The Resistance Man

by Martin Walker

  “No.”

  “Did you know that we had put out public statements in the press and on TV saying we wanted urgently to interview him?”

  Édouard paused and then nodded his head.

  “And you want to tell me that that important little detail never came up in your business chats?”

  “I told him that he should go to a police station and offer to help you all he could. I cannot believe he’s a murderer, least of all that he killed Francis. They were very close.”

  “So you knew how to get in touch with him but decided against doing your duty as a law-abiding citizen and informing the police. You’re in big trouble, Édouard.”

  “I didn’t know where he was. He said he was moving around.”

  “I’m getting bored with this,” J-J said, turning to Bruno. “Let’s take him back to the station, charge him with obstruction of justice and conspiracy. We’ll get around to the murder later. Get the handcuffs from the car and let the press office know we can offer everybody a nice picture of Édouard here being led out of his fancy house in chains.”

  “No need to rush things,” Bruno said, and turned to Édouard, who was now looking alarmed. Bruno let the silence build as J-J thumbed through the phone records.

  “What did Paul use for money?” Bruno finally asked. “Did you give him any?”

  “No, I didn’t see him. I don’t know what Paul did for money.” Édouard was sweating and his immaculate T-shirt was starting to look rumpled at the neck.

  Bruno knew the signs. Soon there would be a little act of resistance, a token defiance to retain some shred of self-respect. Then Édouard would break and start to treat J-J as some father confessor whose approval he could win by telling him everything he knew.

  “What company records do you keep here?” Bruno asked.

  “Your art squad colleagues went through all the records.” There it was, the moment of defiance. Now J-J would move in for the kill.

  “No, they didn’t,” said J-J. “They didn’t put a freeze on your bank accounts and company credit cards, which is what I’m about to do. I want all checkbooks, statements and credit cards.”

  Josette came thumping downstairs carrying an expensive-looking weekend bag. She put it on the steel cube and began to pull out phones, an iPad and laptop. Édouard put a hand to his mouth and stared in disbelief at this lawful rifling of his life, as if finally understanding the sweeping investigative powers of the police backed with a signed order from a juge d’instruction.

  “This one’s a disposable,” Josette said, holding up a cheap handset. “It was by the bed. Its memory goes back as far as the day after the murder, and all the calls in and out are with the same number, that other disposable on the list. I bet it’s Murcoing’s.”

  “Putain, you really are in trouble,” said J-J. He pulled a notepad from his briefcase and began copying down the times and dates of the various phone calls. “You’ve been in touch with him never less than twice a day. So where is Murcoing now?”

  “I don’t know, he never tells me. I really tried to persuade him to give himself up. He gets this way sometimes, single-minded, determined…” Édouard’s shoulders heaved as if he were about to be sick, but instead he gave a sound that was half cough and half sob.

  “Has he been here, to this house?”

  “Not lately, not since all this began.” Édouard was wiping a handkerchief at his mouth, his brow, his neck.

  “Do you know how much money he’s withdrawn on the company’s English credit card?” Bruno asked. “We know about that.”

  Édouard swallowed and nodded. “I checked online this morning; it’s just over three thousand euros.”

  “Maybe we won’t freeze it just yet,” said J-J. “If he tries to get more out and finds it’s frozen, he’ll suspect we’ve got Édouard. We’ll keep the phone line going as well, so long as Édouard can only answer in our presence and we tell him what to say.”

  He told Josette to set up a tracing system on the phone, then asked Édouard for the code required to open his iPad. Édouard shook his head and remained silent.

  J-J sighed and pulled out the attestation from the juge d’instruction and handed it to him. “See that, where it says electronic records? You’ve got no choice, Édouard. The law says so.”

  When Édouard stayed silent, J-J shrugged and said, “Give me your ID card.”

  Édouard took out his wallet and handed the ID card to him. J-J put it beside the iPad and said conversationally: “Over seventy percent of people use four-digit codes for their PIN numbers that are taken from their birth date. Let’s try that.”

