The Shooting at Chateau Rock

by Martin Walker

  “How far is this place from Brive Airport? That looks more convenient and faster for me. I see there’s a plane from Orly that gets in at seven Saturday night. Merde, that’s too late and it has a lousy return time. Trains looks better. There’s one that gets me to Brive at two on Saturday, and another leaves at four on Sunday. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect, we’ll meet you at Brive station on Saturday. Sergeant Claire has offered to make dinner so I’ll bring some wine, foie gras, salad and cherries from my garden.”

  “Can I bring anything? How on earth do we celebrate a dog’s first mating?”

  “The promise of a second,” he replied, laughing.

  “Until Saturday, je t’embrasse,” she said.

  Feeling wonderful, Bruno whistled most of the way back to the riding school, where he waved at Miranda as he passed the paddock where she was supervising a circling ring of children on ponies. He greeted Balzac, who had spent the day there since the morning ride. Balzac followed his master to the coop, the two sheepdogs keeping a respectful distance behind. Inside the chickens’ enclosure, Bruno checked that the four support posts were firmly placed and secure. He took his saw and battery-driven drill from his Land Rover and then cut to length and screwed in the cross braces. He attached the four sides of the coop, ensuring that the rear posts were ten centimeters higher than the front, to give a sloping roof so rainwater could flow.

  The plank roof fit perfectly. He screwed it in and covered it with waterproof felt, attached with rubber washers and fat-headed screws to prevent leaks. Over that he laid corrugated plastic, used bolts and washers to attach it and then mounted the gutter to catch the rainwater. He fitted the downspout and placed it so that it would drain into the largest bucket he could find. He’d get a proper cistern, holding five hundred liters, later in the week.

  He made a ramp so the chickens could climb up into their coop, fixed it to the doorway and then fed into the coop the two perches the baron and Félix’s dad had made earlier. He slid old wine boxes full of straw beneath the perches, checked that the outer wire and stakes were secure and that the door to the enclosure latched properly. Then he washed in the stable sink, gave Hector an apple from the barrel and headed for Pamela’s office, where he found her in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair piled up with a couple of pencils, doing some paperwork.

  “Great news,” she exclaimed, leaping up to give him a kiss of welcome. “The gîtes are now booked up for the whole season, which means we’ll be in profit this year, with enough to give me and Miranda a very modest salary, probably just a little more than minimum wage.”

  “Congratulations,” he said, hugging her in return. “Your business plan assumed you wouldn’t be profitable until year three. That’s wonderful. And you’ve bought those new horses and the ponies and launched the cooking school. That means you’re well ahead of your schedule.”

  “And I have a glorious new foal who was born without any trouble at all. She’ll grow up to be lovely, and when the schoolkids turn up, they’ll all fall in love with her. I already have and so have Jack and Miranda and her boys.”

  “I have a surprise for you,” he said. “Follow me.” Taking her hand, he led her behind the stable to where the new chicken enclosure and coop waited to be admired.

  “The only question is, What color should I paint it?” he asked. “Would you like blue to match your shutters and the stable doors? Or something different? I could just give it a coat of weatherproof varnish so it blends in with the stables.”

  “Blue, please. And thank you, it’s lovely, and I had two eggs this morning. Now come see the foal. Her mother’s already let her make friends with the sheepdogs and Balzac, too.”

  “I’ll be away this weekend,” he said, and explained about taking Balzac to the breeding kennel.

  “That’ll be quite a step for him. We’d better remember to keep him at your place when Bella goes on heat. I dread to think what a basset-sheepdog cross would look like.”

  Bruno laughed, and as they went to the stable to admire the foal, he suggested they might want to ride to Château Rock that evening so Pamela could meet the musicians. She asked if any of them rode, and Bruno knew that Jamie and Kirsty both did. He pulled out his phone to call the château and Kirsty answered. She would love to ride, and then put down the phone to ask the others, coming back on the line to say that Jamie, Galina and Sasha would join them. Pamela went off to don her riding clothes while Bruno began saddling the six horses, leaving his own Hector until last.

