The Resistance Man

by Martin Walker

  “What’s Paul’s e-mail address?” Bruno asked quickly. He wrote it down, hung up and checked his watch. School had started, so rather than calling Florence he sent her an e-mail, asking if she could track any activity on Paul’s account at orange.fr.

  He felt he was making progress, slowly. An image of Paul was beginning to build in his head. There was the photograph, that cheeky smile with its flash of intelligence. There was his relationship with his grandfather and their shared obsession about the Neuvic train, his fondness for serious films and his relationship with his sister. How often did siblings in their twenties go on vacation together? But there was so much yet to learn, so much of the image that was fuzzy or blank. What of the connection to Fullerton? Was it business or pleasure or both? And what would Paul have done with a van stuffed with Fullerton’s antiques? If he and his sister were looking for a camper, they’d need somewhere to store Paul’s van with the furniture. The old family farm had been sold. But perhaps Paul knew of an abandoned barn up in the hills, which would only be a temporary solution.

  There was a knock on his office door, and a tall, thin man with sloping shoulders and a mournful expression entered the room carrying a black briefcase. He shook hands as he introduced himself.

  “Bernard Ardouin, juge d’instruction. We have a mutual friend in Annette, who says I have to be sure to listen to you.”

  An interesting start, thought Bruno, and unusual. Under French law since Napoléon’s day, a magistrate appointed to be juge d’instruction in a case had almost unlimited control of the investigation. He could interview witnesses and review evidence, define the lines of inquiry the police should pursue, authorize arrests and prosecutions. Finally, he or she would present the case to a court. The job of a French juge d’instruction was to discover the full truth—unlike the adversarial system in Anglo-Saxon countries, where a prosecuting lawyer and a defense lawyer fought a case to win a verdict of guilty or not guilty—and he had broad powers to do so. That was why the French novelist Balzac had described such a figure as “the most powerful man in the world.”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’ll do what I can to help,” said Bruno. “Do you want to chat here in the office or go down to the café?”

  “Let’s start here. Cafés tend to be full of people, listening for gossip. All I have so far is the certificate of death and a preliminary pathologist’s report that says death was inflicted by a succession of heavy blows causing multiple fractures to the skull and facial bones. It also says that the victim was HIV positive and taking the usual drugs to keep the disease at bay.”

  Ardouin removed a thin file from his briefcase and reviewed the facts. The victim was a foreigner, Francis Fullerton, age thirty-six, a British citizen and antiques dealer. The body was discovered by Yves Valentoux, thirty-five, of Paris, a French citizen with whom the deceased was in a homosexual relationship. He looked up.

  “I interviewed Valentoux yesterday and was satisfied that he could be released. I understand it was you who worked out his movements through the garage and péage receipts. The Police Nationale tell me they are looking for a possible suspect, Paul Murcoing. Can you take me through that from the beginning?”

  Bruno described the steps he had taken, the visit to Dougal, the postman’s identification of the van, the sign maker and the warehouse at Belvès.

  “So the only evidence of his involvement is that this white van was seen by the postman approaching the gîte not long before Fullerton’s death,” Ardouin said. “Plus this Murcoing had been arrested on suspicion of dealing in stolen antiques and may also be homosexual.”

  “He’s disappeared, and so has his sister. She tried to rent a camper on the evening of Fullerton’s murder.”

  Ardouin looked up from scribbling notes on a pad and gave Bruno a look of amiable skepticism. “And he’s the only lead you’ve got,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “True,” said Bruno. “But if somebody goes to the effort of buying a fake sign for his van with a fake address, and he pays in cash, then it’s reasonable to assume he’s up to no good.”

  Ardouin nodded. “But not necessarily murder. He could have met Fullerton by agreement, loaded his van with Fullerton’s antiques and then left him alive and well. Then someone else could have come along and killed him.”

