The Coldest Case

by Martin Walker

  ‘I understand but I’d hate to deprive the children of such a gift and it might even be good for them. I’d better sleep on it.’ They’d reached the collège. ‘I’m really touched that you thought of this.’ She hugged him and went inside.

  Bruno’s eyes followed her and he thought he had not handled that well. But then his phone buzzed with an incoming message. As he pulled it from the pouch he felt the different vibration of an incoming call. He looked at the screen. It was J-J.

  ‘I just sent you a copy of Yves’ two composite pictures, one of Max and the other of Henri,’ he said. ‘They look very convincing to me. I’m waiting to hear back from Tante-Do to see what she thinks. If she says they’re good, we can prepare to launch the media campaign. And Virginie says she should have Oscar’s reconstructed face in a few days. The funny thing is, she refused to look at Yves’ picture, saying it might influence her.’

  ‘Good for her, and please send copies to Yveline and Sabine,’ said Bruno. ‘If you’re going to release the photos through your press office, maybe you should send copies to Gilles. He said he’d try to do a piece for Paris Match.’

  ‘Right. And let me know what you think when you see them. For the moment I won’t stand down the Strasbourg cops who’ve been going through old university records and class photos from the late 1980s, looking for two students called Max and Henri.’

  Bruno called up the pictures, first Max and then Henri. He recognized in each parts of the various photos he’d sent to Yves but the compilations looked dramatically better, like real people. And the more he looked at Henri, the more he had a sense that he’d seen this man before, but when he was much older. The shape of the face and head and something in the eyes and mouth rang a distinct bell in Bruno’s memory, and it was linked to St Denis. The man wasn’t a resident but he’d visited the town within the last two or three years, Bruno was sure of it.

  When could it have been? A market day, perhaps? Or at some cultural event or political meeting? As he closed his eyes to remember, Bruno could almost imagine hearing the man’s voice, as though he’d exchanged words with him rather than just seen him passing by.

  ‘What’s happening to you?’ came Pamela’s voice and his eyes opened. ‘You looked like you’d gone into a trance.’

  She was carrying a shopping bag and he saw a big baguette and caught the delicious smell of fresh croissants. She must have been to the Moulin bakery nearby.

  ‘I was trying to remember someone I know I’ve seen but I can’t remember where.’ He showed her the photo on his phone.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ she said. ‘I get the same sense that I’ve seen him before, maybe at a market stall, or a brocante, trying to sell antiques, or a jumble sale – that sort of thing. There are so many of these events it’s hard to place him. Could it have been one of the antique book sales?’

  None of them felt quite right to Bruno. He sent the Mayor a copy of Henri’s photo, suggesting that he print it out and show it around the Mairie. No sooner had he done so than his phone buzzed again. Once more it was J-J to say that Tante-Do had declared Yves’ composite photo to be the very image of her lover of thirty years ago.

  ‘See if your friend Gilles can get that photo into Paris Match,’ J-J went on. ‘We’ve got our press office trying to get it on the TV news bulletins and promising them photos of Virginie’s skull. And now is the time to use that local reporter of yours, Philippe. This is going to work, Bruno!’

  Bruno thought it best to coordinate all this from his office so he kissed Pamela goodbye and went to the Mairie. There he called Gilles and Philippe before printing out an image of Henri larger than the one he had on his phone.

  ‘Here’s that story I promised you, Philippe,’ he told Delaron. ‘We’ve called in an expert who works with that woman you photographed at the museum who rebuilds faces from prehistoric skulls. She’s currently building a face from the skull of a man who was murdered in St Denis thirty years ago. I can let you have a photo of the man and of a friend of his we very much want to interview, and we want you to run it in the paper tomorrow to see if anyone recognizes him. How does that sound as a story?’

  ‘You mean you think he was the killer?’

  ‘No, that would be premature. Let’s just say we want to identify him very urgently.’

  Philippe nodded and asked Bruno to make sure J-J let him into the police lab to photograph Virginie and her skull. He would leave for Périgueux right away.