  Half an hour later, with the spare horses on a leading rein, they arrived at Château Rock, where the entire household turned out to watch the departure, with Galina almost dancing with glee at the prospect. It was soon evident that she was by far the best rider among the newcomers, almost as good as Pamela. Jamie and Kirsty were decent riders, having learned at the riding school before Pamela bought it. Sasha was evidently a beginner but insisted on joining them.

  Pamela set an easy pace down the slope past the vineyard and into the valley at Paunat, where she followed a farm path that skirted the line of trees shading the stream. They crossed at a ford, shallow at this time of year, and then went up through the woods on a bridle trail toward Pezuls, reaching the ridge that led to Ste. Alvère, where they could canter. Sasha was soon trailing behind while Galina leaned forward on the big warmblood gelding she’d chosen, gave him rein and moved quickly into a gallop. Hector was not a horse to let another take the lead, and they were soon neck and neck, leaving the others behind.

  They stopped at the road for the others to catch up, and Bruno dismounted to warn oncoming traffic as they all crossed and then rode on toward St. Avit before turning back toward Château Rock. Bruno checked his watch when the château came into sight and was surprised to see that they had been out for only an hour. Rod, Meghan and the others were standing on the terrace and waving, a bottle of champagne and some glasses on the table to welcome them back.

  “That was wonderful, the end to a perfect day,” exclaimed Galina, looking more lively than Bruno had ever seen her as she dismounted to thank Pamela. “We went to the Lascaux cave this morning, had lunch at Domme with the most beautiful view in the world. Then Jamie took us down through the trees to a ruined castle like from a fairy tale.”

  “She loved the ruined castle of Commarque,” said Jamie, coming up behind Galina and hugging her, his arms locked around her waist. She nestled happily into him. “We thought we’d better show her the region.”

  “This is the loveliest countryside I’ve ever seen, and so romantic,” Galina said. “I think I could stay here forever, and Jamie and Kirsty say there is so much more to see.”

  “Sarlat,” said Kirsty.

  “Limeuil,” chimed in Jamie.

  “Milandes,” said Pamela as Bruno burst out, “Monbazillac.”

  “We’ll have time to see everything while you’re here,” said Jamie, nuzzling her and kissing the corner of her mouth.

  Rod and Meghan were beaming, delighted to see their son so happy. Bruno, however, noticed that Kirsty was watching this with a quizzical eye until she was distracted by Sasha who, instead of descending from his horse, began to fall. He toppled with an almost comic slowness. Bertie let out a massive belly laugh, and Bruno saw with alarm that Sasha’s left foot was still caught in the stirrup. Panicking, Sasha grabbed at the horse’s mane, putting much of his weight on it. The usually tranquil mare was startled. She bucked and jumped forward, dragging Sasha, who had landed hard on his back. His head bounced heavily on the ground as the horse gathered speed.

  Bruno leaped to grab the bridle and calm the horse, and at once Pamela was beside him, crooning as she stroked the horse’s neck to soothe the alarmed mare. Pia ran down from the terrace to attend to the dazed Sasha, checking his pulse and looking into his eyes.

  “Don’t just stand there laughing, Bertie, you idiot,” Pia snapped, glancing up
at Bertie standing with the others on the terrace. “Get some dishcloths and water. Do something useful for once. His pupils are tiny. I think he may have a concussion.”

  Bertie flushed but turned and went to the kitchen, Kirsty going with him. The horse was calm, so Bruno left her to Pamela and went to join Pia. “How’s his pulse?” he asked.

  “Fast but not racing. I think he’ll be all right, but I only did a first-aid course. I’m no expert.”

  “You’re right about the pupils, but he’s facing the sun,” Bruno said. He put his hand over Sasha’s eyes. “See, they’re getting bigger now that they’re in the shade.”

  Bertie arrived bare chested, slopping water from a bucket and handing Pia his T-shirt. “Best I could do,” he muttered as she began bathing Sasha’s face and holding him back as he tried to sit up. Moments later Kirsty was there with clean dishcloths and smelling salts.