  “I agree,” said Bruno. “Even so, he’s someone we very much need to interview. He was close to his grandfather who died three days ago and is due to have a full Resistance funeral. If he misses that, he’s on the run. Did the police send you the photographs of the furniture stolen from the other Englishman’s house and the list of wine that was taken?”

  “No, what other Englishman?”

  Bruno pushed across the desk a copy of Sud Ouest. “He’s a very influential Englishman who has a team from the minister of the interior’s office babysitting his property with their own forensics people looking for any trace that Murcoing had been there.”

  “Could be coincidence.”

  Ardouin’s tone was matter-of-fact, rather than negative. Bruno got the impression of a solid, painstaking magistrate who would steadily let the evidence build while remaining wary of hunches and theories. There were not many magistrates of this type. Many of them justified the usual police grumble that they were left wing, feminist and Green. On balance Bruno had concluded that this was reasonable. The law leaned to the side of property and authority; and it was no bad thing for some magistrates to tend a little in the other direction. In any event, he’d much rather deal with a juge d’instruction like the lugubrious but dependable Ardouin than with someone more flamboyant.

  “Yes, but when we have so few other leads, coincidences are worth exploring,” Bruno said. “I’ve also contacted people in the local gay community to see what’s known of Murcoing, his usual associates, friends with whom he might be able to stay, that sort of thing. And we’ve circulated photos of the stolen furniture, in case some of it surfaces.”

  “What do you plan to do next?”

  “I’m going to start looking into the brocantes, try to find people who might have known Fullerton and Murcoing. You probably heard from J-J that the Police Nationale have asked the British for any information they may have about the victim. His brother is arriving later today to make funeral arrangements, and he may be able to tell me more about Fullerton that might help us. Apart from keeping up the search for Murcoing, I’m not sure what else I can do.”

  “The Police Nationale tell me you’ve been seconded to the ministry to focus on the burglary of this Englishman. Will that leave you any time to help me?”

  “If I’m right in suspecting the cases are connected, I’ll be working for you while working for them.”

  “Very well, but please keep me informed. An e-mail each evening or a phone call will do.” Ardouin gave Bruno an unexpected smile, a warm and genuine expression that lit up his usually mournful face. “And since it’s a warm morning, let me buy you a beer in that café you mentioned.”

  12

  Brian Fullerton had the look of a boxer going to seed and carried himself like a military man. He had big hands with a gold wedding ring, an amiable face with a broken nose and big ears. His gray hair needed cutting. He wore a blazer with an unidentifiable club badge on the breast pocket, the bowl of a pipe poking from it, and well-polished brogue shoes. Judging from Francis Fullerton’s passport photograph, he would never have guessed the two men were brothers. Bruno estimated Brian to be in his mid-forties, about ten years older.

  “My condolences on your loss,” Bruno began, glancing at his watch. “You made very good time from Bordeaux.” He hadn’t expected the man until much later in the afternoon.

  “I canceled the booking the consulate had made for me and took the Ryanair flight to Bergerac instead,” said Brian, in excellent French. “It seemed a lot closer. Here’s my passport, just to confirm I’m the brother you’re expecting. I haven’t checked in to the hotel yet, it seemed a bit early. They’d booked me into Les Glycines
in Les Eyzies, but that’s too pricey for me so I looked on the Internet and found a place in town, the Hôtel St. Denis. It looked cheap but reasonably comfortable.”

  “I think you’ll be fine there. I’m surprised how good your French is.”

  “My mother is French, met my father when she came to work for some neighbors in England as an au pair in the early sixties. Where’s my brother’s body?”

  “At the morgue in Bergerac. The autopsy should be finished by this evening. It will then be up to the magistrate whether the body can be released for burial. He was a bit worried about identification. Now that you’re here, we can probably confirm that through your DNA. I’m afraid the head was too badly damaged to be recognizable.”

  Fullerton frowned. “That sounds bad.”

  “It was an extremely brutal killing, and we’re determined to find the murderer. Were you and your brother close?” Bruno pulled out his notebook and began writing.

