Children of War: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 8)

by Martin Walker

  The interior plan showed a handsome new staircase and a lift, leading to two exhibitions on the first floor, one on the history of the Resistance in Périgord and the other on life in St Denis under the Occupation. On the next floor was a small cinema and a large room for the role of the Protestant Church and the Scout movement in saving Jewish children. The attic was marked simply as The Refuge and a note said it would be decorated as closely as Maya could remember to how it had been. The other attics in the terrace were to be turned into offices and an exhibition space for life in the Périgord under the Occupation.

  Yves Peyreblanque, one of the older boys and the son of an ambulance driver, came forward and handed Maya a small bunch of flowers, and then Eglantine, the star of the girls’ rugby team that Bruno trained, made a small speech of welcome. The two of them led Maya round the sketches, asking if she had any questions.

  ‘What about the people who live in these houses now?’ she asked.

  Another youth, Maurice Cordet, whose father was a tree surgeon, led her to another easel that held another blown-up photo of the disused cooperage. A sketch showed how it could be restored and turned into housing. Above the entrance was a plaque that read Résidences Halévy. The final display showed a photo of the Desbordes farm as it was now, and a sketch showing how it could be, with a neat array of tents on the flat land by the stream.

  Florence stood back, letting her pupils make the explanations and then leading Maya to the final display. Two large tables had been covered with a cloth, and behind them on the wall leaned a large cork board that was covered in old photographs and newspapers. One of them carried a photograph of Marshal Pétain with Hitler. Another blared out the words Paris Libéré. There was one exhibit that seemed to be missing, the space covered with a white cloth. Perhaps they had not had time to install it. Florence and the kids had done extremely well to get this project looking as good as it did.

  The tables carried objects from the period of the Occupation, ration books and faded blue packets of cigarettes marked Vente Restreinte, sales restricted to troops. Bruno saw a Wehrmacht and a French helmet, well-worn sabot clogs carved from wood and a dress dyed in blue. The original markings from the flour sacks from which it had been made were still visible. There were armbands with the Cross of Lorraine and others marked FFI, for the Forces Françaises de l’Intérieur, and a handwritten receipt for food and wine, signed in the name of the FFI by a Capitaine Bousquéret.

  ‘We went round all our grandparents asking what they might have in their attics, everyday items that came from the period,’ said Yves, the youth who had given Maya the flowers. ‘My great-grandfather was given that receipt and now we’re trying to track down the captain’s family to see if they have any mementos of him. We just wanted to give you an idea of the kind of things we’d like to see displayed, and we’re glad we did it. We all learned a lot.’

  He stood back to let Maya look at the various items and another of the pupils pressed a button on a small music box and the strains of ‘J’attendrai’ began to fill the room. She smiled faintly and her fingers traced the outlines of a piece of cloth in the shape of a star, in faded yellow.

  ‘Strictly speaking, that’s not from here, but from one of the members of our family who lived in Perpignan,’ said a slender youth whom Bruno recognized from his rugby classes. He was Daniel Weiss’s son Samuel, a fast sprinter who played a good game on the wing.

  ‘This is much, much more than I expected,’ Maya said, haltingly, speaking to the pupils. ‘You’ve all done very well and I want to thank you for all your hard work and your very creative ideas.’

  ‘There’s one final item we found, or rather that the Mayor found in the basement of the Mairie,’ said Eglantine, and steered Maya to the wall display where she removed the white cloth.

  ‘It’s a copy of the marriage register that records the wedding of Michel and Sylvie Desbordes in 1917. And now you’ll need this,’ the girl said, handing Maya a magnifying glass. ‘We only just tracked it down so we didn’t have time to enlarge it. It’s from the newspaper Liberté du Sud Ouest from May 1917.’

  The headline read ‘Soldiers marry before returning to the front’, and there was a small photograph of three young men in army uniform with their brides, each of the women carrying a bouquet.

  ‘The couple on the left are Michel and Sylvie.’

  ‘It’s before he was wounded,’ Maya said, peering through the glass at the face in the photograph. ‘I never really knew what he looked like before. And that’s her, Tante Sylvie, looking so young.’

  She turned to look at her grandson and beckoned him across to look at the couple who had taken her in and then died in the attempt to get her and her brother home and reunited with their family. Maya’s eyes were glistening with tears as she took Yacov’s hand and gave him the magnifying glass to peer in turn at the wedding photo of the long-dead Desbordes.

  ‘Without those people I wouldn’t be here today and nor would you.’ Her head was shaking slowly as if in disbelief that so many echoes and memories of her youth could have survived and been brought back for her to remember.

  ‘You young people have done an amazing job,’ Yacov said, turning to face Yves and Eglantine, Samuel and the others. ‘Believe me, you have rocked me today.’

  Bruno waited for the ‘But …’ Yacov was a lawyer, trained to take no decision in the heat of the moment but only after sober and prolonged reflection. Bruno expected him to say that any further decision about the memorial would have to wait for discussions with the Mayor, a meeting of the family trustees, detailed cost estimates and so on. Yet Yacov remained silent, looking expectantly at his aunt almost as if urging her to voice support for the St Denis plans.