  He tapped four numbers, but nothing happened. He tried another combination, and the screen opened. Édouard stared at him as if witnessing some magical trick and then shook his head. He looked at J-J scrolling through various icons on the screen and seemed to reach a decision. Another little act of defiance, thought Bruno, another confession now due to come.

  “He said he keeps his phone turned off except when he calls me every day at eight in the morning and eight in the evening,” Édouard burst out. “You can see that from the dialing logs.”

  “And do you have any little code between friends to say that all is well and the stupid police haven’t yet caught on?” J-J asked.

  Édouard began to babble, as if he could not wait to tell them everything that he knew or suspected. But Bruno noted that everything he said was about Paul, not a word about himself, about Arch-Inter or even about Francis Fullerton. Maybe Édouard was made of sterner stuff, after all, giving up whatever he thought the police wanted to know. But perhaps there were other secrets still unspoken and still protected behind this flood of confession. Maybe it was time to push Édouard a bit harder.

  Bruno waited until Édouard stopped talking and then spoke thoughtfully, as though thinking aloud. “Why don’t we get the art squad back in here to have another crack at him? They’ll be really angry that they missed all this so they’ll drop the kid gloves this time. We’ve got enough to hold him so we might as well let them have some credit.”

  “I think we can bring in more than just the art squad,” said J-J, swiveling the iPad so Bruno could see the images of naked boys on the screen. “This looks like a different kind of art to me. I’m disappointed in you, Édouard, I didn’t expect this. Tell me, Bruno, how old do you think these kids are? These two are underage, I’ll bet. Josette, who runs the pedophile squad in Bordeaux these days? Is it still that old brute Pontin?”

  “It’s still him, chef, the last I heard.” She rose and turned to look at the images. “Definitely underage, I’d say.”

  “Inspector Pontin’s a legend in this business,” J-J said conversationally, scrolling through more photos. “You’re going to have a very interesting time with him, Édouard. This kid can’t be more than thirteen. Pontin won’t like these pictures at all. And you a professor at the university. Well, I think we can say your teaching career’s over. And do you have any idea what happens to pedophiles in prison?”

  Édouard had drawn up his legs and shrunk into a crouch on the chaise longue, his hands over his face.

  “Last chance, Édouard,” said Bruno. “Maybe there’s some more help you can give us on finding Paul.”

  27

  Bruno was outside the Moulin bakery when it opened at seven. In his Land Rover was a thermos with fresh coffee, in the cooler a half-bottle of champagne, some fresh-squeezed orange juice, butter and his own homemade black-currant jam. He bought three croissants, three pains au chocolat and a baguette, all still hot from the oven, handed them to Fabiola in the passenger seat and drove to the Sarlat hospital to give Pamela a special breakfast before taking her home.

  It had been the mayor’s idea. When Bruno had called him late the previous afternoon from Bordeaux to say he was driving back to Périgueux with J-J and Édouard, their prisoner, the mayor insisted on driving to Périgueux to bring him home. When Fabiola had called Bruno’s mobile to say they could bring Pamela home the next
day, the mayor had insisted that Bruno leave the town to police itself until Pamela was safely installed back in St. Denis.

  The mayor took him to Jacqueline’s for supper and they found her on the phone, being interviewed by France Inter on her article in Le Monde.

  “Just before the two of you arrived, I had a difficult call from Paris,” Jacqueline said when she put down the phone. “It came from the minister of the interior, a deeply unpleasant man with whom I was foolish enough to have a fling some years ago. He asked if I was seeking to destroy his career.”

  “I don’t see the connection,” the mayor said, looking confused.

  “Our affair was not exactly secret, although he was married at the time. I’d met some of his political colleagues at dinner parties and receptions, you know how it is in Paris. And of course when they saw my name on the piece in Le Monde they assumed that he was somehow behind it and began wondering about his motives. He must have had some angry phone calls as a result, and that’s why he called me.”

  “You must have seen that coming,” said the mayor.