  “Not really. Francis was eleven years younger and we led very different lives. But we tried to spend the usual family times like Christmas and the occasional vacation together so he could get to know my children. I’m a civil servant, married with a family, kind of conventional. Francis was the complete opposite.”

  “You mean that he was homosexual?”

  “Ah, you know. It took our parents some time to adjust. We’re an old-fashioned family.” He went on to explain that Francis had never really settled down, perhaps had never really grown up. He’d been intelligent and managed to get a degree even though he dropped out of university for a while, but he kept getting into trouble with drugs and debts. “When Francis went to prison it broke my mother’s heart. He was her favorite, the last baby, born long after my sister and me, and he always had this angelic look as a child.” Fullerton frowned again. “I suppose I have to get used to referring to him in the past tense.”

  “We didn’t know he’d been in prison,” said Bruno, not altogether surprised. “We asked the British police if anything was known about him, but these inquiries take time. Why was he sent to prison?”

  “Receiving stolen goods,” said Brian. After some wild years in London and then in America, Francis had settled down with a steady partner, Sam Berenson, an older man, in the antiques business in a part of Brighton called The Lanes, full of antiques shops. Francis claimed he’d been the fall guy when the police found a haul of stolen silver at their shop, according to Brian. One of the burglars had turned queen’s evidence, and since Francis refused to testify against his partner, he was sentenced to three years and was out in two.

  “But he stayed in the business?”

  “Berenson died of AIDS while Francis was in prison, and he left Francis everything: a house in Brighton, the shop and all the stock.” Fullerton shook his head ruefully. “Almost worth it for two years inside, that’s what my wife says.”

  “Did he specialize in silver?”

  “No. The shop specialized in antique furniture, rugs and paintings. Anyway, Francis sold everything at the top of the market, just before the recession. He made a lot of money and then started his new business. He began going back and forth to France, selling British stuff over here and then buying French furniture to sell in Britain. He seemed to be doing very well out of it. He drove a Porsche, bought a house in Chelsea when the prices dropped. He always had a good eye for a bargain.”

  “How often did he come to France?”

  “At least once a month. He had a big warehouse outside Brighton where he kept his stock. And he went back to the States a few times, using his old contacts in Los Angeles. Then he started exporting English antiques over there.”

  “Do you know if Francis made a will?”

  “Yes, I checked with his lawyer before coming over here. Everything goes to me and my sister to be kept in trust for our children. I’ve got a letter from the lawyer saying I’m the executor. I made some copies. Here’s one for you.” He pulled a file from his briefcase and handed Bruno the letter.

  “I suspect his dying in France may complicate the inheritance. You may want to consult a lawyer.”

  “I already have. He told me Francis’s British property will be covered by the will, but the French property has to be different.”

  “What French property?”

  “He had an old farm in the Corrèze, very picturesque but too remote for me and the children. We visited a couple of times as a family, and then I came down again last year with him, just the two of us. He bought the place when he sold the shop. That’s why I was surprised to hear that he died here at a gîte he was renting. That seems strange when he had a place of his own.”

  “Does it have barns?” Bruno asked. “Could he have used it as a warehouse?”

  “Yes, that’s why he got it. It was cheap, of course, but with the new autoroute he could easily visit the various brocantes and estate sales from Bordeaux to Lyon.”

  “I think we’d better take a look at the place. Where is it exactly?”

  “Just south of Ussel, about twenty minutes off the autoroute. I need to go there myself to see his notaire and work out the details of the inheritance. Is there anything more you need me to do?”

  “If you know what you want to do with your brother’s remains, I can introduce you to the local undertaker. But first I have to talk to the juge d’instruction. I think he’ll want you to give a DNA sample, just to confirm the identification, and I’m sure he’ll need to interview you. Let me see if he’s still in St. Denis.”