  The Mayor chose that moment to cough discreetly and step forward.

  ‘On behalf of the town, I’d like to add my own few words of appreciation for the hard work of our youngsters and their dedicated teacher, Madame Florence Pantowsky,’ he said. ‘I’d also like to pay tribute to the creative imagination of our chief of police here, who has been at the heart of this project from the start. It’s a very impressive generation of young citizens we have here and it gives me great confidence for the future of St Denis. I think the traditions of humanity and decency that Monsieur and Madame Desbordes displayed are being very much upheld by these children of our town today. And these youngsters tell me, Madame, that irrespective of the eventual decision of the Halévy Foundation, they will go ahead and pursue this project of a museum, on their own if need be. And now perhaps we’d better let them return to their studies.’

  The Mayor gave Maya his arm and led the way down the corridor of the collège to the playground and out to the forecourt where his car and the Halévy Rolls-Royce were parked, dwarfing Bruno’s little police van.

  And there, waiting for them with his camera at the ready, was Philippe Delaron, whom Bruno had been trying to avoid. Philippe had taken to his role as newsman with great energy and panache, and while Bruno sometimes found him to be a pain in the neck he rather admired Philippe’s enthusiasm.

  ‘What on earth brings you here?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘Who do you think took those photos and blew them up?’ Philippe retorted, dodging around Bruno to snap a shot of Maya, the Mayor and the Rolls-Royce. ‘I made Florence tell me what it was all about in return for doing the work.’

  ‘Madame Halévy,’ he called out before Bruno could stop him. ‘Are you going to support the schoolkids’ plans for the museum?’

  ‘Certainly,’ she replied, turning as she was about to step into the car. ‘I can’t think when I’ve been more impressed by a project. You have some wonderful young people in this town and they deserve everybody’s full support.’

  *

  Bruno wondered if it was because he was her passenger that Yveline drove so carefully, observing the speed limits of seventy as they approached a town or junction and fifty once they were inside any urban area, even a village. She kept at ninety even on long straight roa
ds, but handled the bends well, accelerating out of them. She glanced at her rear mirror religiously and read the road ahead. It was as though she were going through the Gendarme road test. But she was relaxed as she drove, chatting easily, and he concluded that this was simply another feature of a remarkably composed and well-organized young woman. Like so much else about her, he found it quietly impressive.

  ‘Did you explain to this professor why we’re coming to see her?’ he asked.

  ‘Not in so many words, but I said we were investigating some cases of sexual harassment, one of them involving Fabiola, and we knew Fabiola had told her about it and asked her advice. And if she asks, the Procureur’s office has opened a dossier into a suspected crime. Annette faxed me a copy along with a formal request to assist her inquiry.’

  Bruno nodded, still not sure why Yveline had asked him to join her on the inquiry, rather than taking along one of her Gendarmes.

  ‘We’re doing this by the book,’ she said after a moment. ‘That’s why you’ve been invited along. Annette thought it would be a good idea since you’re Fabiola’s local policeman. Nancy said it was the way they ran inquiries into sexual offences at the FBI, always a man and a woman.’

  Bruno hadn’t known that, but it made sense, precluding the suspect claiming he was being targeted by female cops after a woman’s complaint against him.

  ‘And Fabiola said she’d rather you were involved,’ Yveline added. ‘I thought I’d like to run the questioning, but if I rub the witness the wrong way, you’re experienced. You’ll know when to step in and change the mood.’

  ‘You won’t rub her the wrong way,’ Bruno said, although he knew it was easily done. He’d seen cooperative witnesses turn hostile often enough through clumsy questioning. ‘Sergeant Jules would have done, he’s got that grandfatherly touch.’

  ‘Yes, but I need someone I can count on back running the Gendarmerie, and that means Jules.’

  ‘Have you told him that?’

  ‘No, but I gave him top marks on his annual performance rating, a bit against my better judgement. He’s sometimes too inclined to live and let live.’

  She could say that about him, Bruno thought. Knowing when to turn a blind eye was part of being a country policeman; part of being a policeman anywhere.

  ‘And whatever I might think, the other women wanted you on this inquiry and on reflection I agree with them, so here you are,’ she said, glancing briefly at him before returning her attention to the road ahead. ‘Do you mind? I think you ought to be flattered.’

  ‘It’s not a question of being flattered. If I have one big concern it’s that I don’t want Fabiola screwing herself up to take this step and then we find the evidence is too thin and the memories too vague to make a case stick against Deutz. And given his connections, it’s going to have to be foolproof.’

  ‘I know that. And you’ll make sure it is foolproof. The case already looks pretty good to me – a contemporaneous witness, a retired professor.’

  ‘What about that complaint against Deutz that went nowhere?’ he asked. ‘I thought Annette was contacting the magistrate who’d been involved.’

  ‘She did and the magistrate, another woman, was furious when the student dropped the charges. She thought the medical school had applied pressure and she was right. I found the student, Monique Jouard; she’s now a paediatrician in Cherbourg. One of her professors took Monique aside to say if she dropped the charges they’d give her a good recommendation to another school. If she went ahead, she could forget about a career in medicine. Now they’ve lost that hold over her, Monique was only too happy to relaunch her accusation and the original magistrate is taking the case. I think that’s what finally persuaded Fabiola. There’s a copy of her statement in my briefcase on the back seat,’ she said. ‘It’s the file marked Fabiola. Take a look.’

