During the short drive into town he thought about the Mayor and how to offer him one of Balzac’s pups without making him feel he should pay for what Bruno intended as a gift. Best to be as straightforward as possible, he thought. He parked in the main square since it was not a market day and went to his office. Shortly before eight, with Balzac on his leash, he set off for the maternelle nursery school, pausing only to greet his acquaintances as they opened their shops or hurried to work. St Denis was a town that rose early. Balzac tolerated being petted by the toddlers once they and their mothers had safely crossed the road.
He and Balzac made their usual circuit of the town, past the retirement home, the church and the cemetery, turning at the Gendarmerie to head up to the old main street before turning back onto the Rue de Paris and back to the main square. The Mayor was standing at the front desk, chatting with his secretary and Roberte from the social service team while waiting for his fancy coffee machine to finish his morning brew.
‘Bonjour, Bruno, and you, Balzac,’ he said, and turned to tell his secretary to make another cup for Bruno. ‘A word, if you please.’ He steered Bruno into his office, closed the door and said, ‘I’m a bit worried about this CIA dossier business. My instincts tell me this might not be the best time for Jacqueline to start making a fuss about it, least of all in Le Monde. What do you think?’
‘It might ruffle some feathers, both among our own security people and across the Atlantic,’ said Bruno, ‘but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be aired. Our secret state sometimes seems to forget they work for a democracy. Against that, I can’t say I like the idea of some witch-hunt for old Stasi spies in the current political climate with fake news and the superheated rhetoric of social media. I remember what Jack Crimson said about those well-meaning British peace activists who were listed as agents in those Stasi files. I assume the French counter-espionage people have been aware of this prospect for a while and tried to deal with it.’
‘That’s my feeling, or at least part of it. I’m also concerned about Jacqueline putting herself into a very public controversy with all the social media trolling that’s likely to follow.’
‘That has to be her decision,’ said Bruno. ‘I’m confident she’ll think it through and we both know she takes your own views seriously.’
The secretary tapped at the door with the toe of her shoe, and came in with a tray of coffee. A wave of her freshly applied perfume drowned the delicious smell of coffee as she swayed past him, fluttering her eyelashes. He sighed inwardly, thanked her with a cool smile and held the door open for her to leave. Her flirtatious ways would never change!
‘There’s something I wanted to tell you,’ Bruno said after she left. ‘Good news. Balzac’s puppies were born in the small hours of this morning, five females and four males. After your kindness in giving me Gigi when I first came to St Denis, I’d like you to have one and I’m sure Balzac would agree.’
The Mayor put down his coffee cup and beamed first at Bruno, then at Balzac, and said, ‘That’s wonderful news. I’m very happy for him and for you, and I’m touched by your offer. But I don’t think I want to go through the serious business of training a puppy at my age. These days I like to sleep in rather longer than basset hounds. I remember chatting to the Baron about it after he lost his dog and he said puppies were best raised on a working farm or in a house with children. I rather agree.’
‘I get some pups instead of a stud fee and I thought I’d give one to Florence’s children. I was saving the other for you.’
‘Thank you, but no. And I don’t think Jacqueline is nearly as much of a dog lover as you and me. In fact, she’s thinking of getting a cat. But I’m sure you’ll find a good home for the second hound. It’s a grand idea to offer one to Florence’s kids but I’d raise it with her first. She might well think she has enough on her plate. And the children feel they have a part-share in Balzac already.’
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Bruno admitted. ‘You’re right. I’d better check with her first. I thought I might drive up to the kennels later today and take a first look at the puppies.’
‘Give them all my warmest good wishes and make sure you don’t let one of them pee on your hand. That means he or she owns you. But you might want to join me tomorrow at noon in Périgueux. The Prefect has called an informal conference over this heatwave, whether we should impose controls on water, special measures for old people, setting up cooling rooms in retirement homes and so on. They’re worried about another disaster like the canicule.’
