The Coldest Case

by Martin Walker

  Bruno laughed in return, more in delight at the coming of Balzac’s pups than at Claire’s teasing. ‘It’s the royal connection, of course, nothing but the best for Balzac. And you know I’m not as much of a fan of Carla Bruni’s music as you are. Thanks for the news, my regards to Carla-Diane and call me any time if you need anything.’

  Bruno instantly called Isabelle, his old flame, whose gift to him Balzac had been, and who had accompanied him to the mating earlier in the summer.

  ‘Bruno, good to hear from you but I’m in a meeting . . .’

  ‘It’s just to say that Diane de Poitiers is going into labour. Balzac will be a father by the morning. I’ll hang up.’

  He just heard a whoop of joy and the words ‘That’s wonderful’ as he closed his phone, wondering what the others at her doubtless high-level security meeting would make of that. Knowing Isabelle, she’d probably share the news with them anyway. He paused a moment before going into the house to join his friends. He’d always thought that one pup should go to Florence’s children. They adored Balzac and on her teacher’s salary there was no way that Florence would be able to afford a basset hound and he couldn’t think of a better home. But a second pup was more complicated.

  He could probably get a thousand or fifteen hundred euros for a pedigree pup but he had no intention of doing that. He did, however, feel an obligation to the Mayor, who had given him his first basset, Gigi, from one of his own litters. The Mayor had never replaced Gigi’s mother when she died and Bruno knew from his affection for Balzac that he missed having a dog in his life. It would also mean that Balzac would be in the same town as his two puppies. But since the Mayor had not found a new dog, did that mean that at his age he didn’t really want one? His friend the Baron had said as much after the death of his own dog, a gigantic dogue de Bordeaux. Bruno felt sure that if the offer were made, the Mayor would feel bound to accept it, but he’d hate to feel that it was an imposition on the man he’d come to think of almost as a father. Perhaps he could try raising the matter in a roundabout way. And Yveline of the gendarmes had said she’d be keen to have a female pup. He’d have to think about this before announcing the news to all his friends. He pocketed his phone and went into the house.

  He was greeted first by the scent of roasting lamb and then by two small children arriving like little bullets to clamber at his legs. They were Dora and Daniel, Florence’s children, keen to tell him of their latest exploits in Pamela’s swimming pool, where Bruno had taught them how to swim earlier that summer. Then he was besieged by Miranda’s two boys, who were now old enough to play rugby with the minimes and wanted to know when the pre-season practice would begin.

  Disentangling himself, but with Dora on one arm and Daniel on the other, Bruno kissed Florence, Jacqueline and Miranda. He was then embraced by the Baron who took one of the children so that Jack Crimson could hand Bruno a glass of white wine and lead him to the big dining room where the table, already laid and with a row of candles waiting to be lit, was set for ten. He saw four open bottles of wine: his Ortus, Jack’s red from Les Verdots, Gilles’s foot-trodden wine and one of the Mayor’s favourite Pécharmant from Château de Tiregand. Then there was one mystery bottle wrapped in a black sock. This was doubtless from the Baron, one of the blind tastings he sometimes offered to test his friends. A smaller table stood at the far end with places for the four children.

  ‘Mon Dieu, this is splendid,’ said Bruno. ‘A fine homecoming for our two globetrotters. It could almost be Christmas.’

  ‘And here’s a gift for you, Bruno,’ Jacqueline said, embracing him. She gave Bruno a wrapped parcel, about the size of a book, but it felt soft and pliable.

  ‘We got American sweeties, like bootlaces,’ said Dora.

  ‘Only they taste of strawberries,’ added Daniel, glancing at his mother before adding to Jacqueline, ‘It was very kind of you to think of us.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it, Bruno?’ asked Dora.

  Bruno did, and unwrapped the parcel to find a chef’s toque. It was white, pleated, nearly a foot tall and embroidered with the words ‘Top Chef’. He immediately put it on over his still-wet hair and embraced Jacqueline again.

  ‘Now I have something to live up to,’ he said. ‘Thank you very much, Jacqueline, but I don’t think I’ll be able to match Miranda’s roast lamb, and a little bird told me that Grandpa Jack has made a secret sauce, just for all of us, to go with the Baron’s secret bottle.’