  No sooner had Bruno put down his desk phone than his mobile buzzed again. This time it was his cousin, Alain, saying that he’d managed to obtain a weekend leave pass for him and Rosalie. Would it be convenient for the pair of them to visit Bruno, arriving late this afternoon? Of course, Bruno replied automatically, not letting himself worry about what threatened to be a weekend consumed by the hunt for Henri. He’d make it work somehow. They had a car, there were caves to see and it was perfect weather for Alain and Rosalie to take a canoe trip down the Dordogne. He would prepare a welcome dinner Friday evening and on Saturday maybe visit the marché nocturne at Audrix, where they could buy their food and wine at the stalls and dine in the open air in the medieval square. The next call that interrupted him came from Sabine on her personal mobile, not from the Gendarmerie. She had just heard from Tante-Do about the photo of Henri. Had Bruno seen it? He told her he had. She sounded excited.

  ‘The thing is, Tante-Do says it’s him for sure. So what happens now?’

  ‘J-J is organizing a media blitz, TV and newspapers, national and local, millions of eyeballs and all being asked the same question – do you know this man?’

  ‘But do these things work? We’ll get hundreds of false leads, all over France. The chances of this working can’t be good.’

  ‘It’s a standard tool of police work and it has worked before. All those false leads will be checked, certainly, but we might just get the one we want. It’s the best chance we have, Sabine.’

  ‘What happens then?’

  ‘Any good prospect will have to be seen in person by Tante-Do. If she still says this is the man, J-J will not only interrogate him round the clock, he’ll go through the guy’s life with a fine-tooth comb. J-J has been looking for this murderer for thirty years. He’s got almost as much invested in this as you do.’

  ‘Could this put Tante-Do in danger?’ Sabine asked. ‘I really wouldn’t want that to happen. I couldn’t live with myself . . .’

  ‘J-J can organize a police guard for her, but we’re not at that point yet, and you’ll be with us every step of the way. J-J will listen to you. He’s a good cop and a decent man.’

  ‘There’s something else. I’d like to know what I’m expected to do next, beyond introducing you to Tante-Do.’

  He picked up Sabine’s frustration; she was feeling under-used. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’m sure he has you in mind for the crucial phase, checking out the leads we get from the public and being there with Tante-Do when she verifies Henri’s identity.’

  ‘Right, I get it. I’m babysitting the key witness.’

  ‘We wouldn’t have her, if not for you, Sabine. Remember that.’

  ‘Okay, Bruno, thanks. If there’s anything I can do . . .’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’ He stayed on the line for a moment, hoping for some clue as to her mood. He heard her sigh before she put down the phone. He must keep an eye on her. With a team of gendarmes to run, Yveline had only limited time for Sabine.

  Bruno sighed too, making a note to call J-J about it. Then he sat back and considered what to cook for dinner with Alain and Rosalie. Since it was still so hot, he’d start with a cold soup and then a light main course. It was Friday and although he had no idea whether Rosalie was religious or not, French tradition still called for fish. They’d be eating outdoors so he could barbecue some trout or red mullet, or perhaps make something more ambitious with scallops and a creamy risotto flavoured wi
th a grating of summer truffles. Bruno had all he needed in the garden for a salad but he might crumble some Roquefort over it instead of a separate cheese course. Nobody would want a heavy meal in this weather. For dessert he had some peaches in his garden.

  This should be a family dinner, just the three of them, to give Bruno and Rosalie a chance to get to know each other. They were staying with him so nobody had to drive which meant they could enjoy the wines. He’d serve a kir royale for the apéritif, crème de cassis with a lovely local sparkling brut from Lestevenie that was in his fridge. Then a really good white wine, a cuvée Quercus from Pierre Desmartis at La Vieille Bergerie, ending with some Monbazillac that would match the strong cheese in the salad and would also go splendidly with the dessert.