A surge of extreme heat in 2003 had led to many deaths, mainly among the elderly and infirm. The rivers had been unusually low and the water tables so sparse that fire engines had to come in relays to pump cooling water from their hoses onto the nuclear power stations. Successive governments had since been acutely aware of the dangers, and noticeably more sensitive to warnings of climate change. A recent spate of forest fires in southern France had sharpened the swelling sense of alarm. The government had made much of the purchase of four new specialist fire-fighting aircraft.
Bruno agreed to accompany the Mayor and suggested that if they had time, they could call in on Virginie, Elisabeth’s student who had started work at the police lab in Périgueux. After checking that he had an email from Claire confirming that he’d be welcome, but this was not the time for Balzac to meet his pups, Bruno dropped off Balzac at the riding school and set out for the kennels.
En route he put in his earphones and called up on his phone the app of English lessons that Pamela had given him. He was at the third level now, which meant that Jack and Jill were no longer navigating the London Underground or watching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. They were now at an industrial museum in a place called Telford and admiring the first iron bridge. It was mildly interesting and he felt slightly virtuous at improving his imperfect command of the language. Mouthing the English words, he drove out through Rouffignac and Thenon, past the magnificent chateau of Hautefort and up the familiar road to the kennels. It had taken barely an hour.
He paused before pulling into the main courtyard, admiring the familiar spread, the old barns converted into kennels and the paddock filled with the big Malinois dogs that Claire raised for the military. They were bounding around the score or so of basset hounds who had cleverly developed their own game of running in between the legs of the Malinois to make them trip over. He could imagine Balzac enjoying that. As he parked, Claire came out to greet him.
‘Bonjour, Bruno,’ she said, embracing him. ‘It’s good to see you, and the puppies are enchanting. How’s the new father?’
He laughed. ‘Blissfully ignorant of his new status.’ He handed her the gifts. ‘I’m sure his pups are too young for my dog biscuits but Diane de Poitiers and the other dogs may enjoy them.’
‘They certainly scoffed down the last lot you brought,’ she said. ‘I even tried one myself and enjoyed it. Let’s go see the new family.’
She led him to the familiar converted pigsty, which he had known as the mating chamber and was now a maternity ward. Before going inside she turned, looking serious.
‘Stay back well behind me, kneel down so you don’t intimidate her and stay silent until I say it’s all right,’ she said firmly. He nodded.
‘Of course.’
‘Even then, speak very softly. Don’t touch her and please don’t move towards the puppies. In the unlikely event that one of them pulls back from the teats and crawls towards you, stay absolutely still and let them explore you a little but please don’t react and don’t stroke them. She’s very protective just now and she might reject one that has your unfamiliar smell. It was an easy birth, no complications, but still, she’s exhausted and with a pup on almost every teat she has enough to deal with without you. OK?’
‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘May I take some photos on my phone?’
‘Not if you have automatic flash. I already took some
for you when she was sleeping. I’ll take some more over the next few days and forward them to you. And if I tell you to leave, please do so quietly and without abrupt movements.’
She opened the door and Bruno saw the red light from the infra-red lamp and heater. He was surprised to see it being used in summer. A strong scent of dog and milk and something indefinable reached him, not at all unpleasant and faintly reminiscent of truffles. He rather liked it. Claire slipped in, pulled the door to and he waited for a few moments before she opened it again and gestured him in.
Bruno did as he was told, moved slowly, crouching, and staying by the door, letting his eyes grow accustomed to the red light. The scent was even stronger now. As he peered forward he saw what seemed to be a crawling, heaving mass of legs and heads and squirming bodies. It reminded him of some kind of hive, a complex but single organism. The image stayed with him until he was able to pick out the individual puppies. They seemed to be the usual mixture of black, brown and white in various individual patterns, and there were two who were pale brown and white. Even in the red light, the pads of their feet were as pink as their mother’s teats and he smiled at the memory of Balzac as a pup, the soft underflesh of his paws this same pink before they hardened and became dark. The fullness of Diane’s teats was striking and the pups were piled on top of one another to reach them. Each of the pups seemed to be affixed to a teat, except for one very small one who was nuzzling at its mother’s lowered head. He felt a touch of awe as he watched, aware that as a male he was privileged to be present at this most intimately female of moments.
