He returned from the kitchen with the soup bowls on a tray, the cheese brown and still bubbling. He had left a kettle of water heating on the stove. Balzac was now settled on Isabelle’s lap. She ignored the spoon, cupping her hands around the hot bowl and breathing in the scents of garlic and thyme and venison stock. He brought the glasses and decanter from the table, poured and then put the wine to the side of the fire, away from the direct heat. She sipped at the soup, almost greedily, until most of the liquid had gone, and then she took the spoon to break up the melted cheese and toast.
‘I don’t feel too good but I’m starving,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I’ll appreciate the wine.’
‘Only one way to find out,’ he said, handing her a glass. He sipped at his own and nodded with pleasure. ‘Do you want some risotto? It will only take a few minutes.’
She nodded and squeezed his hand. ‘Sorry, I’m not good company this evening. I didn’t like being in that cave on my own. I knew you were coming but that place made me shiver. It wasn’t scary in the usual sense, more disconcerting, almost as if I could sense something … maybe alien is the word. I don’t know if it was evil but it felt very different, like another form of life altogether.’
He glanced at her curiously as he stoked the fire; this wasn’t like Isabelle. He’d never seen her nervous, far less afraid of anything.
‘People have usually invested the caves with strange powers,’ he said. ‘It always seemed to me significant that our prehistoric ancestors did their engravings and paintings in the caves, but they never lived in them.’
‘I understand why,’ she said, and shivered again.
He felt her brow. ‘You’ve got a fever, and that probably made you feel a bit woozy in there.’
‘I feel under the weather,’ she said. ‘But I still want your risotto. And that book on the table – is that left out because I was coming or do you read it?’
He glanced across at the book of Prévert’s poetry that had been her gift.
‘That’s us, I suppose,’ she said, a finger stroking the back of his hand, tracing the line of each of his fingers. ‘His poem about parted lovers, and the sea erasing the footprints left in the sand.’
‘But we still have to eat,’ he said, and took out the soup bowls. In the kitchen he used the almost boiling water to fill a hot-water bottle and put it in the bed on the side where Isabelle always slept. Then he put the shallots and garlic into the frying pan with a little more duck fat and a cup of Arborio rice and began to stir, waiting for the grains to turn translucent and then just slightly brown. He added the mushrooms and a little of the wine, stirring until the rice had absorbed the liquid, and then did the same with the duck stock. He gave it a little more time, tasting until the rice had just the hint of crunch to it. Once satisfied, he served it onto two warmed plates and returned to Isabelle and the fire.
She seemed to be dozing but she stirred as he put another log on the fire, took her plate and began to eat, making purring noises of approval. After a moment, she asked him, ‘Can Balzac eat this?’ and he nodded and brought her a spoon. She offered a small amount of rice to the puppy, who took it with evident pleasure.
‘I made a little extra just for him,’ Bruno said. ‘Not the mushrooms, just the rice. Let me bring his bowl so he gets used to it.’
He went to his utility room, where he kept his washing machine, his freezer and his shotgun, with the cupboard where he locked his ammunition away. From the top of the cupboard he took down Gigi’s old bowls, which he had placed there so mournfully on the day his dog had been killed. It had also been the last time he had seen Isabelle. He washed them quickly in the kitchen sink, filled one with water and the other with the rest of the risotto and took them back to the fire.
‘I’m warm now and sleepy,’ said Isabelle as they sipped their wine and watched the dog eat. When Balzac was done, Bruno put him in the kitchen with Gigi’s old cushion and some newspapers on the floor, and then led Isabelle to bed.
‘I only have my very romantic nightgown with me,’ she said, as she headed for the bathroom. ‘Somehow I don’t think I can live up to its promise tonight.’
‘Try this.’ He handed her one of his rugby shirts, which he used instead of pyjamas on cold nights.
‘Perfect,’ she said and disappeared. Returning, her face was free of all make-up and she smelled of toothpaste. His rugby shirt hung down below her knees.