  Bruno called Ardouin, who was still at the St. Denis gendarmerie, gave him a quick summary of what he’d learned from Brian Fullerton and arranged to escort him there. On the way back to his office, he stopped at Father Sentout’s house to check on the details for Murcoing’s funeral and called in at Delightful Dordogne to see if Dougal had heard from Yvonne Murcoing. Not a word, he said, and he was about to clear out her room at the staff house to make way for a replacement. As Bruno was leaving, he met Philippe Delaron coming in to pick up a list of new rental addresses to be photographed for Dougal’s website.

  “When’s the English spy coming back to his house?” Philippe asked. He was wearing a new leather jacket that looked expensive. His sideline in news photos was evidently paying better than the family camera shop. “I’ll need to take a photo. Gaëlle says she thinks he gets back tomorrow.”

  “In that case, she’s heard more than I have.”

  “Why have they got gendarmes guarding the house?”

  “Ask the gendarmes.”

  “Come on, Bruno, be a sport. You can tell me.”

  “The procureur has appointed a juge d’instruction for the murder inquiry, and the victim’s brother just arrived from England,” Bruno said, trotting down the steps. At the last step, he stopped and looked back. “Have you had a request from the Police Nationale to publish a photo of anyone they want to find urgently?”

  “You mean a suspect? Not that I’ve heard. Give me a minute.” Philippe thumbed an autodial number on his phone, fired off a quick question and then shook his head. “Not so far.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Bruno. As he walked back down the rue Gambetta, he called J-J, who told him the press office was soon going to release Murcoing’s mug shot from his earlier arrest.

  “What if I let Sud Ouest have the more recent photo from the surveillance camera? They’ll give it more prominence if they think it’s their story rather than a routine police request.”

  “Go ahead. But don’t get quoted saying this guy’s a suspect. Let them take the responsibility for that and we’ll give a ‘No comment.’”

  Bruno passed on what he’d learned from Brian Fullerton and said he planned to drive out with Fullerton to the Corrèze farm as soon as he’d finished with the juge d’instruction. Back in his office, he texted Delaron to come see him, prepared another copy of Murcoing’s surveillance photo for the paper and began printing out the pictures of Crimson’s rugs, paintings and furniture that had been given to Crimson’s insuran
ce agent. He was looking up the phone number of the police municipale in Ussel when Delaron appeared. Bruno handed him a copy of Murcoing’s photo.

  “This didn’t come from me, understood? And I’m not saying he’s a murder suspect, just that the police urgently want to interview him. I think the Police Nationale will be issuing his mug shot later today. He’s Paul Murcoing, lives in Bergerac, makes a living as a driver—and his grandfather is getting a full-scale Resistance funeral here in St. Denis next week. That’s it.”

  “Thanks, Bruno. Where was this taken? Looks like a print from a surveillance tape.”

  “I’m not saying, Philippe. Bon courage. By the way, there’s something you can do for me in return.” Bruno pulled out the photos of Loïc Murcoing as a young man in his Resistance unit and handed them to Delaron. “I’d like these blown up as large as you can make them. It’s for his funeral. I’d like to put them by the coffin in the church.”

  Once Delaron had left, Bruno called Gilles at Paris Match to say he’d always be welcome in St. Denis, but he wasn’t sure how much of a story there would be in a burglary.

  “I see you’ve got a murder on your hands as well, the victim being another Brit. Any connection?”

  “The victim is half French, and it’s not clear yet if there’s any connection. Look, Gilles, this is not an affair where I can give you much help. A juge d’instruction has been brought in, and I’ll be in real trouble if I start feeding you stuff. Crimson isn’t even back here yet.”

  “I was talking to one of the British reporters here in Paris. He said Crimson will get there tomorrow, and he and some others are heading down to St. Denis. I’ll be arriving earlier. I’m booked into the Vieux Logis from tonight. I’ll be in that café of yours by eight tomorrow morning.”

  “The Vieux Logis? I didn’t know Paris Match was making that much money these days.”

  “Let’s just say I have a hunch about this story. See you tomorrow.”