The Devil's Cave

by Martin Walker

  Lemontin looked at him sceptically. ‘Is this you needing to know or the Mayor?’

  ‘Both. But it’s mainly local taxpayers like you who need to know whether this is a solid project or something that’s going to land us in trouble.’

  Lemontin led the way back up the gravel path that bisected his garden. His house was a modern copy of a traditional Périgord stone building. But it seemed somehow fake: the stones too regular, the tiles too new and the doors and windows were all too freshly painted, with no weathering by sun and rain. Leaving his gardening gloves and clogs at the door, Lemontin donned a pair of slippers awaiting him just inside the kitchen, washed his hands at the sink and turned on the kettle to make coffee.

  ‘Have you heard of a place called Thivion?’ he began. Bruno shook his head. ‘It’s in the next Département, the Corrèze. A small place, a bit like St Denis, with a river and some nice old buildings. They’re trying to build up the tourist trade. Out of the blue, they got an offer from a property company to build a high-class holiday resort with golf course. They were promised individual swimming pools for each of the luxurious holiday villas, which were to be built in the classic local style. No expense spared, they were told.’

  The kettle boiled and Lemontin made coffee and steered Bruno into a small room beside the kitchen, evidently his private study. It had the same spectacular view down the river, but no armchair from which to enjoy it, only Lemontin’s office chair at the desk, and a straight-backed wooden chair beside the filing cabinet. On the desk lay a telephone, a laptop and a notepad, with a single newly sharpened pencil. A bookcase stood next to the desk, with the annual copies of the telephone directory neatly in order and going back at least ten years. Bruno had never seen anyone who stored such stuff before. There was no painting nor poster on the walls, only the cheap calendar issued each year by the bank. While it struck him as slightly odd, the extraordinary neatness of the study gave Bruno confidence in the rigour of Lemontin’s files and researches.

  ‘It sounds a bit like the deal we’re being offered,’ said Bruno, taking the wooden chair, but turning it so that he could enjoy the view. ‘Is it the same company?’

  ‘Hard to tell,’ said Lemontin. ‘The names are different. Our company is called Mortemart Investments and theirs was Gondrin Investments, but they have some of the same directors and use the same bank. You’ll want to speak to the people in Thivion yourself, but here’s what they were promised.’

  He rose, opened the filing cabinet and withdrew a fat file. He handed Bruno an architect’s drawing for what looked like a very handsome development indeed, in a style very similar to the one Bruno had seen in his Mayor’s office.

  ‘And here’s the reality,’ Lemontin said, handing him a large print of what looked like a barracks, undistinguished buildings of one and two storeys jammed closely together with a communal swimming pool and vast common car park. The walls had recently been repainted in a less than successful attempt to cover large displays of graffiti.

  ‘The promised eighteen-hole golf course has turned into a small place for miniature golf,’ Lemontin said. ‘The buildings are not luxurious individual villas. The town ended up heavily in debt.’

  Under the original deal, the town was required to arrange full planning and construction permission and to install the roads, water and sewerage systems, the electricity and gas and to pay for new telephone lines. The development company would do the rest. This meant that all the town’s investment took place at the beginning of the project. Once the roads and sewers were built, Gondrin announced that it had been taken over by another company, which said the original plan was no longer viable and would have to be scaled back. Even to go ahead with a much cheaper project, the new company would require further investments and bank guarantees from the town. Having already invested nearly a million euros, the town council reluctantly went ahead.

  ‘And this is what they got for their two millions in debt,’ Lemontin said, pointing to the photograph of the barracks. ‘It’s leased out to one of the more notorious banlieues outside Paris as a holiday home for disadvantaged families. Not quite the upmarket clientele that Thivion was promised.’

  ‘Where did the two million debt come from?’

  Roads, sewers and legal fees, Lemontin explained, plus the town found itself responsible for architect’s fees and some very stiff management and accounting fees to Gondrin Investments. That was the first million. A further million to start the building work and another mortgage to complete it; otherwise they threatened to walk away from the deal. Wanting to save something from the wreck, the council agreed.

