’ll have the option of staying here in the Périgord where I was born.”

  “Having seen you working in the vineyard every time you come back, I can’t say I’m really surprised,” said Bruno. “And it’s not as though you don’t know what you’re getting into, always at the mercy of the weather. But I have to say I’ve never met anyone who makes decent wine who isn’t fundamentally happy about their life.”

  “Will you say that to Dad?”

  “Of course. Is Jamie here yet?”

  Kirsty shook her head. “Still on his way in a van with his friends. Dad’s in the recording studio, polishing some stuff he wants to do with Jamie when he gets here. Mum’s in the kitchen.”

  “I’m looking forward to meeting this young woman Jamie is keen on,” he said. “Your mother mentioned her. Do you know her?”

  “Yes, Galina. She came to London for a long weekend to visit Jamie and we had dinner at some gastropub. She’d never seen one before. She’s quite shy, very pretty and from an extremely rich family. She stayed at the Ritz in a suite that cost more per night than I live on in a month. And Jamie says she’s a brilliant musician.”