A Taste for Vengeance

by Martin Walker

  “And I remember you blessing the team at their last home game.”

  “We may differ on this, Bruno, but I think we can agree that Paulette must now be our main concern. She will be feeling very troubled. Tell me, if you can, is there a prospect that I might be celebrating a marriage?”

  “None at all. If I’m right about the man in question, he’s already married to someone else.”

  “Heaven preserve us. Can we talk about this again?”

  “Of course, Father. Right now I have to go to Bergerac. I’ll try to be back in time for Paulette’s return. I imagine she’ll be on the train that gets in around six.”

  “That’s what her parents said. Go with God, Bruno.”

  Bruno took the back road to the airport, avoiding the traffic on the main road through Mouleydier and Creysse. As he turned onto the fast stretch of the Périgueux-Bergerac road, he could see a plane turning for its final approach. He was only a minute or two from the airport, and by the time the plane’s wheels touched down Bruno had parked and was shaking hands with the head of the Police aux Frontières, who told him that J-J had already called and the pilot knew that one passenger was to be allowed off the aircraft first. They strolled together to the stretch of tarmac where the planes parked to off-load and board passengers.

  “Monsieur Forbes?” Bruno inquired, saluting the middle-aged man in a dark gray suit coming down the steps of the newly arrived plane, a large briefcase in his hand.

  “I’m Forbes, here to identify a woman who may be Monika Felder,” he said in clumsy French.

  “Welcome to Bergerac, monsieur. I’m sorry for the sad event that makes you come here,” said Bruno in his fluent but ungrammatical English. “Your French is excellent, monsieur, but perhaps it may be easier if you pardon my bad English. Do you have any valise on the plane?”

  “No, only this,” Forbes said, waving his briefcase. “I’m flying back tonight, the six o’clock plane to Paris and then on to London. I hope this won’t take too long.”

  “I’ll take you directly to the morgue and then you will have to call at police headquarters here in Bergerac to sign some papers. Allow me to introduce Directeur Baudouin.”

  The Frontières chief led Bruno and Forbes to the small shed that housed two passport control booths and greeted the two officers there; Forbes was waved through with a cursory glance at his passport. Ten minutes later, they were at the hospital and walking around the main building to the morgue, where the attendant was expecting them. He held out a small pot of sharp-smelling menthol ointment, which Bruno rubbed around his nostrils and advised Forbes to do the same.

  The room was very cold. The bodies were kept in what looked like a row of unusually deep filing cabinets. The attendant checked his register and pulled out one drawer, on which a body lay beneath a white sheet. The only exposed flesh was a single shapely foot, and an identifying label was attached to the big toe. The attendant pulled back the cloth from the head, leaving the rest of the body covered. Monika’s face was still lovely in death, despite the gray tone to her skin.

  “I confirm that this is Monika Felder, a director of our company and well known to me,” Forbes said in English, making an effort to show no emotion. He then repeated the same statement in competent French.

  He turned to Bruno. “How did she die, exactly?”

  “A stab wound to the heart. She was in the shower at the time, but we believe she would have seen her killer.”

  “May I see?”

  Bruno gestured to the attendant, who shrugged and then pulled the sheet back farther, revealing the long gash of the autopsy down the length of her trunk, roughly sewn back together. Bruno pointed to the small wound beneath the left breast.

  “She would have died very quickly,” he said.

  The attendant replaced the sheet over Monika’s face and slid the cabinet drawer back into place. Forbes signed an identification sheet for the register and turned to Bruno.

  “You said I have to sign something somewhere else. Was it at the police station here in Bergerac?”

  “Yes, monsieur. The detective in charge of the murder investigation will meet us there. But first, I wonder if you might be able to help us with the identity of the second person who died at the scene.”

  Bruno gestured to the attendant, who pulled out a second drawer, this time a male figure draped in a sheet, again with a tag attached to the big toe. The contrast could not have been more grim between Monika’s face and the gross, engorged visage of McBride-Rentoul. At least the bird-savaged eye sockets had been covered by small circular patches of white cotton.

  “Good God Almighty!” Forbes put his hand to his mouth as if about to retch. “I couldn’t recognize my own brother looking like that. What’s wrong with the eyes?”

  “He was left hanging in the open air for nearly two days. The birds…”

  Forbes swallowed and then, with a shudder, took control of himself and looked attentively at the body, as if trying to assess something from the shape of the head, the set of the jaw.

  “I can’t be sure of anything looking at that, but I don’t think I know that face at all. Sorry,” he said.

  “My apologies, monsieur, I know it is not a pleasant sight.” The cabinet drawer was slid shut.

  J-J was waiting in a well-appointed office at headquarters when Bruno and Forbes arrived ten minutes later.

  “Monsieur Forbes has been very helpful,” Bruno said. “He identified Monika Felder but couldn’t help us with the second body. He has a flight to Paris at six and he speaks some French.”

  “Thank you for coming to France, monsieur. We’ll get a car to take you back to the airport once the formalities are complete,” said J-J. “If you could sign here that you have identified Madame Felder, and might I borrow your passport to take a photocopy to go along with your identification, just for the record?”

