“How did she sound?” Bruno asked.
“Like herself, only a bit tense. We’ll have to leave at six-fifteen; it won’t be rush hour but it will still be busy. And we can’t take your police van, nor should you wear your uniform. Can you get your Land Rover?”
“No problem, I’ll be here at six.” He rose to go. “Thank you, Florence.”
“Remember, this has to be for Paulette to decide. Not you, not me, not the pope in Rome. She’s the one who matters here.”
Bruno had time to walk his dog and tend his geese and chickens before having a quick shower and changing into jeans, a clean shirt and his blazer. He reached for the phone to call Pamela to say he would not be able to exercise the horses that evening, but it rang the moment before he touched it.
“Mon Dieu,” he said on hearing her voice. “That’s a coincidence. I was about to pick up the phone to call you, to say I have to be in Périgueux so can’t come riding tonight.”
“That’s fine, no problem. Kathleen has been hoping to ride your Hector, but look, Bruno, this is an emergency. Jack Crimson has left for London, something urgent came up. That leaves me right in the lurch without a guide for tomorrow’s vineyard tour. Could you possibly help?”
“I’m not qualified and I don’t know all those English terms. What about Hubert from the cave? He speaks good English and is a real expert.”
“He’s at some wine fair in Düsseldorf.”
“There’s Julien at the town vineyard.”
“Not enough English. And I already tried Monique at the wine bar in town but she’s got a dentist’s appointment. Anyway, the arrangements are all made for the visits and you know all the vignerons. You even get to have lunch with the clients at the Tour des Vents at Monbazillac. If you’re too busy for lunch you can pick them up at the restaurant but you’d better be there by two o’clock. I’m taking them around Bergerac and the Monbazillac château in the morning, and we’ll taste some Monbazillac there as our aperitif. You have tastings arranged at Château Lestevenie, at Château de la Jaubertie and then ending with your own dear Château de Tiregand. It’s all set up. You simply have to give me three or four hours to help me out.”
“I’ll make it work somehow,” he said, knowing he couldn’t turn her down. “But you know, if a police emergency comes up…”
“Yes, but now that you’re in charge of the whole valley you have other policemen working for you and you can ask them to do it. I’m very grateful, dear Bruno. Let me know in the morning if you can join us for lunch, and if I know my Bruno, you’re not going to turn down the chance to eat at a place with a Michelin star. I’ll have the minibus with me and we can swap vehicles at the restaurant. You can take them all in the minibus and I’ll bring back your Land Rover.”
He agreed and then listened to the news headlines at six on the radio before driving to pick up Florence. They were still referring to the dead man as McBride and Monika as the wife of a wealthy English businessman. Inevitably they were reporting it as a crime passionnel, a tragic end to an illicit romance and the kind of story the French love. Bruno had already had a call from Gilles, who had been asked to file a report for his old employer, Paris Match.
Florence was looking lovely when he knocked on her door, in a blue dress that somehow lifted the color in her gray eyes, simple pearl earrings and a belt of dark blue leather that was studded with silver coins, matching a simple silver necklace. Usually he saw her in the bland suits or white lab coat she wore for teaching or wearing an apron over a pair of jeans. Dressed up, she looked like a different woman.
“You look terrific,” he said, before Dora and Daniel descended on him for a good night kiss. Muriel from one of his tennis classes was grinning at him from the door to the children’s bedroom. He and Florence extricated themselves and headed down to his Land Rover.
“What are you going to say?” he asked as he drove past Lespinasse’s garage on the road to Périgueux.
“It will depend on the mood she’s in, but at some point I’ll have to tell her that we know who the father is and we also know his own family circumstances. If she wants to go ahead and have the baby despite that, then I’ll say we will continue to support her as best we can. That’s probably the point at which I’ll ask you to join us, and you’d better have a cheerful story to tell her. We have to leave her persuaded that this isn’t the end of the world, that she can still go to university and pick up her sports career. And we’ll help her all the way.”
“Right,” said Bruno. “I can do that.”
