“Wait until the brigadier contacts you. Your mayor has acknowledged receipt of the brigadier’s letter seconding you, so you’re now legally under his orders.”
“Again.”
“Again,” agreed J-J, with a short, bitter laugh.
“Despite the forensic report and my eyewitness?”
“Despite all that. But think this through, Bruno. You’ll hear from the brigadier when it suits him but you know Driant’s son and daughter. It looks to me as if they have a wide-open civil case against the insurance company and against the retirement home. Persuade them to get a good lawyer. As a matter of course he will file a court request for available police documentation. A judge can order us to turn over Yves’s forensic report and your report on your witness identifying Mademoiselle Saatchi. If I were you, I’d file that report to me in writing as soon as you can.”
“Which lawyer in Bordeaux would you recommend?” Bruno asked. “That’s where Gaston lives, Driant’s son.”
“You remember Maître Duhamel, the lawyer who was acting for the mother of that American girl who died in the well? He’s a real bastard, but that’s what you want.”
Next Bruno called the baron, asked him how he felt and was told that he’d already been checked that morning by Fabiola and was fine. Bruno then asked if the baron recalled his suggestion the previous day of going to see Sarrail and said it could be helpful. Next he went to see the mayor, asked to discuss something in confidence and laid out the entire story—Driant and Lara, Goirau and the fisc, J-J and Prunier, Stichkin and the brigadier.
“And since you’re now under the orders of General Lannes, we can presume that this has become a matter of national security,” said the mayor, filling his pipe and leaning back in his chair. He called for Claire, his overly inquisitive secretary, and asked her to search out the property tax records for Driant’s farm, going back to the time he inherited it.
“That will stop Claire from listening at the door,” said the mayor, with a conspiratorial wink. “I think J-J is right. Driant’s heirs should pursue this in the civil courts. Knowing Driant’s children, I think it might make more sense to talk to his daughter, a professional woman with, I presume, some financial resources of her own. I know Duhamel, the lawyer J-J suggests. I can easily give him a call at home to assure him this will be worth his time.”
The mayor put aside his pipe, leaned forward and tapped the surface of his desk with a forefinger. “I don’t like this at all. It’s not right that people can be cheated out of their inheritance by some young woman seducing an elderly gentleman of my commune, and our police are held back from investigating. So go ahead, Bruno. As you say, you haven’t received any orders from the brigadier yet. You can even say you’re acting at my suggestion.”
The mayor applied a new match to his pipe and then through the smoke fixed his gaze on Bruno, who caught the light of battle in his eye.
“Now, if things get tricky, and they probably will, as a former senator I can arrange for some discreet consultations about setting up a Senate commission of inquiry into the role of foreign finance in our insurance industry. It won’t happen, of course, but it will set the cat among the pigeons. Or I could have a question sent to the health minister on the licensing system for luxury retirement homes of dubious ownership. That would have a similar effect. I could prepare the ground with some judicious leaks to the media. Should I have a quiet word with Philippe Delaron, since he’s already floated part of the story? Or should you do it?”
“It would have more weight coming from you,” said Bruno.
“Consider it done,” said the mayor. “It’s about time these overzealous types in our security services were reminded that they work in a democratic republic that is governed by laws that are made by our elected representatives in the Assemblée Nationale and the Senate. Will that do, Bruno?”
“Thank you, Monsieur le Maire.”
“Don’t thank me, Bruno. I think this is going to be fun. I’ll call Duhamel now. And please draft for me a summary of the affair as you know it.”
Back in his office, Bruno wrote the summary and sent it to the mayor. Then he quickly wrote a report on Guillaumat’s identification of Lara Saatchi and sent it to J-J, as requested. He took the opportunity to add a paragraph pointing out that forensic and cell-phone evidence meant that Lara had been the last person to see Driant. Noting the cocaine on the condom wrapper, he proposed that Lara be detained for questioning in a possible homicide.