  ‘Florence, Pamela, Miranda and I got aprons that look like the American flag,’ announced Fabiola. Gilles said he’d been given a T-shirt bearing the unmistakable face of the American president, which he found to be very ironic, suitable only for wearing in bed. Fabiola instantly vetoed that idea, unless Gilles was prepared to sleep alone. Crimson and the Baron had each been given the same T-shirt, which made Bruno feel all the more grateful for the chef’s toque.

  ‘We’re starting with a chilled soup of vegetables from the garden before we have the lamb we got from Sylvestre,’ Miranda announced, steering them to their seats. ‘I told him you’d be one of the guests, Bruno, and he said he knew what you liked.’

  Bruno nodded courteously but his heart sank a little. Sylvestre was a friend of his with a sheep farm. He knew that Bruno liked a hogget, a young sheep between one and two years old with rather more of the taste of mutton than the ones born in the spring. He was far from sure that all his friends shared his fondness for the dish, but then a new-born lamb could hardly feed ten adults and four hungry children. Bruno also knew that the English tended to prefer their meat rather less pink than the French. Well, the wine would make up for it, he thought, eyeing the row of bottles with pleasure. The Baron’s mystery bottle was in the classic shape of a Bordeaux so he could rule out a Burgundy or some wine from the Rhône valley.

  At least they had clear glasses. Bruno had an embarrassing memory of an evening of wine-tasting with Hubert, along with some other friends who thought they knew about wines. Hubert had served the wine in another room and brought them in already poured into black glasses. Without the customary visual clue, most of those present – including a sommelier from a well-regarded restaurant – had had no idea whether they were drinking white or red. It had been a lesson in humility that Bruno would not forget, even though he’d been sure he’d recognized a Chablis in the first glass. It had turned out to be a Sancerre, so at least he’d got the colour right.

  The soup was excellent, red and yellow peppers with cucumber and skinned tomatoes, served with a generous scoop of aillou, a blend of crème fraîche and fromage blanc with garlic and parsley. Had it been his soup, Bruno might have been tempted to add a little fresh mint but then he recalled that Jack was making a mint sauce.

  ‘Alors, mes amis,’ said the Baron, rising to take up the covered bottle to pour half a glass for each of the adults. ‘In this moment between the soup and the lamb, let’s try to identify this mystery wine. And I’ll give you a clue. It comes from within a hundred kilometres of where we sit, so you can rule out the Médoc, the Loire and Languedoc-Roussillon.’

  They all swirled, held their glasses against the light of a candle and then sniffed. Bruno, knowing that his taste buds were still sensing the garlic in the soup, drank some water first before sipping. He wondered if the Baron was testing them with one of the smaller appellations, a Buzet or even a Duras. It certainly wasn’t a Cahors. The taste was familiar, if not a Bergerac then close to it, possibly one of the new small classified regions such as the old bastide of Domme, further up the Dordogne valley.

  The Baron went around the table. Jack thought it was a Montravel, at the western end of the Bergerac region. Gilles thought it came from further south, a Saussignac or a Duras. The Mayor was still thinking and Bruno admitted he was guessing but he thought it was a vin de pays from the Périgord, somewhere nearby but he was sure it wasn’t from the town vineyard. He suggested it could be a wine from Domme. Finally t
he Mayor put down his glass and said he thought it was a Buzet.

  ‘You’re all wrong but Bruno came closest,’ the Baron said. ‘It’s from the Domaine de la Voie Blanche, just this side of St Cyprien, so it is indeed a vin de pays of our own Périgord, stored in terracotta amphorae just as they did in Roman times. I bought a couple of cases and brought one along tonight, so I’ll leave the other eleven bottles here for future festivities in the hope that you all enjoy it as much as I do. Now drink up and let’s attack the other bottles.’