  “Of course I did, which was an excellent reason for publishing the article. He was a charmer, of course, and very good-looking, but I found that I couldn’t stand his utter pomposity, which is why I ended the liaison. His subsequent political career has plunged him even further down in my estimation. He was a bully in private, and he’s been a bully as minister. The man’s a disgrace. I won’t be at all embarrassed if this becomes public so long as it ends his political career.”

  Bruno exchanged looks with the mayor and felt himself grinning. “You have been warned,” he said.

  The mayor looked fondly at Jacqueline and said, “I’ll take my chances.”

  After the meal, the mayor drove Bruno back to St. Denis, where Bruno’s car was parked.

  “I don’t sleep there, you know,” the mayor said as they set out. “It wouldn’t feel right, certainly until Cécile’s funeral is over.”

  “And perhaps the election,” Bruno replied, thinking of the impact on the voters of the mayor starting an affair when his wife had just died.

  “Perhaps. But when you get to my age, Bruno, and you find yourself fascinated by a woman and feeling like a youngster again, that’s not something you can afford to ignore. I’d rather be with Jacqueline than get reelected. To be in love again is like a gift.”

  “It always is, at any age.” Bruno felt the mayor take his eyes briefly from the road to glance at him as if about to speak and was relieved when he didn’t. He didn’t want any conversation about Isabelle.

  “I spoke to Monsieur Crimson today about this trap you are setting for Murcoing,” the mayor said after a silence. “Are you planning on going yourself?”

  “Yes, to try and talk him into giving himself up.”

  “You’ll be armed?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Are you mad? He’s killed already, and now he has these guns.”

  “If he sees I’m armed, he’ll be tempted to shoot. If he knows I’m unarmed, we have a chance to settle this peacefully. We are all assuming that Paul killed Fullerton in a crime passionnel, but from what I’ve learned about him, I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.”

  “But it’s an insane risk to take, Bruno. I can’t allow it.”

  “You’d rather Crimson went instead?”

  “No, of course not. Some hostage expert from the special gendarme unit, that’s who we need to send.”

  “Yes, but to send him where? And with what instructions? To shoot Murcoing like a dangerous dog? That would be illegal. Paul’s in charge of arranging a meeting place. He’ll set this up carefully, probably insist that he can inspect the documents he’s been promised before he shows himself. I’ve thought this through, and it’s the only way.”

  “What does J-J say?”

  “He began by objecting, but he came to see that it makes sense to do it this way. I’m not convinced that Paul did it, or that he acted alone, or that he’s so crazy that he’s staying on the run with no plan to get out of France and make a new life somewhere.”

  “You sound as though you know him.”

  “I don’t, but I know about his grandfather and his obsession with Neuvic. I’ve met his aunt Joséphine, and I was the one who organized the funeral for the old man. He was close to his grandfather, and he’ll have heard about that. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if he has given his aunt or his mother a disposable phone so they can stay in touch. A lot of planning has gone into this, which is why I think he must have an escape route planned. And then there’s his painting.”

  “What do you mean?” the mayor asked, as he pulled into the parking lot behind the St. Denis mairie alongside Bruno’s police van.

  “I bought a couple of his paintings from his aunt. They’re very good, landscapes. His portraits may be even better. There’s a sensibility…I don’t know how to put it, but I find it hard to equate Paul the artist with the brutal way Fullerton was killed.”

  “So how do you explain it?”

  “I don’t, I can’t.”

  The two men sat together in companionable silence, the engine still running. Finally the mayor spoke.

  “Give my regards to Pamela when you take her home from the hospital. And take my tip, make an occasion of it. Take her some flowers. Maybe you should take her some croissants.”

  “Thanks for the tip, and for the dinner and the ride,” said Bruno, climbing out of the car. “I’ll let you know how things develop. Sleep well.”