They arrived at the wine bar a few minutes early. The tables outside were full, mainly with people smoking, and Florence said she’d prefer to be inside anyway, where they might find a table quiet enough for privacy. She asked for a glass of chilled Monbazillac and sat alone by the door. Bruno got her drink and a glass of Bergerac Sec for himself and then found a spot that was partly hidden by the bar.
About five minutes later, Paulette arrived, looking pretty in jeans, leather boots and a heavy fisherman’s sweater. Her hair had been loosened from its usual bun, her eyes were made up and her lipstick boldly crimson. She embraced Florence before she sat down and ordered a mineral water. From what Bruno could see they exchanged small talk until her drink arrived and then Florence leaned forward, put her hand on Paulette’s arm and spoke urgently.
Paulette responded curtly. Florence spoke again. Paulette pulled her arm from Florence’s grip and tossed her hair angrily, as if about to stand up and storm out. Florence kept on talking and then someone took a position at the bar that blocked Bruno’s view. He tried to crane his neck to see, but it was hopeless. And there were no other tables or places where he could station himself without coming into Paulette’s line of sight. He stood, most of his view still blocked by the man at the bar, but he could see part of Florence’s head. She wasn’t talking, which meant Paulette would be replying and had not walked out.
Instead, she had come to find him, walking around the bar and catching his eye. She must have known he was there. Her face was set, determined, but not angry. She forced a thin smile.
“Thank you for your concern, Bruno, and thank you for everything. Florence knows what I’m thinking so I’ll let her tell you.” She leaned forward, pecked him on the cheek and left.
Bruno took her place at Florence’s table and looked at Florence, who was staring into the distance, as if not yet aware of his presence. He remained silent, twirling his almost empty glass in his fingers.
Finally, Florence spoke, her voice dull. “I don’t know for the life of me if we’ve done the right thing. She knew Bollinet was married with a child. She didn’t know his wife was pregnant but she said she was not greatly surprised. But that had nothing to do with her and why did we think he was the father?”
“What did you say to that?” Bruno asked.
“She didn’t give me time to interrupt. She said whoever the father was, it was no business of ours and anyway, the affair was over. She’s already been thinking about having an abortion and has an appointment with a gynecologist at the hospital here next week. I suggested I would go with her but she said she had a school friend who would be there.”
A silence fell between them, all the heavier because of the chatter and laughter of the people around them.
“Can I get you another drink?”
Florence shook her head. “No, thanks.”
“Can I take you to dinner?” he asked, hesitantly, more to break the silence than because he was hungry.
“Thank you, Bruno, and any other time I’d be delighted to go out to dinner with you, but not tonight. It’s all so depressing. I just want to go home to my children and think about this.”
Florence barely spoke on the forty-minute drive back to St. Denis, even though, in the absence of a radio in his elderly Land Rover, Bruno tried various topics of conversation. Talk of the progress of the collèg
e garden and the computer club, both of which she had launched, failed to stimulate her. It was only when Bruno asked whether Paulette had said anything more about the father of her baby that Florence responded.
“I wonder if it was really him. You might have misinterpreted that scene you saw in the car park.”
“Who else?” he replied. “She doesn’t seem that close to anyone in St. Denis.”
“It could be someone else in Périgueux. We don’t know much about her life there, and she doesn’t seem at all ready to tell us. And why should she?”
When he drew up in front of her apartment, Florence pecked him on the cheek and darted inside. Bruno was hungry now and not particularly keen on his own company, so he drove to the Bar des Amateurs, where he’d be sure to meet some friends from the rugby club. He turned in to the old parade ground opposite the gendarmerie, now used as overflow for the market and for parking. Only a handful of other cars were there, but he saw the glow of a cigarette in one of them. What a strange place for a courting couple, he thought as he entered the bar.
Half a dozen men turned to greet him from watching football on the big TV screen, where Paris St. Germain was beating the Girondins of Bordeaux. Gilbert, a big, hook-nosed man whose jumping skills helped the St. Denis rugby team, was behind the bar, and he poured Bruno a beer without being asked.