‘A hot-water bottle, how wonderful,’ she said as she slipped between the sheets. Her voice was small and tired. When he joined her, she curled into him and drifted quickly to sleep and he listened to her breathing and wondered at the power of an intimacy that seemed all the stronger for the absence of the erotic surge he usually felt in her presence.
20
Bruno was woken by the sound of an old and asthmatic motorbike coming up the lane. He felt the heat coming from Isabelle’s side of the bed, stretched out a hand and felt the material of his rugby shirt, soaked with her sweat. He checked his watch: it was just before seven, about the time he should rise, since it was a market day in St Denis. He rinsed his hands and face, slipped on a tracksuit and trainers and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on to boil. Balzac had evidently had fun with the newspaper he had put down, tearing it into shreds, and the puppy gazed proudly up from the wreckage at his new master. Bruno let him out of the front door and Balzac went to the nearest tree and urinated at great length. He seemed to be becoming house-trained already. Bruno shivered in the morning air. The mist was so thick that all he could see of the approaching bike was a dim headlamp growing stronger. He strode down to the corner where the lane turned into his property to ask the driver to turn off his engine before it woke Isabelle.
‘I’ve found her,’ came a half-familiar voice as the bike drew to a halt. ‘Now you’ve got to get her back.’
The helmet came off and Bruno recognized Louis Junot, unshaven and looking as though he’d spent the night in a ditch. He seemed sober and there was no smell of drink on him.
‘It’s a bit early for a social call, Louis, and I’ve got to get to the market.’
‘It’s not a social call, it’s about getting Francette back,’ Junot insisted. ‘I know where she is. It’s just up the road, that fancy new hotel at St Philippon, the one with the helicopters.’
‘Did you speak to her?’
Junot shook his head. ‘It was just something I found in her waste-paper basket, in her room. It was bundled up with wrapping paper from some gift, a card that said “See you in St Philippon.” So I went there last night and there she was, all dolled up like a ten-franc rabbit …’
‘She’s eighteen, Louis. She can do as she pleases.’
‘I’ve got to talk to her, Bruno, tell her it’s going to be different now. I haven’t touched a drop since you came to the farm, honest. Brigitte will tell you the same.’
‘Louis, it’s market day and I have to get to town. Meet me by the Mairie just after noon and we’ll go there and see if she’s prepared to talk to you. And now I’ve got to go. You need to get some sleep.’
Junot’s mouth worked as if he were holding something back, tears or rage or just plain frustration.
‘Go on home, Louis,’ Bruno said kindly. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Bruno watched him go for a moment and then went back inside to make coffee. As it brewed, he peeped into the bedroom where Isabelle was still asleep. He fed and watered his chickens and put out for Balzac some of Gigi’s left-over dog food that he’d never had the heart to throw away. He showered and dressed and left a note for Isabelle. He put out a fresh rugby shirt for her and clean sheets and headed into town.
The Saturday market in St Denis was a modest affair, a fraction of the size of the big market on Tuesday. But on this Saturday before Easter it overflowed the arches beneath the Mairie and the town square and extended another fifty metres up the main street. The customers weren’t buying so much as ordering their lambs and capons and whole fish for the following weekend.
The clothing stalls were doing good business as the farmers bought new shirts for the Easter feast. Busiest of all were the stalls selling seedlings of lettuces, courgettes and aubergines. It reminded Bruno that he’d better dig over his potager this weekend and get his summer vegetables started. His seedlings had been growing in his greenhouse for the past three weeks and it was time to transplant them.
After his first tour of the market, Bruno went back to Alphonse’s stall and asked when he expected the widow who sold goats. About noon, he was told, and Alphonse gestured to a large cool box beneath his stall. Two long horns prevented it from closing fully.
‘The head’s in there, on as much ice as I could find,’ he said. ‘The last thing I want is the smell of dead goat turning away my customers.’
Bruno went on to Fauquet’s for his usual coffee and croissant and a quick glance at the newspapers. He was relieved to find St Denis relegated to an inside page with a photograph of long lines of tourists outside the cave’s ticket office and a headline saying Satan hauls them in at St Denis.