He sat back, thinking, and then used the special secure phone he had been given by the brigadier in a previous operation to call the brigadier’s office. He left his name with a duty officer and requested a briefing on what he was now expected to do. After that he called Gaston Driant’s cell phone, explained briefly that he now thought that he and his sister had been victims of an injustice but wanted to inform her personally. Gaston gave Bruno her numbers, landline and mobile. Bruno called the mobile number, introduced himself and asked if she was able to speak privately.
“Go ahead,” she said, in a brisk voice.
Choosing his words with care, Bruno explained that he believed that she and her brother had been cheated and that there was evidence in police files that might not suffice for a criminal case but would certainly give great weight to a civil case in which he, as chief of police, would be ready to testify. He gave her the name and phone number of Duhamel, adding that the mayor would personally brief the lawyer and press him to take the case.
“What would this lawyer cost?” she asked.
“I’d imagine that, having spoken to our mayor, a former senator with the influence that implies, he would accept a retainer of a thousand euros. Once he files a statement of claim in court, he can apply for access to relevant police records. But I think you might be able to get informal sight of an important forensic report before then.”
“And what would that report show, Bruno?”
“That the insurance agent employed a young woman who had sexual relations with your father in the course of getting his signature on the contract. You might even be able to argue that the use of Viagra and cocaine before sex may have provoked his heart attack.”
“Jésus-Maria,” she exclaimed. “Are you serious? My dad—coke?”
“One thing at a time,” said Bruno. “We both know your brother doesn’t have the financial resources for the lawyer’s retainer. I assume that you do.”
“Correct.”
“You are aware that the insurance company is already facing legal action for negligent treatment of your father’s sheep?”
“Yes, Gaston told me about the story in Sud Ouest. I figured that would be the end of it.”
“I haven’t let this matter drop, mademoiselle. I want to see justice done and you and Gaston receive your proper inheritance.”
“Thank you, Bruno. Please call me Claudette and not mademoiselle. I remember your first few weeks as village flic. I was home on vacation, and Dad took me to the rugby game and you were playing. He pointed you out and said you were the best number six he’d seen play for St. Denis since he was on the team. And you know that he used to play at number six?”
“I didn’t know that, I’m touched. May I have your private e-mail, Claudette?”
She gave it, and Bruno sent a copy of his own summary of the case, including Yves’s report, telling her over the phone never to reveal the source. But it would allow her lawyer to demand the full reports.
“How much can I tell Gaston?”
“Up to you,” he said. “You know him best and how far he can be discreet. But you realize all this is sensitive.”
“Yes, I’m just looking at your summary now. Mon Dieu, you’ve put some work into this. Merde, this implies my dad might have been murdered for his money!”
“Not quite that. But it’s very strong evidence of highly improper if not fraudulent manipulation of
an old man on the part of the insurers. And we’d have to prove the cocaine was brought by the young woman.”
“Do you know where I work, Bruno?”
“Gaston said you’re a management consultant.”
“Yes, but my main client is the Ministry of Health, with special focus on managing the challenges of longevity. So you’ll understand why I think I’d better let Gaston put his name to this case, rather than mine. I can pay the retainer, of course.”
“Very wise,” said Bruno as he saw the green light flash on his other phone, which meant someone from the brigadier’s office was calling. “I have to go. We’ll speak again.”
He answered the secure phone and heard the brigadier’s familiar voice saying, “I’m surprised you want a briefing, Bruno. As I recall you go your own way whatever I might suggest.”
“As a former soldier I always respect the chain of command, sir,” he replied.
“Stop it, Bruno. I’ll tell you what we want you to do in good time. But keep up the pressure on these two men in Périgueux, the notaire and the insurance agent. That’s how we’ll get to Stichkin.”
“You know I went horseback riding with his daughter this morning?”
“No, but we knew you did so last night,” the brigadier said breezily. “We’re monitoring her phone and she told Daddy. She also informed him she’s in love. Stay close to Galina, she may be the key to this whole operation, her and this insurance fraud you’ve been working on. Oh, and Bruno, give my love to Isabelle when you see her on Saturday, and give Balzac a pat from me. My best wishes for a successful mating. I’ll be in touch again soon. Meanwhile, keep a very watchful eye on that so-called cousin of Galina’s. He’s a spook, Putin’s watchful eye, ex-spetsnaz and as hard as nails.”