One, a black, brown and white pup on the upper tier of teats, seemed to lose his grip and fall off, tumbling over its siblings below and then rolling a little on the bed of hay. The mother nuzzled the pup, using her nose to push the tiny creature back up the pile to a vacant teat. But the pup seemed curious. Bruno couldn’t even see if its eyes had opened yet but it raised its head a little and moved it from side to side, as if sniffing curiously at this new world before going back to feed.
He tried to count them in the constantly shifting pattern of fur and legs and pale pink tummies, but it was impossible. He assumed Claire had counted as each pup was born and he was impressed that she had already determined the sex of each one. To his untrained eyes and in the dim red light, there was no visible difference between them.
The mother was now trying to push the tiny brown and white one towards a teat, and the bigger puppy, who’d seemed curious just now, was crawling over her hind legs as though heading towards Claire. Gently, its mother pushed it back and helped it clamber over a row of siblings to find an empty teat on the second level. Bruno could have stayed watching for hours, deciding it was far more interesting and affecting than any television.
‘I’m thinking of giving one of them to two young children I know,’ he whispered. ‘They are twins, a boy and a girl, nearly four years old and the children of a good friend back in St Denis. They adore Balzac and I think they’d love a basset of their own. When might I be welcome to bring them to see the puppies?’
‘It’s difficult to restrain children so not before three weeks. I’ll be keeping them here for another month after that until they’re weaned,’ she replied. ‘Grown-ups can come and take a look at the puppies after about a week or so.’
‘I liked the curious one who kept moving around,’ Bruno said once they were back outside in the open air. ‘And the little brown and white one who was nuzzling at its mother’s nose. The others all seemed glued to their milk.’
‘The first one is the pick of the litter, so he’s yours by right,’ Claire said. ‘The little one is the runt, and she’s also yours since there are nine. If you want a third pup you’d have to buy it, and don’t forget the vet fees, the vaccinations, the pedigree registrations and so on. When you add it all up that usually costs between three and four hundred euros for each puppy.’
Bruno nodded, saying he understood. He’d never thought of a third puppy being part of the deal.
‘I have five of the litter sold already from pre-orders, at fifteen hundred each, and I’ll have no trouble selling the other two,’ Claire went on. ‘Bear in mind that I’d like to book Balzac in for servicing my other bitches, say two or three times a year. All the pups are perfect. Balzac gets a large litter and his own pedigree is very grand, so you can expect lots more pups to give away or sell in future.’
‘Mon Dieu, I could almost make a living out of this,’ Bruno exclaimed, surprised that his dog was so commercially valuable. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I’ve already had two enquiries from other kennels whether Balzac would be available to service their dams,’ Claire went on. ‘You could let him out for service every month or two, for which you can charge three hundred euros a time. Or you could take a pup or two pups from each litter to sell. You see how the money soon mounts up, if that’s what you want. Your Balzac is a little gold mine. Bassets are starting to become very fashionable since they’re so good with children and they look so special.’
‘I’d have to consider that,’ said Bruno. ‘I’d want to know something about the homes the pups would be going to. I mean, Balzac is my friend as well as my dog. I don’t like to think of him as some sort of rent-a-sperm, fertilizing all-comers for cash.’
‘They wouldn’t be all-comers,’ Claire laughed. ‘Pedigree ladies only, preferably named after royal mistresses. I don’t think you realize just how special Balzac’s pedigree really is. I believe you were told when you first got him that Balzac comes from the old royal pack at Cheverny. That means we can trace his ancestry back for more than three centuries. In human terms, he’s a duke or a count or something, maybe even a pretender to the throne.’
Her eyes twinkled as she said this and they both laughed at the absurdity of it.
