“My mayor is one of the most powerful in the Périgord,” Bruno went on. “He’s also deputy chairman of the Conseil Régional. He’s worked in the Elysée Palace, in the European Commission in Brussels, and he was a senator. He has friends and allies all over the département, not to mention Paris. And legally speaking, the mayor is right. If he wants to make this an issue of Prunier trying a power grab to take away the prerogative of an elected mayor, all the other mayors will back him. Prunier will be on very weak ground.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line before J-J spoke. “All right. I’ll have a word with him, but you’d better have some kind of olive branch ready.”
“What do you suggest?”
“We’re all tied up with the Irishmen, but Hodge and Moore want to take a look at McBride’s place in Lalinde. Could you do that, help us out?”
“I’d be glad to, but doesn’t Moore want to sit in on the interrogations? He’s the one who knows the Irishmen.”
“That’s the point. They know him, and he thinks his presence would be counterproductive. He’s already suggested some lines of questioning, but he wants to stay below the radar. Listen, I’ll get a car to drive them down to St. Denis, and you can take them on to Lalinde, then give them lunch at Ivan’s and send us the bill. And I’ll make sure Prunier knows you’re doing your best to be helpful.”
Within the hour, Bruno was in the front seat of an unmarked police car. He twisted around to face Moore and Hodge in the rear to point out some of the sights they were passing on the way to Lalinde. Moore explained that O’Rourke and his wife were under arrest and being brought to Périgueux from Montauban, where they had been detained. Kelly, the man arrested in Bergerac, was refusing to talk and demanding a lawyer and access to the British consul in Bordeaux.
“I thought he was Irish,” said Hodge, looking confused.
“He was born in Belfast, so he’s a British citizen,” Moore said. “I suppose I should be touched by his faith in British diplomacy.”
They crossed the Dordogne River, drove past Lalinde church and then turned right up the hill. Bruno had already called his colleague Quatremer to tell him that he was bringing visitors to the crime scene.
“Nice place,” said Hodge, unbending his great height from the backseat and surveying the house where Rentoul had lived as McBride and where he and Monika Felder had died. “I wonder if Uncle Sam’s money paid for it.”
Quatremer was waiting at the front door with the keys and a set of gloves and bootees for each of them, even though the forensics team had finished their work. He undid the crime scene tape as they approached and Bruno made the introductions.
“Let’s go inside,” said Quatremer.
Moore and Hodge each had a copy of the crime scene report, and they went first to the bathroom where Monika had been killed and then looked around the bedroom and kitchen.
“I didn’t see anything about a safe in the report,” Hodge said. “How hard did you guys look? Did you bring in ground-penetrating radar for the floors and walls? If not, that’s something we need to do.”
“And what about metal detectors?” Moore asked. “I already suggested they use them at O’Rourke’s place. It was standard practice in Northern Ireland, looking for buried weapons.”
“I’ll check,” said Bruno, remembering that the forensics team had found the commando knife with a metal detector. “Could be a good idea. You know a sniffer dog found cocaine at the garden center in Bergerac?”
“Yes, and I’d like a metal detector running over that site as well. Is there any progress on this sniper’s rifle that might have gone missing?” Moore asked. “The IRA is always in the market for them.”
“I’ve got a request in to our field office in Phoenix to see if the manufacturer can tell us anything,” Hodge said. “But don’t get your hopes up. Those things sell pretty well at gun shows and on the secondhand market.”
Bruno led them into the barn and then up through the vineyard and orchard to the woodland and the clearing where he had found McBride-Rentoul. He described the scene, the big stepladder used for collecting apples, the way the rope had been secured over the limb and around the trunk, the placing of the knot.
“I read the pathologist’s report and saw the photos,” said Moore. “J-J seemed persuaded it was a suicide, that even if he’d been unconscious two men could never have got him up here and hanging without leaving a mark on his body. What do you think, Bruno?”
“It was dark and there’s a lot of tricky undergrowth underfoot, but I think two men could have managed it.”
“How?” asked Hodge.
“Do you hunt?” Bruno asked his companions. They told him they didn’t. “I know that O’Rourke, the man in Montignac, was in the local hunting club. Let’s go back to the barn because I want show you how he might have known how to do it.”
Once there, Bruno found a strong pole, about two meters long, and a tarpaulin of reinforced plastic with metallic eyelets around its edges. It was the kind of covering placed over a car in the winter. Bruno found some of the blue plastic twine that was ubiquitous in the French countryside, used for everything from supporting tall plants and tying roses to temporary repairs of broken gates and fences.
“You look about McBride’s size and weight,” he said to Moore. “Would you lie down on that tarpaulin, please?”
Moore complied, surprised at first but then realizing what Bruno had in mind as he and Quatremer began to thread the twine through the eyelets. Once it was secure and Moore was lying in the center of what was now a tube of tarpaulin, Bruno threaded more twine through the eyelets at each end of the tube to ensure that Moore could not slip out. He tossed a coil of rope, similar to that used in the hanging, to Hodge before pushing the pole through the tube to Quatremer at the other end. The two of them bent down, each putting his end of the pole onto a shoulder. As Bruno counted down from three, they rose as one to their full height and began walking out from the barn, through the garden and the vineyard, Moore swaying gently between them in his tarpaulin cocoon.