“Is it this week when we should hear about the national team?” Gilbert asked. “It will be great if Paulette gets picked.”
“The list should be announced Saturday, so fingers crossed,” said Bruno, relieved that the gossip about Paulette’s pregnancy had not reached this far. “Can you do me a pizza? Just cheese and tomato, maybe some ham if you have it.”
He watched the game, cheering with the others when the Girondins tied the score, groaning when Paris scored again, and then Gilbert’s wife came out from the kitchen with a tray full of pizzas and salad. Three of the men sat down to eat with him, keeping an eye on the match and sharing a carafe of red wine from the local vineyard. Bordeaux lost by a goal, and they were watching the postmatch interviews when the bar was illuminated by someone’s headlights coming into the parking lot. Then Bruno heard the slam of car doors and a shout.
He turned and saw silhouettes moving against the flare of the headlights and what looked like a scuffle with blows being struck—even over the noise of the TV he could hear grunts of pain. Were they mad, to fight in front of the gendarmerie? He rose and went out, trying to shield his eyes against the glare to see what was happening. It looked like two men beating up a third. Bruno called to Gilbert for support and ran forward into the fight, shouting, “Police. Stop this.”
One man with blood on his face was being held by another while a second man was punching the first in the stomach. He had time for three hard blows before Bruno was on him, grabbing the arm of the man swinging the punches, twisting it hard behind his back and kicking his feet out from under him.
“Police,” he shouted again and then half-fell as the man being punched was hurled bodily into him. By then Gilbert and some others from the rugby team were there. Gilbert kicked the second man between his legs and the fight was over.
Bruno was kneeling on the back of the man he had felled, felt in his trouser pockets for a wallet and pulled it out, finding an identity card.
“Gilbert, could you let the gendarmes know we have some customers for them, please?” he said and asked Lespinasse to take his place holding down the man on the ground. Still chewing some pizza, Lespinasse mumbled agreement. The man kicked in the groin was going nowhere, and Bruno turned to see how badly they had beaten the man they’d been attacking. He was on his hands and knees, groaning and throwing up. He raised his head, and Bruno recognized Philippe Delaron. Sergeant Jules arrived with some handcuffs, applied them to the wrists of the two attackers and they were hauled away.
Philippe had a nosebleed and had taken a few punches to the stomach. Raoul, a volunteer fireman who was the rugby team’s medical attendant, took him into the bar, looked him over and said he’d seen worse damage on the rugby field. The blood down Philippe’s shirt made it look worse than it was. When Philippe could talk without panting, he said it was a fight about a woman called Mathilde and he did not want to file a formal complaint against the two men.
In the gendarmerie, Bruno established that the two attackers were cousins, sawmill workers from the nearby village of La Douze, and they had been lying in wait for Philippe “to teach that bastard reporter a lesson.” Fabrice, the one whose wallet Bruno had taken, was engaged to a young woman from Journiac. Philippe had managed to seduce her. And in the course of a row earlier that day between Fabrice and Mathilde, she had suggested that her fiancé wasn’t half the man that Philippe was. Masculine pride being what it is, Fabrice had joined his cousin and over a few drinks they had decided to come and take their revenge on the Casanova of St. Denis.
“I reckon young Philippe had that coming. You know his reputation with the girls,” Sergeant Jules said to Bruno when the two cousins had been put in separate cells to cool off. “But we can’t hold those two unless Philippe files a formal complaint, or you do.”
“Get your Breathalyzer kit and leave the talking to me,” said Bruno, and he led the way down to Fabrice’s cell, picking up the cousin on the way.
“You’ve been drinking while driving a vehicle,” he began, “and your cousin threw Philippe at me while I was making an arrest and had identified myself as a police officer. That’s assault. Since I can smell the booze on your breath, we’ll start with a breath test.”