  ‘Oh yes, one more thing,’ Lemontin added. ‘The new company, Pardaillan Investments, had some of the same directors as Gondrin and our own Mortemart Investments. They made out like bandits, and they’ll still own the land when the lease runs out. All they paid was the initial cost of the land, and the Mayor helped them get it for a song.’

  ‘Have you shown these pictures and your file to our Mayor?’

  ‘He refuses to see me, and when I got Antoine to show him the file as a councillor, he said it was all speculation and St Denis would make sure its own legal contract was watertight. That’s what Thivion thought.’

  ‘What are the names of the directors that they all have in common?’ Bruno asked, reaching for Lemontin’s notepad and pencil. Lemontin read the names out from a photocopy of a legal document.

  ‘Lionel Joseph Foucher and Eugénie Marianne Ballotin and then a lawyer in Luxembourg.’ Bruno had expected as much. ‘But they’re just fronting it. There’s an investment trust behind it all called Antin, again based in Luxembourg and it uses a Swiss bank so I can’t find out who owns Antin.’

  Lemontin pushed the file across the desk to Bruno. ‘Take it, I have copies.’

  ‘Did you try and get any of the newspapers interested in this?’

  ‘I spoke to Delaron, but he said he only did picture stories and I didn’t know who else to ask.’

  Bruno opened the file and leafed through to find a photocopy of a letter from the Mairie of Thivion. He punched the number into his phone and rang, keeping his eyes on Lemontin. When the call was answered he asked for the office of the police municipale, was put through and introduced himself.

  ‘Bruno Courrèges,’ came a hearty voice down the line. ‘I remember you from the rugby team at the police college. Bernard Laprade, I played fullback.’

  Bruno vaguely remembered a beefy type with a vast repertoire of bad jokes and rugby songs. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then Bruno explained the reason for his call.

  ‘You want to know what happened?’ His voice was so loud that Lemontin, who could not help but listen, began to smile sadly. ‘We got screwed, taken for a bunch of bumpkins by these city slickers with fancy suits and a big white sports car which I imagine we paid for. All we got in return is a bunch of bloody North African kids and a lot more shoplifting.’

  ‘Do you think your Mayor would say the same to my Mayor?’ Bruno asked. ‘We may have a similar deal in the offing, and from what you say we could do with a warning.’

  ‘My Mayor would shout it from the rooftops if he could. He tried to get our deputy to raise it in the National Assembly but these guys seem to have a lot of political pull. Our lawsuit got nowhere.’

  *

  Bruno had been a policeman too long to swallow a story, even one as well documented as Lemontin’s, without checking the other side. He needed to talk to Foucher and Eugénie, but first he had to find them, and Béatrice’s hotel was the place to start. The property was screened from above by a row of poplar trees, which gave way to the beginning of a gravel drive guarded by two tall iron gates mounted on weathered stone pillars. The drive wound down to the terrace where he had found the Baron drinking with Foucher and the Count. In the mostly empty car park he was surprised to see one car he recognized, Fabiola’s battered Twingo with its medical centre sticker stuck to a corner of the windscreen. Could this be her mysterious private p
atient?

  The windsock of the helipad sagged emptily as he walked around to the main entrance. He was greeted by an elegant young woman in a black silk suit, cut to emphasize her cleavage. She introduced herself as Cécile. He gave his name and rank and asked for Madame Béatrice. Bruno realized the suit was some kind of uniform when Béatrice arrived, wearing the same elegantly revealing outfit. She gave him a warm smile, offered him a drink and led him to the terrace. Another young woman, clad in the same black suit, arrived within moments with a flute of champagne for her and the glass of mineral water he’d requested.

  ‘How different you look with your clothes on,’ Béatrice said, with a teasing glance. ‘I hope this is a social call.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’m on duty and hoping you can tell me where to find Monsieur Foucher, Lionel Foucher. He was having a drink here the other day. I think he’s a business associate of the Count.’

  ‘I believe he lives locally but I don’t know exactly where.’ Any hint of flirtatiousness had gone. The smile seemed fixed to her face, but it had cooled. ‘I can ask the Count but he’s not here today. If you wish I’ll send him an email. Should I say why you want to see him?’