The call left Bruno wholly uncertain of his mission or, rather, his small part in the much larger mission the brigadier and the French security agencies had in mind. He knew that spetsnaz—voyska spetsialnovo naznacheniya—were Russian military special forces, an arm of GRU military intelligence. Mon Dieu, he thought, to have such a professional killer in the Périgord acting as Galina’s watchdog meant that the Kremlin put great importance on Stichkin’s daughter. That implied that Stichkin himself was an object of serious attention from both French and Russian intelligence.
Not for the first time since his initial encounter with the brigadier, Bruno felt himself way out of his depth. But he had his orders: to stay close to Galina, to watch Sasha and to pursue the insurance fraud, which meant depending on J-J to track Lara, Constant and Sarrail. For that he had to wait. He checked his watch. It was close to noon, when the mothers would be gathering outside the maternelle to pick up their children. He picked up his képi, donned his jacket and headed across the square and down past the fire station to the infants’ school, to greet the mothers and hold up the traffic so their prams, buggies and children could pass.
Strolling back up the narrow alley alongside the church, he heard organ music from within and slipped inside to hear the opening notes of Mozart’s “Laudate Dominum,” which Bruno knew from the choir’s annual performance at the riverbank concerts he organized. Florence was standing in the center of the choir, gazing up to the vaulted roof of the ancient church. Her clear, sweet voice began to fill the great space.
“Laudate dominum omnes gentes,” she began. “Praise the Lord, all nations and all peoples, for he has bestowed his mercy upon us…”
And then the full might of the twenty voices of the choir came in to join her at “Glory to the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost” until her soprano soared away again on “As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.” Then in full voice the entire choir roared out Et in saecula saeculorum. Forever and ever. Amen.
Bruno felt a warm sense of peace flow over him, and tears pricking at his eyes. It was partly the simple beauty of the music, partly the familiarity of the village church and the choir composed of his friends and neighbors, the sense that generations before him had found comfort and solace here. His last time here had been for Driant’s funeral. As the last echoes of the music died away, he knew it was fitting that he was now seeking justice for that old man, who had played rugby for this town just as Bruno had, and for Driant’s heirs.
He felt rather than heard the church doors open and some people enter. He did not look up but then saw Galina, Jamie and Rod slip into the pew beside him.
“Will they continue?” Galina whispered, almost in his ear, and then she knelt and crossed herself in an unusual way, putting her first two fingers and thumb into a point and touching first her forehead, then her stomach, then her right shoulder and finally her left.
“They are rehearsing a concert, and they usually sing Tchaikovsky’s ‘Hymn of the Cherubim,’ ” he whispered back.
She turned to stare as if surprised, and then murmured “Slava Bogu” and crossed herself the same way again as the first. Pure and high notes came from the women alone before the deep male bass joined them. They all sat in silence when the music ended and the choirmaster began talking to the singers. Bruno turned his head and saw tears streaming down Galina’s face, a wet handkerchief clutched in one hand and Jamie’s hand clutched just as firmly in the other.
“I’m glad you heard it,” said Bruno and glanced at Jamie as Rod rose and they all began to file out of the pew and out into a sunlight so bright it made them blink. “What brings you all here?”
“We were showing Galina around the neighborhood,” said Jamie, putting his arm around Galina, who folded her body against him but gazed up at the front of the church. “We took her to the abbey at Cadouin and then to Limeuil and the Chapel of St. Martin, where we’ll be performing. She was stunned by the place and the frescoes, and then we sang so she could hear for herself that the acoustics are perfect. Just by chance we decided to stop here for lunch at Ivan’s before going on to the museum at Les Eyzies, and after we’d parked by the gendarmerie and were strolling back past the church, Galina heard the music, so we slipped in.”