‘Yesterday was my best day since last August and today looks to be even better,’ said Fauquet as Bruno shook hands with the men at the bar. ‘If it goes on like this, I reckon Satan can sign me up as a believer.’
‘It’ll calm down next week when the media moves on to something else,’ Bruno said.
He took the Baron by the arm and led him outside to the balustrade of the terrace overlooking the river. It was a fine spring day, the sun’s warmth softened by some high, thin cloud, and whole columns of new ducklings paddled after their mothers like battle fleets in the age of sail. Despite the early hour, the traffic on the bridge was already building, presumably more tourists for the Gouffre. A new sign caught his eye at the roundabout, a large arrow and the words To The Devil’s Cave. He sighed. There were rules about road signs. He’d have to pull it down, but maybe he could wait until someone complained.
‘You know I talked to the boys about that stunt you pulled with Marcel and Delaron,’ Bruno said.
‘Yes, and I know somebody else got there before us.’
‘Leave that to one side. I hope you haven’t made any enemies among the Procureurs, because I can just see someone putting together a charge of intent to profit from deception. If that Count Vexin wants to screw you over the sale of the cave you’ve given him the perfect opportunity.’
The Baron laughed. ‘Vexin was in it from the beginning. I was holding out for more money, saying a go-ahead type like him could push the marketing and bring in a lot more visitors. It was that day when the story about the dead woman was in the paper and he suggested we try to give the story an extra push. It certainly worked – and he agreed to my higher price, so everyone’s happy.’
‘So we’re going to get this Satanist crap regularly from now on, is that what you want?’ asked Bruno. ‘There comes a point when the Mayor’s right, this can easily go too far. How long before we start to get a reputation as the Devil’s town?’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
‘Let’s hope so. But in the meantime, I need to find out who went into the cave before the kids. Could it have been Vexin?’
‘I doubt it,’ the Baron scoffed. ‘He’s from Paris. He wouldn’t have the local connections to know about it.’
‘Don’t be too sure. That other chap you were having lunch with, Foucher, he’s living at the Red Countess’s château. She told me he’s the estate manager, so he could know about it. And I’m told he’s some kind of partner in Vexin’s scheme.’
‘Maybe it was Vexin and his people. But why are you making a fuss?’
‘Because they must have come in through your secret tunnel,’ said Bruno. ‘I’ve explored it myself and now I know it’s a natural watercourse, not man-made, so I’m wondering how many other ways in or out of the Gouffre there could be.’
‘How should I know? I explored it all as a kid and there were some side passages, but none of the ones I found led anywhere, at least not to anywhere I could penetrate. But it’s a big place. You’d need a professional team to really explore it.’
‘There’s no shortage of caving clubs round here. Did you ever think about inviting one of them to take a look?’
The Baron shrugged, but looked uncomfortable. ‘I remembered what my father said, what I told you back in the cave. It’s for us locals. Who knows when we might need it?’
Bruno shook his head firmly. ‘That’s the problem, Baron. It’s not just for us any more, now you’re selling the cave to Vexin. He’s just the guy to open it all up to maximize his investment. Pay to see the Devil’s Cave and then for a little extra fee you can explore the secret tunnel where the Resistance hid their guns. Is that what you want? Or what your father would have wanted?’
‘Putain, tu me casses les couilles,’ the Baron said aggressively. ‘Leave him out of this. Why don’t you concentrate on finding out who went in before the kids?’
The Baron turned on his heel and strode away. Bruno had never quarrelled with him before. He wondered whether the Baron’s interest in Béatrice might explain his cooperation with Vexin. It had been on the tip of his tongue to refer to the Baron’s visit to Béatrice’s auberge, but now he was glad he hadn’t.
‘Hey, Bruno,’ Julien called from the knot of men leaving the café and heading for the entrance to the Mairie. ‘The Mayor’s called a meeting and Father Sentout’s with him. It looks like he’s going to give us the OK for the exorcism.’