  ‘You can say it’s about a place called Thivion, where I believe Foucher had some business recently.’ Her facial expression didn’t change but her body language had stiffened.

  ‘It sounds rather official.’

  He nodded, his face neutral.

  ‘Very well.’ She made as if to rise, although she had not touched her drink. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell me who owns this place.’

  Her eyebrows raised and she studied him a while before replying. ‘It’s a private company called Antin Investments.’

  ‘Is the Count involved in it?’

  ‘He’s one of the directors.’

  ‘But not Foucher?’

  ‘No, not Foucher.’ She picked up her glass to take a sip of the champagne, a gesture that allowed her a discreet glance at her Cartier watch. ‘If you want to know more I can put you in touch with our company lawyer in Paris. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re preparing for a private dinner party this evening and I need to coordinate with my staff.’

  ‘That would be very kind.’ Bruno rose, finished his water, replaced his cap and thanked her for her time.

  ‘I can see I’ve kept you so I’ll see myself out,’ he said. ‘Just one more thing. Do you know a Mademoiselle Eugénie Ballotin? I think she’s some kind of business partner with Foucher.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Béatrice said, looking up the drive to where headlights had suddenly appeared, although the evening was still light. ‘I think that will be the first guest so I must go. Au revoir, Monsieur Bruno.’ She waved and disappeared into the lobby.

  Bruno lingered beside one of the folded umbrellas that usually shaded the tables and watched the antique Citroën sail majestically past the car park entrance and turn to park in front of the main steps. For the second time that evening, it was a car that Bruno recognized. And as he walked back to his van in the car park, from which Fabiola’s Twingo had disappeared, he wondered what the Baron had in mind beyond the dinner that Béatrice had planned.

  14

  The evening was setting in when Bruno arrived back at Florence’s apartment to collect Balzac, and found children, Florence and his puppy all heaped happily together on the floor. He stayed long enough to help bathe the twins, who insisted that the puppy help put them to bed, and then drove out to Pamela’s place to take Hector for his evening ride. Fabiola opened the door of her gîte when she heard his van and came out to the car.

  ‘I know you saw my car at the hotel because I saw yours,’ she began. She was already wearing her riding boots and hat. ‘And I’m still not going to answer your question about my private patient because it’s none of your business.’

  Without a word, he handed Balzac to her through the window.

  ‘Oh, thank heaven for that. He’s lovely.’ She turned the dog upside down to see what sex it might be. ‘I wondered when you were going to get another dog and it’s about time. Where did you find him?’

  ‘A present from Isabelle,’ he said. ‘And the Brigadier.’

  ‘She’s down again, is she?’ Fabiola’s tone of voice made it clear that it wasn’t a question. She and Pamela were good friends and she was no great fan of Isabelle. ‘And now she picks out your new dog.’

  ‘She’s here on business, doing a lecture at one of the local training centres.’

  ‘How convenient that it’s the end of the week. I assume she’ll be staying for the weekend. Not that it’s any of my business. What do you plan to do with the dog when we ride?’

  ‘I want him to meet Hector first, but I thought I’d carry him against my chest, get him used to the motion.’ He’d thought of it since seeing Rashida’s baby tucked against her breast in the shawl.

  Fabiola sniffed and went ahead into the stables to saddle Victoria. Bruno followed, tucking Balzac into his jacket, keeping a firm hold on him. Just his head and long ears peeped out. He took one of last year’s apples stored beneath the stable bench and approached Hector’s stall, talking gently so the horse would know it was him. He held the apple close to his chest so that Hector could see the puppy, and from the sudden squirming against his chest, Balzac was eager to make the acquaintance of this enormous animal before him.

  Hector took the apple and chewed it delicately while studying Balzac. Bruno wondered if his horse had any memory of Balzac’s predecessor, Gigi. Horse and basset had become good friends, with Gigi sometimes sleeping in Hector’s stall and even riding on the horse’s back once when they had to ford a river. Hector stepped forward and nuzzled at the puppy, warm air from the horse’s nostrils flooding into Bruno’s jacket and across his chest. Balzac gave Hector’s nose a hesitant lick and then uttered a timid bark. Hector nuzzled him again and then stepped back. Bruno let Balzac down onto the floor of the stall, where he played briefly in the straw, then crept up to rub one of his long ears against Hector’s leg.