“It was fate that I should hear this Russian music here, almost like a message from heaven,” said Galina, her eyes still raised to the cross atop the church spire. “And so many beautiful churches, in every village we see. It tells me that this Périgord is a very spiritual place and that I am welcome here. It calms my soul to think that this can be my home.”
Bruno tried not to show his surprise as he and Rod quickly exchanged glances. Jamie, by contrast, was nodding in understanding. Rod cleared his throat, took his tobacco pouch from his vest pocket and rolled a cigarette.
“Well, it was certainly a lucky chance that we came upon such beautiful music,” he said, lighting up and blowing out a plume of smoke. “But now it’s time for lunch. You know Ivan’s place, Bruno. Perhaps you’d like to join us. What’s his plat du jour going to be?”
“Thursday, that’s usually blanquette de veau, but Ivan always has a vegetarian plate, and if you haven’t been there for a while, you’re in for a surprise.”
Sasha had suddenly appeared and joined the group. As Bruno stared, Sasha slipped an expensive-looking mobile phone into his pocket. He noticed Bruno watching him and nodded coldly.
They’d turned and begun walking up the rue de Paris toward Ivan’s when Bruno’s phone vibrated. It was the baron. He signaled to the others to go on without him.
“We’ve hooked him,” said the baron, gleefully.
“How do you mean, ‘hooked him’?”
“I’m meeting Constant, the insurance man, in the Glycines bistro outside Les Eyzies at two.”
Chapter 20
Bruno thought fast. He should be able to follow the insurance agent to find out where he was staying, confront him and demand to know Lara’s whereabouts. But the meeting being held in Les Eyzies, just fifteen minutes from St. Denis, gave him another idea. He called Juliette, his counterpart in that town, and explained that he’d be
grateful if she could arrange to wear civilian clothes, watch for Constant at Les Glycines and then follow him on her motorbike. She’d met the baron at dinners at Bruno’s home, so she’d have no trouble spotting the insurance man. And be sure to get his car details and registration, Bruno added. Juliette was his nominal subordinate and he could have made it an order, but he disliked pulling rank unless he had no choice. Knowing Juliette, she’d jump at the chance of something out of the usual routine.
“The chef likes me so I can probably even get Constant’s credit card number if you want,” she said cheerfully. “I assume this is the bastard who abandoned those animals at the farm?”
“That’s him, and it’s looking much more serious than that,” he said. “I’ll be in my Land Rover and not in uniform. I’ll stay at a distance. I don’t want him to know he’s being followed, and we can stay in touch on our mobiles.”
Next he called J-J to say the quarry had been sighted. Should he simply be followed, or could Bruno detain him for questioning?
“What have you heard from the brigadier?”
“He told me to keep up the pressure on Constant and Sarrail and to stay close to Stichkin’s daughter. I’m about to have lunch with her. But I’ve just learned that Constant has an appointment near here, and I’ve put a tail on him.”
“I’d better check with the boss and let you know. This doesn’t sound time critical if you’re off to lunch. Where are you eating?”
“Ivan’s. Blanquette de veau today.”
“I’m envious. I’ll be lucky to get a ham-and-cheese baguette from the canteen.”
“But I’m not having the veal. Ivan has a new girlfriend, so there’s an alternative menu. You’ll have to come and try it.”
The culinary education of St. Denis had begun with the Belgian girl Ivan had met on vacation and brought back to offer St. Denis some happy months of mussels in various delicious ways. Then Ivan encountered a Spanish señorita who returned with him and began adding paella and cochinello asada, a whole roast suckling pig, to Ivan’s menu. Bruno cherished the memory of the German or perhaps Austrian fräulein who cooked Wiener schnitzel to perfection. Mandy, the young Australian woman who cooked Thai and Malay food, had become a good friend who often returned from her wine course in Bordeaux to give a demonstration at Pamela’s cooking school. The new chef who shared Ivan’s bed and his kitchen had arrived in the Vézère Valley under her own steam, stopped at Ivan’s for lunch, returned for dinner and moved in.
The Shooting at Chateau Rock Page 17