  Forbes handed over his passport and signed as requested. J-J turned to a photocopier behind the desk, made two copies and then slipped the passport into a drawer.

  “I have a couple of questions, monsieur, for which I’ll bring in our official interpreter. May I offer you some coffee or other refreshment while we wait?”

  Forbes shook his head. J-J picked up a phone, spoke briefly and then beamed at Forbes, gesturing to him to take a seat. A young woman arrived, dressed very plainly, and then translated in almost perfect English J-J’s next question.

  “When did you last see Madame Felder?”

  “At the last board meeting, about a month ago.”

  “Where was that?”

  “In London, Brook Street, our company offices.”

  “She had returned from Houston for the meeting?”

  “I believe so but I don’t know her exact movements. She said she had just flown in from seeing her husband, our chairman and founder. He’s in hospital there. She told us he was not doing well. She was clearly distressed.”

  “What will happen to the company now?”

  Forbes looked surprised by the question but answered readily enough. “So long as General Felder remains with us, nothing changes. Then I presume it will go to his heirs, but that’s a matter for his personal lawyer. I work for the company. I’m not privy to his will.”

  “Do you know this personal lawyer?”

  “We met, once, in the chairman’s office.”

  “You’ve done no succession planning?”

  Forbes remained silent for a moment, his eyes flicking toward Bruno, before speaking. “It seemed premature. I’m afraid these questions are going beyond my competence. I was brought here to identify a body, which I have done, and now I’d like to go, please. Could you return my passport?”

  “One moment, monsieur. I’m grateful for your help, but we are investigating a murder and I’m sure you would like to help us bring the killer to justice. Were you friendly
with Madame Felder?”

  “I only saw her at board meetings and at the Felders’ annual party for senior staff at their home. Our relations were polite but businesslike.”

  “Do you have any idea why she might have been killed?”

  “No.” Forbes was looking back and forth between J-J and the interpreter as if unsure which of them to answer.

  “Since she can no longer inherit any of her husband’s property, am I right to assume the children of his first marriage will inherit?”

  “I have no idea, but that will become public whenever he dies. Of course, in the circumstances with the help of the British police you could seek a court order asking for an immediate copy.”

  “Do you know Monsieur Felder’s two children?”

  “I met them once, at one of those company parties I mentioned. I understand the son had worked for the company for some time but left before I joined. I’ve been there for three years. The daughter is a patent lawyer in private practice. That’s all I know.”

  Forbes looked at his watch, although there was a large clock on the wall behind him. Bruno noted that it was a few minutes before five. Would he be able to get back to St. Denis in time to meet Paulette’s train? He thought she might need an ally rather than come immediately under the influence of her parents. Maybe he could slip out and call Florence.

  “May I go now please?” Forbes said, a quaver in his voice. “I have nothing more to say, nothing more that I know, and I have a flight to catch.”

  “I have a murder to solve, monsieur. Did you ever hear anything about Madame Felder having enemies?”

  “No.” Forbes was stone-faced but his hands were clenched.

  “Do you know anything of her relations with her husband’s children?”

  “No, nothing at all.”

  “You are aware that while the two children and their mother have rented an apartment in Houston to be near General Felder, Madame Felder was not invited to join them? She stayed in a hotel.”

  “I did not know that. I know nothing of their personal lives. I’m a corporate lawyer and I really don’t want to miss my flight.”

  J-J’s expression, which had during these questions been coldly formal, broke into a smile. “Flights can be delayed, monsieur. It only takes a phone call. So tell me, how is the company’s health when its chairman is very ill? How will it continue after his death?”

  “The company is trading profitably and it has good management at all the senior levels so it should continue to prosper should the chairman be unable to resume his duties. He has been ill for several months, nearly a year.”

  “Ah, you see, I have learned something from you,” J-J said, with another smile. “Do you have a phone number for the Felders’ personal lawyer?”

  “I can probably get one once I’m back in London.”

  “Perhaps you could try now.”

  “There isn’t time.”

  “Monsieur, you may not be aware that there are terrorist aspects to this murder investigation and I may detain you as long as I have questions for you to answer.” J-J was not smiling now. “You will of course be allowed to see a lawyer and your consul, but this being Friday afternoon, you may have to wait until Monday.”

  Forbes began to protest, thought better of it and pulled out a mobile phone. He dialed a long number, obviously international, and obviously someone he knew, judging by his friendly tone when he said, according to the interpreter’s whispered but simultaneous translation, “Sylvia, can you get me a number for Mervin Kahn at Cumberson and Hatch, the chairman’s personal lawyer? You may have to ask his secretary. I need to talk to him urgently.”

  He pulled out a pen and scribbled a number on the blotter of J-J’s desk, ended that call and started another. “Mervin, Alan Forbes here. I’m in France, with the police, identifying poor Monika’s body, but they want very badly to know who inherits if the general were to die. As you know, it’s a murder inquiry and now they’ve just told me that they suspect a terrorist connection.”