  Miranda brought in the shoulder and leg of lamb on a giant platter, surrounded by whole heads of garlic, followed by Pamela bringing a large bowl of roast potatoes. The scent of the rosemary, on a bed of which the lamb had been roasted, filled the room. Jack excused himself, left the room briefly and returned with a gravy boat which he announced with pride contained his traditional English mint sauce. When the Baron asked how it was made, Jack replied that he crushed finely chopped mint leaves into a spoonful of sugar and a little oil until it had turned into a rough paste then thinned it out with vinegar. The Baron’s eyes widened. Gilles and the Mayor exchanged glances. Mon Dieu, thought Bruno, the things I do for international understanding.

  Meanwhile, Jack had wrapped a napkin around his hand, used it to seize the bone at the end of the leg, and began to carve the thick end of the shoulder that was still attached. He was using one of Pamela’s Japanese knives and the slices of lamb fell away like butter. Miranda began serving the more cooked slices to her father and Pamela and to her own and her children’s plates, evidently understanding that the French preferred their meat somewhat pinker.

  Bruno’s own portion was perfect, obviously very slowly cooked at a low temperature, and the roasted heads of garlic squeezed out their delicious tender flesh when he pressed them lightly with his knife. He took a sip of the cuvée Ortus he had brought and thought it the perfect accompaniment. Seeing the others enjoying it, despite his fear that it might be too much like mutton for their taste , Bruno raised his glass to Miranda to tell her that her lamb was an Anglo-French triumph. The others raised their own glasses to toast her, the children following suit with their own glasses of mineral water.

  ‘My friends at school say they are allowed a little taste of wine in their water, Mummy,’ said Miranda’s eldest son, Mark. ‘May we try that?’

  She glanced at her father who gave a discreet nod and she agreed. Bruno carefully poured a teaspoon of wine into the boy’s glass, turning it a pale pink and telling him that this was an important moment and the other children would be allowed their own taste of wine when they were older. That seemed to satisfy them, although Bruno was sure that Mark’s younger brother would manage to sneak a sip when the grown-ups weren’t looking.

  ‘I think this may be the moment to introduce you all to my secret sauce,’ said Jack, raising the gravy boat of his mint concoction. Bruno gamely accepted it and used a spoon to put a small helping of a thin green sauce onto the side of his plate. He dipped a morsel of lamb into it and tried it, dreading what the mint and vinegar would do to his enjoyment of the bottle of Tiregand that Gilles had started to pour.

  In fact, the mint and the sharpness of the vinegar went quite well with the lamb, but the sugar seemed to Bruno a bizarre and unnecessary addition. Still, in the interest of friendship he tried another portion, and this time he was accustomed to the sweetness of the sugar that had at first surprised him, and began to see that this could work. Perhaps if he tried a little honey instead of the sugar . . . Suddenly he was aware of a conversation down the table, a female voice in full and vehement flow.

  ‘I think it’s shameful, a deliberate denial of history,’ declared Jacqueline. ‘The British have long had a thirty-year rule before the release of government papers, why not the Americans? France is now a full member of NATO, so what possible reason could they have for withholding the Rosenholz dossier? It’s been more than thirty years.’

  ‘Secret papers aren’t released in Britain after thirty years, only routine ones, and they have to be cleared by a committee of historians and officials,’ Crimson replied. ‘And you know perfectly well, Jacqueline, that France is even more cautious about releasing state papers than the British or Americans.’

  ‘I know that, Jack, and you’re right,’ she replied. ‘But I don’t see why serious historians in democratic countries have to work in the dark just to protect the reputations of antiquated politicians for rotten decisions they took in secret when they were in power.’

  ‘What secret decisions are you talking about?’ asked Gilles, in a voice that silenced the other conversations around the table and reminded Bruno that Gilles still wrote for Paris Match from time to time. ‘Is this to do with that Cold War conference in Washington you attended?’

  Jack laid down his knife and fork, looked up at the ceiling and said, almost with a groan, ‘Now we have the media involved.’

  ‘About time, too!’ said Jacqueline, tapping the table for emphasis. ‘I think I should write an op-ed for Le Monde about it.’ She looked around the table almost fiercely before going on. ‘The Americans have been sitting on a vast trove of Stasi documents, listing all the East German agents around the world, and they’ve shared the German sections with the Germans and the British sections with the British. But France is still deemed too untrustworthy for the CIA to let us know how badly we may have been penetrated by East German intelligence.’