‘That’s what breeding is all about,’ she said. ‘So it’s like a fairy tale, you’re the commoner, the poor but honest woodsman, secretly raising and nurturing the heir to the throne. Meanwhile, wicked and jealous aristocrats seek to hunt him down. You could even write an opera about it.’
‘The mind reels,’ said Bruno. ‘Maybe he has an evil stepmother with two ugly daughters, each determined to catch him.’
‘That’s Cinderella,’ she replied, grinning in return. ‘Or maybe it’s the tale of the prince who is raised among the common people and learns to love them while moving secretly among them, avoiding the greedy nobles. And then he seizes the moment to mount the throne and chooses to marry the poor but honest country girl who helped protect him through many dangers.’
‘And they all lived happily ever after,’ said Bruno, smiling a little wistfully. ‘Do children today still get told those old stories? Tales in which goodness and loyalty are eventually rewarded and wickedness punished? I fear they don’t hear them when they’re little and I wish they still did.’
‘Were you told them?’ she asked, quietly.
‘Yes, I was, by the nuns in our orphanage,’ he said, enthused by the memory. ‘There was always a Bible story but then a fairy tale, all of us children in our little cots, our eyes wide, rapt with attention, while a nun read to us all aloud. I haven’t thought of that for years.’
He felt a prickling in his eyes, as though he was about to shed a tear. So he took a deep breath, then blew his nose and looked away at the bassets and Malinois romping in the pasture.
‘You’re an unusual man, Bruno,’ she said. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to think of you as a policeman. Isabelle is a lucky woman.’
If only she saw it like that, he thought ruefully.
On the return journey, J-J called. Bruno pulled in to answer and was struck by the excitement in J-J’s voice.
‘We’ve had a breakthrough. That special forces guy who was killed in Mali, Louis Castignac – Oscar’s Son. We’ve traced the next of kin he listed through army records. It’s his younger sister, named Sabine. And would you believe she’s a cop, so he
r DNA is also on file. She’s a gendarme based in Metz, near the German border, born just over a year after Louis. And from Louis’s birth date, we know Oscar was still alive as late as July, 1989.’
‘So Sabine would have to be Louis’s half-sister, with the same mother but a different father,’ Bruno said.
‘Right, but so what?’ asked J-J. ‘She’s still the official next of kin.’
‘J-J, wait a second. Does this Sabine know he was only her half-brother? I mean, she’s already mourning his death. This news may shock her all over again.’
‘Merde,’ J-J replied. ‘You’re right. And the answer is that I don’t know. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. The gendarme general here has arranged for her to be temporarily assigned to us. She’ll get here early tomorrow afternoon so I’ll want you here for a conference some time around two.’
‘That’s fine. I have to be in town for a Prefect’s meeting at noon,’ Bruno said.
‘Sabine Castignac is twenty-eight, born in Bordeaux. She’s been in the gendarmes for six years, just been promoted to sergeant and she’s passed the exam for officer training school. So she’ll be able to deal with it professionally.’
Mon Dieu, Bruno thought to himself. J-J was never the sensitive type but this was a bit cold-blooded, even for him. He would have to find a way to steer J-J towards handling this young female colleague with considerably more care.
‘Congratulations, J-J, you must be pleased. It looks like all your years of work on Oscar are finally coming good,’ Bruno began. ‘But what do we know about Sabine’s family? It’s the mother we need to talk to – she’s the one who knew your Oscar and got pregnant by him so she should be able to give us his real name. And there must be family photos. We’ll need all that, and the date of their wedding.’
‘And does Sabine know what this is all about?’ Bruno asked. ‘Might it make sense to bring in another woman to support her through this? I could ask Yveline. She’s wise and she’s smart and I suspect Sabine is going to need all the help she can get. And now that Sergeant Jules has bought a house there’s a spare lodging at the St Denis gendarmerie where Sabine could stay while your investigation proceeds. She could be a real asset if we handle this right.’
The Coldest Case Page 6