“This is how we bring deer back from deep in the woods,” Bruno said. “And his body is fully supported, there won’t be a mark on him.”
It was much harder going over the undergrowth through the clearing, but Bruno and Quatremer were experienced hunters and they had done this often before. Every hundred meters they stopped and switched shoulders, and they felt with their feet for a secure footing. Their progress was slow but it was sure. When they reached the hanging tree they put Moore down. Bruno took the rope from Hodge and asked him to bring the big stepladder.
“Okay to stay in there a bit longer?” Bruno called to Moore. “I want to try something.” Moore grunted his assent.
Bruno secured one end of the rope to the tree trunk and then climbed the stepladder to pass it over the branch from which McBride-Rentoul had been hanging. He climbed back down, secured the dangling end of the rope to the tarpaulin pole with three running knots and asked Quatremer to haul on the rope while Bruno guided the tarpaulin cocoon as he climbed slowly, one step at a time.
Quatremer was grunting with the strain of lifting Moore’s deadweight, but with a little support from Bruno on the stepladder, the blue tube rose slowly, steadily, until it was supported mostly by the large flat step at the top of the ladder. Bruno loosened the running knots and let the rope fall again to Quatremer’s feet.
“Make me a noose, pull it up and then resecure the other end of the rope around that trunk,” Bruno said.
Quatremer bent to his task and within minutes a very convincing noose was slung over the branch, secured to the tree trunk and hanging at a convenient height for Bruno to slip it around the neck of the man in the tarpaulin. Instead, Bruno took the knife from his belt and cut the twine to free Moore, whose eyes widened when he saw the noose dangling before his eyes.
“Bloody hel
l,” Moore said, swallowing and then looking down at the ground. “Okay, you’ve convinced me. Two men could have done it.”
Chapter 15
On their way back from Lalinde to St. Denis, Bruno asked the driver to turn off the main road to show Moore, a fellow rugby player, the town stadium. Built by volunteers, including Bruno, it featured a handsome grandstand that could seat up to five hundred people, with dressing rooms, showers, offices and storerooms in the space beneath. It was a source of great local pride. But as they cruised past, Bruno suddenly told the driver to brake, muttering, “What the devil…”
Along the white wall at the back of the stand was scrawled some new graffiti that Bruno found shocking for the desecration of the town’s cherished grandstand as much as for the message itself: PAULETTE—PAPA QUI? It was bad French, but most people would recognize the refrain from a recent hit song. Bruno now knew the secret was not simply out but that Paulette’s religious parents must by now be aware of what they would see as their daughter’s shame.
“Who is Paulette?” Moore asked in English. In the same language Bruno explained the whole situation. Something in his tone of voice made Moore look at him sharply.
“Does she have to have the baby?” Moore asked.
Bruno shrugged, directed the car around the corner to the Bricomarché store and bought a can of white spray paint. After returning to the stadium he covered over the graffiti, wondering how long before the words would be replaced. He kept his eyes peeled as they drove to the parking area in front of the mairie but saw no more such daubs. Then, with a groan, he spotted a gleaming new section of white paint on the wall of the flower shop that belonged to Paulette’s parents. They must have found and erased similar graffiti themselves.
“Another one?” Moore asked, following Bruno’s gaze.
“It looks that way,” Bruno replied. “That’s her parents’ shop.”
“You can’t keep secrets in a small town,” Moore said. “Who’s the father? Another rugby man?”
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s her drama teacher at the lycée in Périgueux, but not many people know that yet, obviously. And it’s Friday, the day she comes home from school for the weekend, to stay with her parents, who are very religious.”
“So no abortion?” Moore asked.
“She’s over eighteen so it’s up to her, but there’ll be a big family fight if that’s what she decides to do.”
They parked, and speaking quickly in English, Bruno asked the police driver if he would like to join them for lunch. The driver looked at him blankly, so at least Bruno did not have to worry about his spreading the tale around the entire police force of the département. He repeated the question in French and the driver eagerly agreed to join them.
Ivan’s menu du jour began with vegetable soup, followed by a plate of jambon de pays with melon. Bruno and his guests had been served with their main course of rabbit roasted in mustard when Hodge asked Moore, in English, whether Bruno’s demonstration had persuaded him that Rentoul had been murdered.
“I accept that it could have been murder, but for me the balance of probabilities still suggests suicide rather than murder,” Moore replied.
“But that would mean he murdered Monika, the woman he’d been making love with,” Bruno replied. “Is that likely?”
Moore shrugged. “It’s not unheard of. But for me it means we’re going to have to find out more about Felder’s marriage. He would have been in his late forties when he met Monika, and she was about twenty. I’d like to know where and how they met, where she was from and how a pretty young German girl meets a senior intelligence officer on a British military base. I’ve already asked London to find out what they can.”
Moore explained that his British colleagues in counterterrorism had picked up no word of any New IRA operation in France, or of any renewal of contacts between the New IRA and their old connections in Libya. Moore was confident that the British intelligence networks were sufficiently comprehensive to have picked up hints of such a development. And both the human and electronic intelligence systems were on the alert for an IRA response to the events of the previous night.