  “Yav pariadky,” Sasha said, sounding groggy. “Poosti menya. Vsyo normalno.”

  “He says he’s okay and you should let him up,” Bertie said.

  “No, you just lie there and rest a bit, Sasha,” Pia said, ignoring Bertie. She folded his T-shirt and put it under Sasha’s head and then put a soaked cloth on his forehead.

  Bertie leaned down and pulled his T-shirt away, muttering something Bruno didn’t quite catch about Russians and hard heads. Then he said something that sounded like Russian and, quick as a cobra, Sasha reached out an arm, grabbed Bertie’s ankle and yanked hard to send him toppling before rearing up from the ground and throwing a punch toward Bertie’s solar plexus. Even as he fell Bertie managed to twist away, caught Sasha’s forearm and used the momentum of his own fall to try to pull Sasha down. It didn’t work. Sasha went with the pull, and Bruno just managed to get there in time to prevent Sasha from landing hard with his knees in Bertie’s belly. Instead, Sasha’s knees landed on grass. He turned again, his eyes murderous and fixed this time on Bruno.

  “Stop,” Bruno roared in his best parade-ground voice. He put up his hands, palms forward. “Stop,” he yelled again. “Both of you.”

  Sasha kept his eyes fixed on Bruno but began to relax.

  “That voice,” he said. “You were soldier, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Bruno, “like you.”

  Sasha nodded slowly, let his hands drop and said, “You did the right thing. Thanks. Maybe I buy you a drink.”

  Then he turned to Pia. “Thank you, Pia. You are a good woman. You deserve better than that piece of Ukrainian shit.” He threw the prone Bertie a contemptuous look and stomped off into the château.

  Bruno helped a shamefaced Bertie to his feet. His back and arm were grazed, but the worst damage had been to his pride.

  “That wasn’t very clever, Bertie,” he said. “Sasha is a trained soldier, and if you look at his hands you can see he does karate. He could have really hurt you, big as you are. Worse still, starting a fight like that was very rude to your hosts.”

  Bertie looked sullenly at Bruno, but then Pia came up to him and began dabbing at his grazes with a damp cloth. “Bruno’s right, Bertie,” she said gently. “You started it. You really should apologize.”

  “Okay,” he said, and looked up at Rod and Meghan. “I’m sorry. But I think Sasha should apologize to the horse.”

  That broke the tension. Everybody laughed, more from relief than humor. Pamela brought the horse back and said she’d better be going.

  “Do you go riding every day?” Galina asked.

  “Morning and evening, we have to exercise the horses,” said Pamela, smiling at her. “We usually start about seven at this time of year, later in winter. And we ride again at about six, when the heat of the day is fading. Feel free to join us anytime.”

  “There’s champagne waiting here for everybody,” said Rod. “And your apology is accepted, Bertie. And Bruno, thanks for breaking it up. You certainly deserve a glass of champagne.”

  “I’ll help Pamela hitch the horses to the railing and join you,” said Bruno.

  “Would you like to stay for dinner?” Meghan asked as Rod poured out champagne and handed around glasses.

  “That’s so kind, but we have to take the horses back while it’s still light,” said Pamela. “But anyone who wants to rise at seven tomorrow morning will be welcome, and I’ll provide some breakfast.”

  “Yes, please,” Galina said, pirouetting out of Jamie’s arms and taking a glass from his father. “Let’s do it, Jamie. I promise to wake you at six-thirty.”

  Bruno finished his glass, thanked Rod and said, “We’ll see you all on Friday evening when you’re rehearsing in the church at Audrix. I’m looking forward to your first performance there.”

  “I’m taking everyone to the auberge afterward,” said Galina. “I want to thank Jamie’s parents for their hospitality. So please join us for dinner after the music. I know that your friend Florence is coming with some of her choir.”

  “I’d like that, thank you,” Bruno replied. “How about you, Pamela?”

  “Yes, gladly.”

  “Good, that’s a date,” Bruno said while undoing the hitch that held the horses and putting his hands together to make a lift for Pamela to climb into the saddle. “And I expect to hear that Galina has been to Monbazillac and the vineyards by then.”