  If the Baron had been out fishing that morning he’d have told Bruno if the catch had been good. Today’s market was in Le Buisson, just down the road, so Bruno drove there, removed his képi and went to the fishmonger who he knew had bought his stock that dawn at the Arcachon quayside and driven directly to the market. Standing in line, Bruno studied the fish spread out on the long, ice-packed counter with the centrepiece of a big fresh tuna, about twice the size of Balzac. He considered the cod and the plaice, the red mullet and the mackerel, thought briefly about the still-squirming crabs and scallops before finally deciding on the écrevisses.

  They were the red American crayfish, originally from Louisiana, and they had almost completely replaced the traditional white-foot crayfish that were native to the Périgord. He selected two-thirds of a kilo and also a half-litre of the fishmonger’s own fish stock. Then he went over to Stéphane’s stall and bought some Roquefort and fresh cream. On the way back, he stopped at the Moulin bakery for a fat, round tourte of bread. Everything else he had already, either in his kitchen or in his garden. He was just parking outside the Mairie when his phone buzzed. It was Isabelle, calling from Paris.

  ‘Thank you for the photos of the puppies,’ she said. ‘I think we can be very proud of our handsome Balzac. There’s one that looks just like him when I first saw him at the kennels, and I don’t know if I can resist getting him.’

  ‘Not while you’re in your current job, you can’t,’ he said. ‘You’d spend half your time trying to find a puppy-sitter while you’re off in Brussels or Berlin, and the rest of it worrying about whether he was eating right or getting enough walks. Still, it’s good to hear your voice – it reminds me of that lovely weekend when we saw him start these puppies.’

  ‘Yes, I know, and the same goes for me. That’s not why I’m calling, though. A little bird in the media here tells us that Le Monde is running what could be a rather embarrassing op-ed on Sunday written by your friend Jacqueline. Do you know anything about it?’

  ‘What’s embarrassing about it?’ he asked. ‘It’s no secret that the Americans don’t share with us like they do with the British. And the Stasi business was a long time ago.’

  ‘We have very long institutional memories,’ she replied. ‘And I see you know exactly what I’m talking about. Is there anything you can tell me?’

  ‘Only that she and Jack Crimson were in Washington at a Cold War historians’ conference on some East German intelligence dossier. Jacqueline is upset that the files were shared with the Germans and Scandinavians but not us. She thinks some French agents might have been recruited when they were young enough to still be in place today. There’s a risk that they could have been blackmailed to work for the Russians, or even the Americans.’

  ‘Merde, she must mean the Rosenholz dossier, so it’s as bad as I feared.’

  ‘Jack Crimson didn’t seem too concerned about it.’

  ‘Jack doesn’t have a prima donna president who likes to think that he can have a special relationship with Washington, just like the Brits. Ever since Brexit, the Elysée has been dreaming of France becoming the Americans’ key security partner in Europe, a geo-strategic coup that puts Paris back in the top rank.’

  ‘With him as the essential go-between,’ said Bruno. ‘It’s a fantasy. The British haven’t been in the top rank since the end of World War Two.’

  ‘Ah, but the British never claimed that they could speak for Europe. The Elysée thinks that we can.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m still a cop at heart, Bruno. I’ve learned to deal with things as they are, not as they could be. Putting all that aside, Jacqueline’s op-ed means that I have a problem. We’ve been talking discreetly with the Americans about sharing with us the Rosenholz dossier, and discussions are at a critical stage. If a political row blows up in Paris we’ll go right back to zero. And don’t tell me that it’s just the price we pay for the benefits of a free press.’

  Bruno sighed. ‘Knowing Jacqueline, I really don’t think there’s anything I can do here that would not make matters worse. In fact, I’m going to add to your troubles. Gilles was there when Jacqueline spoke about it and he’s doing a piece for Paris Match.’

  ‘Merde,’ she said. ‘I guess we have to live with it.’ Then her voice changed. ‘It’s good talking to you. Why not come up to Paris to see me this weekend with Balzac and forget all that. We can all curl up together and look at pictures of his puppies.’

  ‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ he said. ‘But my cousin Alain, the only member of the family I’m close to, is arriving this evening with the woman he plans to marry.’

  ‘Is that the one in the air force?’

