The Coldest Case

by Martin Walker

  ‘Good thinking, Bruno. You ask Yveline and I’ll see you in my office at two tomorrow.’

  J-J ended the call and Bruno sat for a long moment, thinking of the drama of a long-gone murder investigation that was about to engulf Sabine’s family while they were still mourning the death of their son and brother in Mali. J-J would leave no stone unturned and no family privacy protected in his determination to resolve the case that had nagged at him throughout his career. Worse still, Bruno suspected that the investigation was unlikely to come up with any clear answers about a murder that had taken place thirty years ago. Oscar had never been reported missing by family and friends so there were no relatives still grieving and seeking closure for their loss. Witnesses were likely to be dead or forgetful and leads would be thin. J-J’s obsession could tear a family apart for a very dubious outcome.

  7

  Virginie, the student recommended by Elisabeth Daynès to reconstruct the face from Oscar’s skull, had been at work for a few days when Bruno and the Mayor called in to visit her at the police lab in Périgueux. It had been Bruno’s idea to visit Virginie before the Prefect’s meeting. Having spent time with Claire at the kennels the previous day, Bruno was struck by the contrast between the two women. Claire so relaxed and full of confidence in her skills, while Virginie – admittedly much younger – seemed quite intense and less sure of herself.

  ‘Are you settling in all right?’ Bruno asked her, after introducing himself and the Mayor, and pointedly not looking at the metal ring Virginie wore in one nostril and the studs in her eyebrows and lower lip. ‘Is there anything that you need?’

  ‘Everything is fine, thank you, and Madame Daynès told me to say that she sends you her special regards,’ she said. ‘I’m really grateful to have this opportunity and everybody here has been very kind and helpful. I even have my own room at the student hostel, which is more than I had in Paris.’

  Virginie was wearing a white lab coat that was far too large for her, almost reaching her fluorescent orange running shoes. The rolled-up sleeves revealed a complex geometric tattoo above one wrist. Her pink-dyed hair was rolled up into a tight bun revealing pretty ears that rose into a slight point, almost like an elf. She wore no make-up but her clear skin didn’t need it. Her eyes were splendid, huge and dark. Bruno knew that she was in her early twenties but she looked no more than sixteen. He suspected her waif-like appeal might attract a parade of curious and admiring policemen inventing reasons to visit the lab. He’d better have a word with J-J about it.

  ‘Where’s Oscar?’ the Mayor asked. Virginie looked blank.

  ‘The skull,’ Bruno explained. ‘That’s what J-J – I mean Chief Detective Jalipeau – has always called him.’

  ‘I see. I was told to call him Exhibit A,’ she said, and gestured to a corner. ‘He’s over there on a rotating stand in that thing that looks like a microwave. It’s a laser linked to a computer, making an exact image in three dimensions from which the 3D printer is building the copies I’ll work on. It also means that Madame Daynès will be able to monitor what I’m doing in real time.’

  ‘Copies?’ Bruno asked. ‘Why do you need more than one?’

  ‘To try alternative eye colours, different noses, different hairstyles and body mass index.’ She sounded impatient, almost bridling at someone who seemed to question her skill. He gave a friendly nod to encourage her and she relaxed a little.

  ‘It’s only the cost of the extra plastic,’ she said. ‘Six or seven euros each for an identical skull. That’s how I was trained to work.’

  ‘J-J told me the dead man’s hair was quite long and blond, not shoulder-length. You should check that with him.’

  ‘What’s your schedule here?’ the Mayor asked. ‘I mean, how long do you think it should take?’

  Virginie lifted her chin and gave them both a determined look. ‘I’ll work as long as I can every day, six days a week. I know it’s urgent. But look at that,’ she gestured to a large poster on the wall, a detailed illustration of the human facial muscles. It looked fiendishly complicated.

  ‘I’ll have to recreate each muscle, precisely calibrated to the shape of the skull beneath. I was already told that this was needed as soon as possible so I’ll work as fast as I can without sacrificing accuracy.’