  ‘I see your point but it’s all a long time ago,’ said the Mayor.

  ‘In historical terms, and in terms of official careers, it is uncomfortably short,’ Jacqueline replied. ‘Imagine young French students, recruited when they were in their twenties at Sciences-Po or some other springboard into government. They would now be in their fifties, in senior positions with another decade or so in office. Imagine the damage they could do.’

  ‘But the Stasi has been extinct for thirty years,’ said Fabiola. ‘Who would these officials be working for now?’

  ‘The Stasi shared everything with the KGB,’ Jacqueline replied, more calmly this time. ‘Moscow would be in a position to force those people to work for them. And so would the Americans, so long as we in France don’t have the documentation to expose them.’

  ‘Sounds like a hell of a good story,’ said Gilles. ‘And I see why you might want to run this in Le Monde but you’d get a far bigger audience if we ran this in Paris Match.’

  As silence fell, Bruno filled everyone’s glasses with the bottle from David Fourtout, modestly titled Le Vin. He asked the Baron what he thought of it, hoping that the conversation would drift off into new directions. Florence, who was sitting like Miranda at the end of the table closest to their children, came in with a question.

  ‘Why don’t the Americans trust France?’

  Jacqueline looked at Crimson, Bruno looked at the Mayor, Pamela looked at Gilles and finally the Baron spoke.

  ‘As a life-long Gaullist, I always appreciated his insistence on an independent foreign policy that put French interests first,’ he said. ‘De Gaulle did so during World War Two, and after it, and this sometimes rubbed up our British and American friends the wrong way. Bruno, what’s that story about Lyndon Johnson’s reaction when he was told that de Gaulle was pulling out of NATO and insisted that all American troops leave French soil?’

  ‘Johnson told his Secretary of State Dean Rusk to ask de Gaulle if that included the Americans in the Normandy cemeteries who died to liberate France.’ Bruno paused a moment and looked around the table. ‘Much as I admire de Gaulle, I have to say I feel a little ashamed each time I think of that question.’

  6

  Bruno awoke just before six when his cockerel announced the new day, and since he’d drifted off to sleep thinking of Balzac’s pups, he jumped out of bed to check his emails. Just before the news headlines sent automatically from Sud Ouest and the radio news from France Inter in his inbox, there was mail from Claire Mornier at the k
ennels, timed at three in the morning.

  Félicitations à Papa Balzac. Nine beautiful pups born well; five little Dianes de Poitiers and four Balzacs.

  Bruno laughed, jumped up, then bent down to caress his dog and tell him what a wonderful father he’d be and with so many offspring to his name. He swigged some orange juice from the fridge, donned his tracksuit and running shoes and led Balzac out onto the familiar trail through the woods. The birds were far too happy with their new day to interrupt their singing for a lonely runner, and the harmonious range of their various songs reinforced Bruno’s sudden conviction that the world was full of little miracles and that he couldn’t wait to see its latest gift.

  Twenty minutes later, back at home, he turned on the radio and emailed Claire to thank her for the news, and ask whether it would be convenient for him to come and see the puppies at around eleven. He jumped into the shower, shaved, put a fresh egg on to boil and made coffee before he dressed in his summer uniform. Back in the kitchen, he refilled Balzac’s water bowl, sliced the remains of yesterday’s baguette and put the pieces into the toaster. Then he went outside to feed his chickens, collect six fresh eggs and replenish their water.

  His egg, coffee and toasted baguette ready, he shared the latter with Balzac and began to plan his day. He could be at his desk in St Denis before seven thirty, deal with the mail and paperwork, and escort the mothers and toddlers across the road to the maternelle school just before eight. He’d have plenty of time to patrol the town and show his face at the Mairie before leaving for the kennels at around ten, first dropping off Balzac at the riding school. He found a used carton for the six fresh eggs and grabbed a jar of his home-made pâté. He also took a sack of his own recipe dog biscuits, all this intended as gifts for Claire. He set off for town in his ancient Land Rover: it wouldn’t be right to use his official police van for a personal trip to the kennels.