  ‘That’s right, but he’s getting out in a year or so, getting married and moving somewhere near here to start a new life as a teacher.’

  He kept his voice cheerful, not mentioning that the key to the new life that Alain was hoping for was settling down with Rosalie to raise a family, something that Bruno increasingly feared would never happen to him. Listening to Isabelle’s voice made it all the more poignant.

  ‘You’ll like that,’ she said. ‘I remember thinking when we met him for lunch that day how close the two of you were, how much of a childhood you’d shared. So if we can’t enjoy Paris together this weekend, let’s plan one when this business with Rosenholz and with Oscar is all over. Promise?’

  ‘Promise,’ he said, thinking of her apartment just off the Boulevard Voltaire and recalling breakfasts in bed and later a light lunch by the Pont Ste Marie and taking the Metro to her favourite museum. She had shared it only with him, she had said; the Marmottan by the Bois de Boulogne, home to the paintings owned by Monet’s family. ‘I’ll count the days.’

  ‘Me too, and please send me lots more photos of the puppies.’

  With the sound of a kiss, she ended the call. Bruno sat immobile for a long moment, hoping as he so often did, that there might be a crack in the wall that kept them apart; her craving for Paris and the promise of a glittering career, and his for the peace of the Périgord, his horse and dog, his home and his garden, and the embracing sweep of the Vézère as the river wound its way through the gentle hills and ancient caves around St Denis. But she would no longer be the vibrant, ambitious Isabelle if she came back here and he would no longer be Bruno if he left.

  He took a deep breath, climbed out of the van and strolled halfway across the bridge to look down at the river. He could never remember having seen it so low, its flow feeble, its sandbanks filling more than half its width. He went back to the van and took out the crayfish, cheese and fish stock. They’d be spoiled if he didn’t put them into the fridge at the Mairie while he went through his paperwork before going home to cook.

  He turned, looking across the square at the Hôtel de Ville, standing on its thick stone pillars, and known to all as the Mairie rather than by its formal name. The familiar noticeboard carried its usual announcements of forthcoming events, from the anglers’ competition to the bouquinistes, the old books sale, from the Noir Vézère, the annual book fair of polars, as the French called crime novels, to the vide-greniers – the jumble sales. It was when he thought of the foi
re des vins that suddenly the gods of memory smiled upon him.

  With a start he suddenly remembered that it was under those same arches that he’d seen an older version of the young Henri in the photographs. It had been at a foire des vins, two or three or perhaps four years ago. The man had been standing behind a stall, selling his own wine. Had Bruno tasted a glass or two? He could not remember, but he distinctly recalled the face, the light cotton jacket the man was wearing over a black T-shirt, his height and his heavy build.

  Bruno raced up the stairs to his office, took from the printer the enlarged photo of Henri and put the food into the fridge. He got back into his van and drove the five hundred metres to Hubert’s wine cave, thinking he had not a moment to lose. He burst into the store, ignoring the greetings of ‘Bonjour, Bruno’ from the staff, went behind the counter and barely knocked before thrusting his way into Hubert’s private lair at the back.

  ‘Bruno, what a pleasant surprise, but why the rush?’ Hubert asked. ‘I’m just about to taste a charming Riesling I have high hopes of. Do join me.’

  Bruno ignored this and pushed the photo at him. ‘This man’s a winemaker, he was at one of our foire des vins. This photo was taken thirty years ago but do you know him?’

  Hubert put the photo under his desk lamp and donned the spectacles he was too vain to wear in public. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s Henri Bazaine. Mostly he makes a run-of-the-mill Bergerac from an old family property near St Laurent les Vignes. He married into it, as I recall, and almost all the wine he makes goes to the cooperative. It’s all that most of his wine is fit for. But you know winemakers and their little vanities. He makes a small amount of a reserve red wine which is pretty good, not as good as he likes to think but certainly very drinkable. I’d like to offer some here but Henri likes to sell his special wine privately. He’s a bit of a recluse, lets his wife and son and daughter do most of the marketing. He likes to stay in the chai and the vineyards. Why do you ask?’