  “And don’t leave out Château des Milandes for the falconry and the Josephine Baker museum,” added Pamela as Bruno swung himself onto Hector’s back.

  The trail was wide enough for Bruno to move up and ride alongside Pamela, the other horses trailing behind.

  “I owe you a dinner,” he said to her, “for the one I missed yesterday evening. Would you like to go to Ivan’s?”

  “No, thanks, not tonight, I don’t feel like going out again. You don’t owe me anyway, the number of times I’ve dined at your place. Fabiola said she might pick up a pizza when she gets off at eight. You know Gilles is in Paris, seeing his editor. Why not join us? You can tell us about that mysterious Galina and her even-more-mysterious chap who could hardly ride but looked like he was on duty. Do you think he’s her bodyguard?”

  “Yes, I’m almost certain of it.”

  “How exciting. She must be an heiress or the daughter of someone important. Did you say she’s Ukrainian?”

  “With a Cypriot passport,” Bruno replied, not wanting to go into details of her father and his wealth.

  “She seemed very keen on Jamie, and he’s obviously smitten with her. How well do you think he knows her?”

  “Jamie was an exchange student in Paris for the summer term at the conservatoire, so they’ll have known each other for two or three months. The first time I saw them at Château Rock I was struck by the way they played music together, like a mystic communion between them, as though each understood the other in an extraordinary and intense way. I found it very humbling to watch.”

  “How do you mean, ‘humbling’?”

  “As though they had reached a sort of blending of minds that we mere mortals can never hope to achieve. I wonder if only highly gifted musicians can attain that, or maybe brilliant mathematicians or even poets—people who seem to operate on a higher plane than ordinary people like me.”

  “Oh, Bruno, you have your moments,” she said with a laugh. “And now let’s canter. I can almost taste that pizza.”

  Chapter 19

  When Bruno arrived at his office the next morning after a pleasant ride with Galina and Jamie, but without Sasha, he found a copy of Yves’s forensic report in his e-mail. The blue pills in Driant’s bedside drawer were indeed Viagra, and the packet carried coding that indicated it had come from a mail-order service in Holland. The key findings were fingerprints on the opened foil condom wrapper found beneath Driant’s bed that matched prints taken from the desk and other items in Lara Saatchi’s office. And there were traces of cocaine on the wrapper, so this now could be classed as a pos
sible homicide. Yves was still waiting for a lab report on the long strands of black hair found on one of Driant’s towels, but Yves was certain that it matched some hairs taken from a hairbrush in Lara’s office desk.

  There was no added note from J-J saying that the case was now being handed to a magistrate who could order Lara mise en examen, detained for questioning. When Bruno checked, J-J had not even opened a case file. Bruno tried to think what was holding J-J back, other than Goirau and the fisc. Lara could be detained pending possible charges of failing to report a death and at least required to account for her movements and Driant’s state of health when she had last seen him. There was also clear evidence to suggest that she had a sexual relationship with the old man while also dealing with him as a business client. This in itself raised the suspicion that the insurance contract had been improperly obtained and that Driant’s heirs had thus been cheated out of their inheritance. Bruno had little doubt that if they brought a civil case against the insurers, they would win. So why was J-J being so cautious? Bruno picked up his phone and called him.

  “When I briefed Prunier and said I wanted to get a warrant to bring her in for questioning, Prunier said I was being too hasty,” J-J said, referring to his boss, the commissioner of police for the département. “Prunier didn’t say so, but he gave me the clear impression that he was under pressure, from Goirau at the fisc but mainly from the brigadier. You know Prunier, he’s a decent guy, and he clearly wasn’t happy about this. What’s more, he stressed that you had now been seconded to the brigadier’s staff, so this was now above his pay grade and well above mine.”

  At least he’d been authorized to keep watch on the offices to see if Lara, Constant or Sarrail returned, J-J added. But for the moment, there would be no formal case file and no request to the procureur to appoint an investigating magistrate.

  “So I’m on my own, without even getting a briefing from the brigadier,” Bruno said. “This stinks. What am I supposed to do?”