  Moments later, they were walking up the lane to the gate where they turned off and began trotting through the meadow that led to the ridge, Fabiola leading on Victoria with Bess alongside on a loose rein. Squeaks of what he hoped were excitement were coming from Bruno’s chest as Hector began to lengthen his stride into the slope. There was still some light in the expanse of sky that unfolded as they topped the ridge, a red glow on the skyline where the sun had just dropped. Bruno slowed to enjoy it and heard the cawing of rooks gathering in the trees for the night. Little Balzac squirmed to get more of his head out, turning it from side to side to see this huge new world of the countryside. Bruno looked too, wondering what Eugénie might say in response to his questions about Thivion. But there was no other rider in sight, just the sound of Victoria’s hoofbeats to the rear.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Fabiola asked, coming alongside.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I’m making spaghetti but no promises,’ she said as they walked the horses back down the slope, letting them pick their own way in the gathering darkness. ‘I got the recipe for the sauce from a book.’

  ‘That’s the best place to find one,’ Bruno said, grinning at her. He’d long since stopped believing Fabiola’s protests that she couldn’t cook. ‘If you can read, you can cook.’

  He attended to the horses first while Balzac explored the stables and rolled happily in the straw. Once they were settled for the night, he stayed in Hector’s stall to phone Pamela. She’d probably be at the hospital; she usually was. But when she answered, it sounded as if she were in a restaurant and he heard her say something in English before the background noise dimmed and then he heard her greet him in French.

  ‘This sounds like a bad time to talk,’ he said.

  ‘On the contrary, it’s a very good time, but I can’t stay long. I said you’re a potential client to rent a gîte for the summer, but thank heavens you called. I’m having dinner wi
th my ex-husband and he’s making an offer he thinks I can’t refuse.’

  Bruno knew little of Pamela’s marriage except that her husband had been a banker who spent most of his time working, had an affair with his secretary and divorced Pamela to marry her. This second marriage had now collapsed.

  ‘He’s offering to pay for full-time care for my mother wherever I want, in a nursing home or where I live,’ she explained.

  ‘Wherever you live?’

  ‘No, that’s the catch. I’d have to go back and live with him, in England. I can have my horses, and my mother.’

  ‘It sounds like a financial transaction,’ said Bruno.

  ‘Of course it does, he’s a banker.’ She laughed. ‘It’s the only thing he understands. I’d better go. Can we talk tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, and the horses are fine. I’m about to rub them down while Fabiola cooks.’

  ‘Love to you both.’ She rang off, and Bruno picked up his puppy and walked back, frowning, to Fabiola’s kitchen, where she was fishing in a bubbling pot for individual strands of spaghetti to see if they were done. He waited until they were seated and served before he recounted the conversation with Pamela.

  ‘I think it’s what she has been afraid of,’ said Fabiola, grating parmesan over her food. ‘The ex-husband must know her quite well, to tempt her this way. He pretends it’s about her mother but it’s really about using his money to get what he wants.’

  ‘For Pamela, it is about her mother.’ He poured out some wine from the bottles he kept at Pamela’s house.

  ‘No, he’s playing on her sense of guilt over her mother. If there had been children, he’d have used them and their need for a father as well as a mother. As things are, he’s made sure that whatever happens, she’ll be unhappy. If she stays with him for her mother’s sake, she’ll be miserable. If she refuses him and comes back here, she’ll feel she’s letting her mother down.’

  ‘What can we do to help her?’ There had to be a way.

  Fabiola sat back and looked at him fondly. ‘You’re a strange person, Bruno. I’ve never known anyone so sure that there has to be a solution to everything, if we can only find it. As a doctor, let me tell you that for some things there is no cure, that usually the only solution is the lesser of two evils.’ She put down her fork and laid her hand on his arm to reinforce her words. ‘In this instance, we must do nothing except let Pamela know we’ll support her in whatever she decides to do.’