  ‘Good for you, and your priorities are the right ones,’ the Mayor said, nodding his approval and trying to put her at ease. ‘But we can’t let you come to the Périgord without enjoying the sights and the food.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to pick you up and take you down to our area on some convenient Sunday,’ Bruno said. ‘You need some time off. I could pick you up here on a Saturday and get you back here in the lab on Monday morning. We can put you up at a local house with people we know. After seeing the exhibition at the museum, I know several who’ll be fascinated by your work.

  ‘That reminds me,’ he added, handing her a brown paper bag. ‘There’s some of my home-made pâté de foie gras in there and a jar of my onion confit to go with it, a home-made saucisson and a local cheese made by a friend of mine. Just so you know how good the local food can be.’

  She blushed prettily and gave them a lovely smile which almost made up for the tattoo. ‘Thank you, that’s kind of you. I should say the food’s not bad at the student hostel here, much better than the one in Paris. Even the police canteen does a great salad buffet. And their coffee is free.’

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ the Mayor said. ‘Here’s my card with my office and mobile numbers and my email. Just let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.’

  ‘And don’t forget to tell me when you’ll be free to visit us in St Denis,’ Bruno chimed in. ‘We can take you to the museum in Les Eyzies to see Elisabeth’s exhibition that puts all of her – and your – work into context.’

  The two men climbed the stairs from the lab and Bruno took them on the short cut through the busy police canteen where dozens of cops – traffic, uniformed and plain-clothes – were tucking into their steak-frites. One or two friends from rugby or previous cases nodded and waved in recognition as Bruno strolled through, but one large cop in uniform, whom Bruno did not know, called out loudly and with an unpleasant sneer in his voice, ‘Watch it, boys, it’s the country copper. How are the sheep-shaggers down there in the Périgord Noir?’

  This was not the time to take offence, Bruno thought.

  ‘They’re leaving all the ewes very contented,’ he replied amiably. He walked on through a ripple of laughter and then turned at the door, raised his hand in a wave and declared, ‘I just hope you big city guys can say the same about your own partners.’

  ‘Do the city cops always tease you like that?’ the Mayor asked, as they left the building.

  ‘Quite often, but it’s something you get used to,’ Bruno said. ‘Male-dominated societies like the cops and the military tend to be clannish, always ready to challenge outsiders. There’s usually no harm in it but that guy was trying to be offensive. I think I’d better keep an eye on him in the future.’

  He and the Mayor headed up the road to the Préfecture, wishing they had taken the car as the sauna-like heat rose from the paving stones. The Mayor observed that it was markedly warmer than in St Denis and began discoursing on cities as ‘heat sinks’, a lecture that took them to the Préfecture for a predictably disappointing meeting. The Prefect, as representative of the French government, had summoned a selection of local officials to ensure that he could claim they’d been consulted and that he had support for the unpopular measure of imposing water restrictions. These would ban the watering by hose of all private and municipal gardens, outlaw the refilling of private swimming pools and the use of car wash centres. Local fire brigades would make their own preparations to tackle forest fires.

  Sitting beside Bruno, the Mayor of St Denis asked if the much greater use of water for crops would continue unrestrained. Yes, of course, the Prefect replied. A
griculture was a state priority. So that would naturally include orchards and market gardens, the Mayor continued. Indeed, said the Prefect. The Mayor sat back and murmured to Bruno, ‘That means I’ve saved your tomatoes.’

  And probably saved your own re-election, thought Bruno privately. But he was most struck by what the Prefect had not said. This heatwave and drought was not only a problem for swimming pools and lawns. Perhaps he should have a word with Albert, the chief pompier in St Denis, about possible precautions against forest fires.

  The gathering of mayors, local police and fire chiefs broke up, grumbling as always about officials from Paris never understanding rural concerns. The Mayor stayed to mingle and Bruno excused himself. He headed for J-J’s office to be told that the meeting would be held in the much larger office of Prunier, recently promoted to the rank of Contrôleur-Général as the senior police officer of the whole département. He and Bruno had first met as opponents in the army–police rugby match. Both men saw this as a firm basis for enduring friendship, however irritating Bruno’s loyalty to St Denis could occasionally be for Prunier’s much greater responsibilities.