  “What a wonderful breakfast,” Pamela said as Bruno placed the tray on her lap, poured her a glass of champagne mixed with orange juice and kissed her on the forehead. Somehow she’d managed to fix her hair and face and look beautiful for their arrival. Fabiola had smuggled Balzac into the hospital in her bag and now held him back from leaping onto the bed. She allowed him to give Pamela a single token lick on the neck before putting him on the floor with his own chunk of baguette.

  “It’s a special occasion,” said Pamela. “I think he deserves a corner of my croissant.”

  “I’ll fit you with a bandage we call a figure eight. It will keep your collarbone in place,” Fabiola said, passing the treat down to Balzac. “You should still wear the sling most of the time because otherwise you’ll try to do too much with that arm. I’ll be there to help you dress until you get used to it.”

  “The doctor here said it would take at least six weeks for the bone to heal,” Pamela said. “And longer before I can ride again.”

  “He’s right,” said Fabiola. “I’d like you to wait three months.”

  “But that’s my peak season. If I can’t look after the guests I’ll lose my regular visitors.”

  “We’ve taken care of that,” said Bruno. “Florence has recruited two girls from her oldest class who’ll come and clean the gîtes and your house and change the bedding. They’ll also take care of the washing and ironing every Saturday morning for twenty euros a week each. And Yannick, who lives at the end of your road, will look after the garden for ten euros an hour.”

  “Thank you both, you’ve been marvelous. And thank you for arranging Bess. I’ll miss her, of course, but I’ve been looking on the Internet and there’s a jument for sale up near Limoges,” Pamela said. “She’s a selle français, Bruno, like your Hector, and I’m thinking about breeding her. It would be lovely to have some foals around the place.”

  “You can’t buy a horse till you’ve ridden it, and that’s a good three months away,” said Fabiola. “Now let’s get you packed up and dressed, and we’ll take you home. Bruno, you take the food and the suitcase and the dog down to the car, and I’ll help Pamela dress. I want to fit this new figure-eight strap. Then come back and get us.”

  He was delayed by a phone call from Yves, who apologized for calling so early, but he’d been having breakfast with Annette. He’d mentioned something about Paul Murcoing, and she had insisted he call Bruno at once. Bruno told him to go ahead.

  “When I
last spoke to you about him, it was after I’d talked to someone who evidently disliked him. Last night at one of the rehearsal dinners I spoke to somebody who liked him, or at least thought well of him. Apparently he’d met Paul when they were both volunteering at a hospice in Bergerac. He said he thought Paul was a kindly young man and found it hard to believe he’d killed anybody. That’s it, Bruno. If I hear any more, good or bad, I’ll let you know.”

  Bruno had just passed through Meyrals on the way back to Pamela’s when his phone rang again. Fabiola, who had dealt with too many car-crash victims to let a driver use a cell phone, took it from the pouch at his waist, accepted the call and held it to his ear.

  “It’s Crimson. It’s all gone wrong. I’ve just heard from Murcoing. He doesn’t want to meet me and says that instead I should get in touch with Gilles from Paris Match and let him have the new documents. He’s even sent Gilles’s e-mail address. What do we do now?”

  “Putain, let me think. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  Fabiola put the phone away. “Bad news?”

  “Our plan to smoke out Paul Murcoing just collapsed, and I don’t have another.”

  He explained the ploy that he, Crimson and Florence had developed and his intention to go to the rendezvous instead of Crimson to talk Paul into giving himself up.

  “Thank heavens that’s not going to happen,” said Pamela from the rear seat. “It’s a ridiculous risk for you to take. Why not just leave it to J-J and the rest of the police? They’re bound to pick him up eventually.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple,” said Bruno.

  “Didn’t I hear Gilles’s name being mentioned on the phone?” asked Fabiola, a note of concern in her voice. “How does he come into this?”

  “Gilles has been in touch with Paul, or rather Paul e-mailed Gilles after his piece appeared on the Paris Match website. Now Paul wants Crimson to give the documents to Gilles.”

  “These are the documents you faked?”

  “No, we only faked the title page of a file. The documents don’t actually exist, but Paul doesn’t know that.”