“If I lose my driving license, I’ll lose my job,” said Fabrice, nursing his twisted arm. “And that bastard Philippe Delaron needs a good smacking. My Mathilde’s not the only one he’s been after, with his press pass and his fancy camera, offering to take studio portraits of all the girls in the valley.”
“I’ll give you a choice,” said Bruno. “We can do the breath test and I file a charge of assaulting a policeman and we take a statement from Philippe and the law takes its course. Or you two stay here overnight and in the morning we’ll release you without any charges. I’ll tell Philippe he got off lightly and then we’ll all forget this happened and I can get back to the pizza I was enjoying when you two idiots interrupted me. What do you say?”
“We’ll stay here tonight,” said Fabrice. His cousin nodded in agreement.
Chapter 11
When he awoke the next morning Bruno found a text message on his phone from J-J. The morning meeting was canceled while the magistrate reviewed all the case files. It would probably be held in the evening instead. That meant Bruno could exercise his horse, something he’d been missing. He took a brisk jog through the woods with Balzac, fed his chickens and, with his uniform in the back of his van, he drove to the gendarmerie to find Fabrice and his cousin had already gone. He went on to Pamela’s riding school. It was still early, only a little after seven, but the light was on in the barn, where he found Pamela and Miranda brewing coffee and setting tables for breakfast. There was a smell of baking and through the glass door of the oven Bruno could see a tray of rolls. He kissed both women, accepted a coffee and a glass of apple juice and told them the bread smelled wonderful. He asked them if anyone else would be riding that morning.
“Only me and Félix and maybe Kathleen if she’s up in time. She went out for dinner and the light was on in her gîte until late. I think she had a visitor,” Pamela said with a grin. “Not a car I recognized; I think it might have been a rental.”
“She said something about her paper’s Paris correspondent being sent down to write about the murder,” Bruno said.
“Hector will be pleased to see you. He was a bit frisky with Kathleen yesterday. You’ll find Félix in the stables, saddling up. You might take him his coffee. He takes it with milk, two sugars.”
Bruno walked carefully across the yard behind Balzac, balancing two cups and trying not to s
pill anything, when he saw Kathleen coming down from her gîte. She was dressed for riding. She waved a greeting and he told her she’d find fresh coffee in the barn.
A few minutes later, as Hector began to canter as the slope flattened and the plateau opened out before him, Bruno knew he’d been missing this. The sun was hidden behind a long bank of clouds, but it was strong enough to give a magical gilding to the tips and edges of the clouds. The sky was a pale blue that promised a fine day to come. The air smelled fresh and new and some of the trees in the woods down the slope had gone beyond budding to produce delicate leaves.
“You two go on ahead,” Pamela called. “We’ll see you at the quarry.”
She and Félix each had a string of horses on a long rein, and she guided them in a gentle trot. Kathleen leaned forward in the saddle, tapped the Andalusian horse with her heels and urged her mount into a swift canter that soon became a gallop. Hector needed no signal from Bruno to follow suit and the ride became thrilling, their speed creating its own wind in Bruno’s face. That sudden, intense moment of communion between horse and rider came upon him and Bruno could feel each of the mighty muscles beneath him gathering, stretching and then contracting.
Hector hated to see another horse’s heels ahead of him. He caught up with Kathleen as they reached the firebreak through the trees, barely wide enough for two horses to gallop side by side, but the nimble Andalusian was still a nose ahead. Not wanting to take a risk with one of Pamela’s customers on an unfamiliar horse, Bruno pulled firmly on the reins and Hector reluctantly but obediently slowed, snorting to let Bruno know his displeasure. Bruno patted his horse’s neck by way of apology, trying to convey his confidence that of course Hector could have won the race. He loosened the reins a little and Hector eased into that smooth not-quite-gallop that he could keep up for hours. By the time they reached the end of the firebreak they were close behind the Andalusian, tiring now, but then Hector slowed of his own accord, knowing this route and the location of the bridle path down through the trees. Kathleen had gone beyond it and Bruno called her back.
A Taste for Vengeance Page 13