  Bruno also thought highly of Prunier’s taste in coffee, and smiled as he recalled introducing Prunier to Léopold, the big Senegalese in the St Denis market who imported and sold excellent coffees from Africa. Like Bruno, Prunier had become a convert and bought kilos of the stuff for his home and persuaded the manager of the police canteen to buy it, too. As he entered the police HQ, Bruno’s nose caught the familiar and welcome aroma. No police station could run for long without vast quantities of the stuff and Prunier had won the hearts of his force by insisting that everyone should drink the same excellent coffee that he enjoyed, rather than the usual sludge of most police canteens.

  ‘Bonjour, Bruno,’ said Prunier, advancing from behind his desk to shake hands and pour Bruno’s coffee. J-J waved a greeting from one of the comfortable armchairs that faced Prunier’s desk.

  ‘I see you escaped from the Prefect’s meeting almost as fast as I did,’ Prunier said, smiling as he handed Bruno a cup of coffee. ‘My secretary has just heard from her counterpart at the General’s office that this gendarme, Sabine Castignac, is on her way here, accompanied by Commandante Yveline, and in a state of some distress. Apparently Castignac’s superiors in Metz had neglected to inform her that her only brother was in fact her half-brother. She’d only been told that she’d been reassigned to us and to take all family albums with her.’

  ‘Knowing the gendarmes, that doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ said J-J. ‘They are not always the most sensitive of colleagues.’

  Bruno’s eyes widened, startled to hear J-J complain of insensitivity in others. He caught Prunier’s eye and saw the commissaire’s eyelid flutter in what might have been a very discreet wink.

  ‘The gendarme general here is a decent man and he took it upon himself to brief her more fully before she joined us, so at least we’re spared that unpleasant chore,’ he said. ‘He’s also authorized her to be assigned to Commandante Yveline Gerlache in St Denis.

  ‘We’ll try to take good care of her in St Denis,’ said Bruno. ‘But won’t the family photo albums be back at her family house?’

  ‘We’ll find out,’ said J-J. ‘She’s from Bordeaux originally so we might take her home for a family reunion. Obviously we’ll need to question her mother about the identity of the real father, and I’m not looking forward to that.’

  ‘So not only Castignac but also her parents are not aware of the DNA findings from her brother?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘Apparently not,’ said Prunier, pausing as they heard a discreet knock at the door. ‘Let’s be as professional and as courteous as possible to this young woman. There’s no need to make the family drama even worse.’ He raised his voice and called out, ‘Enter.’

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Commissaire, Bruno, J-J,’ said Yveline. ‘Allow me to introduce Sergeant Castignac of the Gendarmerie Nationale.’

  Sabine Castignac marched to Prunier’s desk, came to attention with a soft thud of rubber-soled boots and gave a brisk salute. She was wearing full dress uniform, the stripes on her epaulettes gleaming so new that Bruno suspected she’d attached them while travelling from Metz. Her promotion to sergeant must have been very recent indeed. Her blonde hair was tucked at her neck in a tight bun. She was sturdily built with broad shoulders and her skin had a glow of health and fitness that suggested she spent long hours in the gym. Her eyes showed no hint of tears, so whatever shock she had experienced in her general’s office had been overcome. Her hands, properly aligned on the seams of her trousers, looked strong and well-kept. To Bruno’s eye, she was an impressive young woman whose face was dominated by a determined chin and a nose that had at some point been broken and reset. In a man, he’d have thought it a rugby injury, but more and more women now played the sport. He’d raise the idea with her; it might establish a useful bond.

  ‘Reporting for duty, sir,’ she said, still at attention, in a strong, clear voice with no apparent regional accent.

  ‘At ease, Sergeant, and please sit. Would you like some coffee?’ Prunier said. ‘I gather you now know what this is all about.’