“We’re expecting to pick up some talk or phone calls about the arrest of Kelly and O’Rourke once the news gets out. Frankly, I expect their old friends will seem baffled by it all,” Moore added.
“How long can you hold these two before you have to charge them or release their names?” Hodge asked.
“Since the last terrorist attacks, the French government has declared a state of emergency,” Bruno said, not bothering to conceal his own doubts about the draconian new rules. “We can arrest people, detain and question them for four days before bringing in a magistrate and starting the procedure of charging them. And we now have specialist magistrates for terrorism cases who can authorize preventive detention for as long as four years before trial.”
“Four years? Jesus,” said Moore, his eyes wide. “How do you get away with that?”
“The same way we brought in the Patriot Act after 9/11,” said Hodge. “Frightened people demand desperate measures. So you don’t even have to announce their arrest? They simply disappear?”
“In a way, but they can get a lawyer, and there are various other procedures that can be applied, like house arrest,” Bruno replied. “But now that the sniffer dogs found cocaine we may announce their detention under the narcotics laws, saying nothing about any links to terrorism. The authorities might be embarrassed when the public learns that IRA men have been living and working here for years.”
“So they should be,” said Moore. “We made sure you knew who and where they were. I thought there was supposed to be some monitoring system to keep an eye on them.”
Bruno shrugged. “The IRA is old history. Our counterterrorism guys have more than enough work dealing with Islamists these days.”
Ivan brought four portions of apple pie and the bill. Bruno put down a fifty-euro note and a ten, and Ivan returned with some change.
“Four excellent lunches with wine, all for less than sixty euros?” Hodge said in disbelief. “That’s what I end up paying when I take the kids to McDo in Paris.”
“The nearest McDonald’s is forty kilometers from here,” Bruno said. “I don’t think we miss it. We feed people better than that in the Périgord. I assume you’ll both be here this weekend. Why don’t you come to my place for dinner on Saturday for a relaxing evening and some home cooking?”
“Yes, please,” said Moore, and Hodge gave a slow nod and said, “Mighty kind of you. I’d like that.”
At that point, Bruno’s phone vibrated and he saw J-J’s name come up on the screen.
“Bruno, can you get to Bergerac airport?” J-J asked. “There’s a flight from London that gets in at three and a lawyer from Felder’s company is coming in to make the formal identification of Monika. But make sure you take him from the morgue directly to the police station and I’ll meet you there.”
“Sure, but I have Moore and Hodge with me.”
“Send them back in the car that brought them and you head to Bergerac. Did you take them to Ivan’s?”
“Yes, he was serving that lapin à la moutarde that you like.”
“And here’s me with a sandwich. I’ll see you in Bergerac, and whatever you do, don’t let this man get on a flight out. We want to keep him here and talking, so tell him he needs to sign something at the station. Understood?”
“Understood. What’s the lawyer’s name?”
“Forbes, Alan Forbes. He’s one of the directors of Felder’s company, so he knows Monika well. I’ll call the airport cops, make sure they treat him nicely, let him off the plane first. Take your police van.”
Bruno checked his watch. It had gone two and Bergerac airport was less than forty minutes away if the traffic was reasonable. He went to say goodbye to Hodge and Moore and found them huddled over H
odge’s phone.
“A message from Houston,” Hodge said, looking up at Bruno. “It comes as no surprise, but General Felder is dead.”
Bruno nodded and explained he had to leave them. He strolled back to the mairie, where he’d left his van, greeting acquaintances and enjoying the spring sunshine when he saw the black-garbed figure of Father Sentout bustling over the bridge from the direction of the flower shop, head down as though in thought. Bruno waited at the end of the bridge and touched the peak of his cap as the priest approached.
“Bonjour, Father,” said Bruno. “I think I know where you’ve been and what concerns you. It concerns me too, and the rugby club.”
Father Sentout’s love of God was matched only by his passionate support for the St. Denis rugby club. He rarely missed a home game and tried his best to attend away games even though they were played on Sunday afternoons and he offered an evening mass at six. Bruno recalled two occasions when the good father had changed into his vestments on the team bus and darted into his church as the clock began to strike six.
“Ah, Bruno, this should be such a joyous moment and yet it seems to be making everyone so sad.”
“How are her parents taking it?”
“It’s not easy for them, but they are strengthened by their faith in God. They are good people, Bruno, and it’s heartbreaking to see them so downcast, so humiliated. Do you have any idea who has been scrawling these things on the walls?”
“No, but I saw one earlier on the stadium wall. I sprayed new paint over it, but I imagine half the town will know about Paulette by now.”
“I’ll be seeing her this evening when she gets in from the lycée. Her parents asked me to talk to her.”
“You know the law, Father. She’s an adult in the eyes of the Republic and the choice is hers.”
“I also know the law of God and of the holy church, Bruno. I have to counsel her as I think best. And I have known this child all her life. I baptized her, I gave Paulette her first communion, heard her first confession.”
A Taste for Vengeance Page 18