  Bruno heard what sounded like protests coming down the line.

  “I’m sorry, Mervin, but I have to insist,” Forbes went on firmly. “Under their antiterrorism laws they have powers to hold me here indefinitely. Indeed, if I’m not allowed to call you back, I’d like you to start proceedings to get me out of here, the main police station in Bergerac. Please tell me whatever you can about this bloody will.”

  Forbes closed his eyes and listened for about a minute, then said, “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  The lawyer on the other end of the line spoke again and Forbes gulped as if in shock. “General Felder is dead? I didn’t know. God rest his soul.” There was another pause. “I owe you for this, Mervin, many thanks.” Forbes pressed a button on his phone, checked the screen and then slid it back into the breast pocket of his shirt.

  “The will is very simple. The house and a private pension of fifty thousand pounds a year were left to Monika, but because of her death that no longer applies. So the house and cash and his life insurance go to his two children. His shares in the company go into a family trust from which each child can draw fifty thousand pounds a year, but the shares themselves are held in trust for any grandchildren. The house alone will be worth at least two million pounds, and the company is private, not listed on the stock exchange, so it’s not easy to assess its current market value. But annual profits range between three and five million pounds a year, depending on currency fluctuations and so on. Any outside buyer wanting to buy it as a going concern would have to pay at least fifty million. General Felder holds two-thirds of the shares and the rest are owned by his original partners in the business, most of whom are still there. Now may I go?”

  “Indeed, monsieur, with my thanks,” J-J said when the interpreter had finished the translation. “Please accept my commiserations on the death of your company chairman. We have only recently heard the sad news from Houston.”

  “Would you really have held me on terrorist charges or were you just saying that to make me cooperate?” Forbes asked.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” J-J replied. “There is certainly a terrorist connection in this case. But you would not have been charged, only held as a potentially material witness. Thank you for your cooperation. The chief of police here will drive you to the airport, and I’ll call them to be sure you make your flight.”

  Chapter 16

  The plane for Paris was waiting on the tarmac when Bruno arrived at Bergerac airport a few minutes after six. J-J had been as good as his word. Baudouin from the Police aux Frontières had held the plane for the English lawyer’s arrival. Forbes shook Bruno’s hand and scuttled aboard. On the drive to the airport, Bruno had asked what happened to Felder’s trust fund and shares if his two children had no heirs.

  “I don’t know,” Forbes had replied. “I’ve wondered that myself. I’ve also wondered if General Felder ever let his children know the exact terms of his will.”

  “It almost sounds as if he didn’t have much faith in them,” Bruno had observed.

  “I wouldn’t know about that.”

  “You said Felder’s son, Julian, had left the family company before you arrived. Have you heard anything about the circumstances of his departure? Was there perhaps some bitterness?”

  “No, I heard nothing.”

  “Not even gossip?”

  “I’m the company’s legal officer,” Forbes replied. “I don’t mix much with the people in operations, and when I met Julian and Portia at the general’s parties the relations seemed amicable. Honestly, that’s all I can tell you.”

  It was enough to make Bruno pensive as he drove back to St. Denis, knowing he was already far too late for Paulette’s scheduled arrival on the train from Périgueux. He pulled off the road to call her. Her phone was switched off. He checked his messages and found one from Florence saying that Paulette h
ad left the train at Les Eyzies, before it reached St. Denis, where her parents would be waiting. Florence had picked her up and driven her back to her own home, where they awaited Bruno’s arrival.

  Bruno decided to drive home first, change out of his uniform and pick up Balzac before heading to Florence’s apartment. He could understand why Paulette was delaying a reunion with her parents. She had probably heard from friends in the rugby team about the graffiti. He called Florence to say he’d be joining them in about an hour.

  “Have you eaten yet?” he asked, and when she said she hadn’t even thought about it he offered to bring dinner. He stopped to buy bread and potatoes and some cheese and drove on, wondering if Moore could find out more about Felder’s relationship with his two children. If they knew about the will, and with their father suffering from terminal cancer, they might have a motive for getting Monika out of the way. And what of their mother, the first wife? There had been nothing about her in the will, although presumably there had been some sort of settlement when they divorced. Perhaps Hodge could get the FBI to make some detailed inquiries into the precise movements of Felder’s family in and out of Houston. Bruno thought he’d better suggest that to J-J.

  Bruno was startled as he turned in to his driveway by the sight of a small van parked askew in front of his house. Sighing inwardly, he recognized it as belonging to the flower shop run by Paulette’s parents. As he parked, Balzac came bounding toward him, abandoning the middle-aged man who was rising from the table on Bruno’s terrace.

  “Bonjour, Bernard,” Bruno said.

  “Where is she?” Paulette’s father demanded, striding angrily toward him, his face red, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. “What have you done with her, you bastard?”

  “Hey, watch your language,” Bruno said, wondering if Bernard was angry enough to take a swing at him. He shifted his feet a little, settling his balance against an attack, just in case.