  ‘No coffee, thank you, sir,’ she said, taking a hard-backed chair and sitting at attention, her eyes on the wall above Prunier’s head. ‘Yes, I have been briefed on the situation regarding my late brother Louis. I now know that his DNA shows that he’s my half-brother, fathered by an unidentified murder victim some thirty years ago, and not by the man who brought us both up. I’m still trying to come to terms with this news and with the implications for my family.’

  ‘I realize this comes late but please accept my condolences on the death of Louis on active duty in Mali,’ Prunier said. ‘And my apologies for bringing you this unsettling news about his parentage. Let me introduce Commissaire Jean-Jacques Jalipeau, chief of detectives for the département, and Chief of Police Bruno Courrèges of the Vézère valley. I’m sure we can count on your professionalism in helping us investigate this unsolved murder.’

  ‘Yes, sir. We always seek to cooperate with our colleagues of the Police Nationale.’ She said the words as if she’d learned them by rote. She glanced at Bruno and added hastily, ‘And our colleagues of the Police Municipale, of course.’ She paused again. ‘I mean, we’re all on the same side.’

  Prunier said nothing. J-J raised his eyebrows, doubtless thinking of all the turf battles he and every other member of the Police Nationale had waged against the Gendarmes. They liked to think they were the only police who really mattered, with a pedigree that went back far beyond their formal foundation in 1793 as the shock troops of the French Revolution. In fact they had begun as a highly politicized paramilitary force dedicated to the suppression of the Catholic faithful, the monarchists, feudal aristos and their bourgeois allies and all the other enemies of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. They had found some obscure soldier who died in battle against the English at Agincourt in 1415, the prévôt des maréchaux Gallois de Fougières, and adopted him to give themselves an even longer and more impressive pedigree. In 1934, after considerable research, Gallois was officially declared to be the first known gendarme to have died on duty and his remains are buried under the monument to the Gendarmerie in Versailles.

  ‘Your general sent me a copy of your file,’ Prunier said, opening a manila folder and glancing through it, turning the pages quickly. ‘It’s very impressive. I see you are a keen mountaineer and that you volunteer for the ski patrol at Gérardmer. I didn’t know the Vosges hills were high enough for skiing.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Gérardmer is only twelve hundred metres high but I’ve had some good skiing there. It can be icy, which is how I broke my nose, and it’s not as magnificent as the Alps. Still, it’s only two hours from Metz.’

  ‘Right. I understand you were asked to bring any family photo albums you might have.’

  ‘All the family albums are back h
ome in Bordeaux. I brought with me the photos I had in Metz: two of my parents’ wedding photos and one of my brother, I mean my half-brother. They’re in my bag outside the door. Should I get them?’

  Prunier nodded and she went to the door and brought in a large duffel bag with wheels, opened it and removed three framed photographs. Prunier stood them on his desk so all could see them.

  ‘This first one is my parents at their wedding,’ Sabine said. ‘The second one is a group photo with my grandparents, my father’s témoin and my mother’s demoiselle d’honneur. This last one is my brother Louis when he passed out of the special warfare training centre at Perpignan.’

  The photo of the wedding couple was slightly faded but clear enough. The groom looked some years older than his bride, maybe in his mid-thirties, and each of them looked slightly stunned as they smiled, dressed in clothes that must have been fashionable at the time. The groom’s wide lapels and even wider tie matched the exaggerated shoulders of the white wedding dress of a bride whose face had been heavily made up. Bruno suspected she’d have looked more attractive without it. The group photo, in which she was laughing with a slightly taller young woman, showed her to be slim and attractive with dancing eyes, a generous mouth and a long, elegant neck. Bruno was mildly surprised that this young bride had produced a daughter like Sabine, whose physique must have been inherited from her father.

  ‘Is that the demoiselle d’honneur standing beside her?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘Yes, Dominique, Mum’s best friend ever since they were kids. They met the first day of school and remained almost inseparable since. I think of her as my aunt. She was wonderful in Mum’s last illness, held us all together even though she was grieving as much as we were.’