Back in Fauquet’s café, the reporter from Paris-Match was still sitting at the same corner table. He’d finished Le Figaro and Le Monde and was now on the financial stories in Les Echos.
‘Bonjour, Gilles. How goes your inquiry into the dead woman?’ Bruno asked, taking a seat opposite the journalist.
‘I’m pretty sure I know who she is. I should get confirmation later today.’ Gilles looked pleased with himself. ‘Hollywood is nine hours behind us, so sometime this evening.’
‘Hollywood?’ Bruno had not expected that. ‘I have a showbiz story for you. I’ve just come from a meeting with the Mayor and Father Sentout. There’ll be a service of exorcism in the cave on Monday morning at ten, and outside those of us who were in the room, you’re the first to know.’
‘Is it open to the public and will media be there?’ Gilles pulled out a computer notebook and started to log on.
‘Yes and yes,’ Bruno replied. ‘How do you get your little scoop out?’
‘Twitter first, then the website.’
‘And now tell me about Hollywood.’
‘Give me a minute here,’ Gilles said, tapping away on his tiny keyboard. ‘Get yourself some coffee. Are you free for lunch?’
Bruno shook his head and thought of his promise to Junot. ‘Duty calls,’ he said. Gilles was still tapping at his computer when Bruno got back with his coffee, and at the same time talking into a tiny microphone attached to a stylish earpiece. He made some decisive clicks, closed his notebook, removed the earpiece and beckoned to Bruno to join him.
‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you the name so you can start your own checks, but on condition that nobody else gets it before I break the story. I’ll tell you when that’ll be, probably this evening. OK?’
Bruno agreed.
‘Then come and sit beside me, watch the screen and put the earpiece in,’ Gilles said, shuffling sideways on the bench to make room as he loaded a video program.
‘Is this her?’ he asked.
An attractive blonde, naked from the waist up, appeared on the screen. Her eyes were closed and she was making grunting noises and rocking up and down. Two male hands came from beneath her and began to massage her breasts. She opened her eyes and stared hungrily into the camera, took one of the hands from her breast and lifted it to her mouth and began to suck on the fingers.
‘Mon Dieu,’ said Bruno. ‘It’s her, and it’s a porn film.’
‘Soft porn, 1990s vintage. No pubic hair, no genitals, no penetration. Very tame stuff. Her nam
e on the credits is Athénaïs de Bourbon, which I think we can assume is a stage name. Here she is again.’
He loaded another video. This time Bruno heard American accents speaking fast. On the screen appeared a suburban living room where three expensively dressed women were sitting at a coffee table drinking what looked like martinis. One of them was the woman in the porno film.
‘She had a bit part in a soap opera which was pretty big back in its day, using the same stage name. She played a French teacher. I assume that job fell through and she started doing soft porn to pay the bills.’
Gilles brought back the porn film and froze it on a frame where the woman looked relatively normal, her eyes open and her mouth closed. He juggled with the mouse, blacked out the breasts and turned the frame into a close-up showing only the face. Bruno started at her, fascinated.
‘I tracked down her agent but the guy who dealt with her is dead. I spoke to a colleague who said none of them had seen her in years. But he’s going into his office this morning California time to check his files and try to find the real name that was on her work permit.’
‘Whatever they have, a work permit or a resident’s green card, it should have a fingerprint. Get them to fax it over to me at this number.’ Bruno handed over his card. ‘If they have a record of her dentist, we’ll need her dental records for full confirmation.’
21
In Bruno’s van, Junot could not sit still. He gnawed at his fingernails and asked endless questions, demanding reassurances. Sometimes his feet drummed, or was he pretending to drive, echoing Bruno’s moves with clutch and brake? Bruno indulged him, let him ramble on, occasionally tossing in replies as a distracted owner might throw sticks for a dog kept too long indoors. Yes, the auberge seemed a very pleasant place. Certainly there was a good future in hotel work. Indeed, it could be a worthwhile career. And yes, in Bruno’s experience they usually came home eventually; blood was thicker than water. But the dreams of a bored, unhappy child, Bruno thought, could be stronger than either.
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