  Not many Gendarme officers would invite another Gendarme, let alone a municipal policeman, to poke around inside her briefcase. It was a gratifying sign of trust. Bruno reached over and thumbed through the briefcase to find it. There were two typed pages with Fabiola’s signature on each one.

  She and Deutz had become lovers during the autumn term at the medical school, very happily at first, he read. But Fabiola had become aware that he was seeing other women and had decided to break off the relationship even before the mountaineering accident. When he had visited her during her recovery, she had told him their affair was over and he’d laughed it off. When the medical school reopened in the new year he had tried to resume their relations but she had repeatedly refused. On 4 February, he had come to her lodgings, somewhat drunk, demanding sex. When she refused and asked him to leave, he had punched her in the stomach, thrown her onto the bed, pulled down her pants and raped her. As he left she recalled him saying, ‘You don’t say no to me.’

  Despite the cold, almost forensic prose, the image was clear in Bruno’s mind. He couldn’t imagine Fabiola’s feelings as she lay there, humiliated and violated. But he could almost see the arrogance on Deutz’s face as he spoke the words. Grimly, Bruno looked forward to arresting him.

  Yveline slowed the van outside a small villa with a large and well-tended garden on the outskirts of Villefranche and then drove on and parked in a side street around the corner. Bruno approved. The professor would already be nervous about their visit without the added pressure of a Gendarme van outside her house where the neighbours could see it and gossip.

  Although plainly nervous at their arrival, the woman who answered the door looked like the kindly and comforting sort of woman who’d play the role of a midwife on TV. She was plump with round and rosy cheeks, no make-up and her white hair cut short. Automatically, Bruno noted the flat-heeled leather lace-ups on her feet, a floral-pattern dress and cardigan, no jewelry except for a pearl necklace. She asked them to call her Rosalie, offered coffee, and almost at once brought in a tray that she must have prepared earlier. Yveline led the questioning and to keep matters formal addressed her as Professor Waldeck.

  Yes, Professor Waldeck remembered Fabiola very well, one of her favourite students and a doctor with a natural touch and a bedside manner that inspired trust. And yes, she remembered Fabiola coming to ask her advice after what the professor called ‘a painful and humiliating experience’ at the hands of another member of the teaching staff. She was going out of her way to sound pedantic, like a stage professor, Bruno thought.

  ‘I have thought over this matter carefully before you arrived, and I’m not proud of my failure to do more to help Fabiola at the time,’ she said, lifting a notebook from a side table and putting on her reading glasses. ‘I made these notes before your arrival because I wanted to be clear in my mind what I should say.’

  First, she began, she believed that Fabiola had been forced into having sex against her will. That was rape. But matters were complicated, since before her accident Fabiola and the young professor had been engaged in an affair for several months. When Fabiola had tried to end it, the young man refused to accept her decision. When she insisted, he had forced himself upon her.

  Second, the young man was a member of the teaching staff. Since his promising career could be ended by Fabiola’s accusation, he could be expected to fight her charges against him. The other members of the teaching staff who would be sitting in judgement upon him were almost entirely male. Many of them saw him as one of the most gifted young men they had known, with a future likely to bring renown to the school. They tended to discount claims of rape between lovers, she said, thinking that once the woman had already been to bed with the man, what difference would another such bout make?

  Bruno winced inwardly, remembering times he had heard sly jokes at the rugby club: ‘a slice off a cut cake is never missed’. He knew Professor Waldeck was being realistic about the attitudes of most men of his generation. It was a view that Bruno had grown up sharing. Only in recent years had his experience in Bosnia and the reality of life as a country policeman driven him to change his mind. It was not that the men
he knew were brutes, but once married many of them seemed careless whether the woman was willing or not. The sexual codes were evolving only slowly in Bruno’s part of rural France. Bruno had seen the eyes and hurt of women who had been forced repeatedly into sex against their will, and never wanted to see it again. That this had happened to Fabiola was intolerable.

  Third, Professor Waldeck went on, Fabiola had no evidence. The incident had taken place some days earlier. She had repeatedly bathed since then and had made no complaint at the time. It would be harder to take her word for it now, with no witnesses. It would be a matter of the young man’s words against hers.

  ‘Who is this individual you call the young man?’ Yveline asked coolly.

  Waldeck paused a long moment. ‘Pascal Deutz,’ she said.

  ‘Are you aware of any other similar incidents involving Monsieur Deutz?’

  There was a long pause before Waldeck replied, ‘Yes, I am. Two in fact. One was with another student, the year before Fabiola came to me, in very similar circumstances. The two of them had been on a climbing holiday together and the young woman had left early and wanted to end the affair. Deutz had returned later and had his way with her again, saying it was one for the road. Again, she came to me, and I’m afraid I gave her the same advice. I very much regret it now. Had I taken the matter up then, Fabiola might have been spared the same fate.’