The Coldest Case

by Martin Walker

  ‘Where are you?’ came the voice of Albert, the chief pompier.

  ‘In my office at the Mairie. Why?’

  ‘You ought to be getting some rest,’ Albert said. ‘You’re on watch tonight at Audrix from ten, according to the list you drew up. So where are you going to sleep?’

  ‘Back at my place.’

  ‘Forget it, Bruno. Your house is too much at risk and I’m not in a position to drop everything and come to rescue you. You’ll sleep at the Mayor’s house. He’s expecting you, and I mean now. Sweet dreams.’

  Bruno shrugged and decided he could make one more call. He phoned the Belleville archives, who’d been helpful before, to inform them that the Henri Zeller he had asked about was supposed to have been dead for three decades.

  ‘I’ll send you a copy of the death certificate,’ Bruno told the archivist. ‘It was one of two sent from the Belleville Hôtel de Ville to the army to explain why Bazaine and another local young man called Max Morilland would not turn up for military service.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ the archivist replied. ‘But this Zeller is the guy who’s supposed to be still alive and the subject of your investigation, is that right?’

  ‘Correct,’ said Bruno. ‘Zeller was his original name. He changed it to Bazaine when he married a woman with that name who was going to inherit a vineyard. I thought you’d like to know. And we think the man he might have killed was Max Morilland, Henri’s classmate at vocational school. You sent me that email about him.’

  ‘Wow, I’ve never been involved in anything like this.’ The archivist’s voice was excited. ‘I’d better check this with the last survivor.’

  ‘Who’s the last survivor?’

  ‘Sorry, I was thinking aloud,’ the archivist replied. ‘There’s an elderly woman, the last living member of the Mairie staff under the old regime. She is sometimes helpful. A veteran Communist, of course, but she’s seen the light. She’s retired, getting on for eighty and living with her son somewhere near you, a place called Carlux. Do you want her number? She goes by the name of Rosa Luxemburg Delpèche, which is a giveaway to her parents’ politics.’

  Bruno nodded. Rosa Luxemburg had been a leader of the German Communists, assassinated at the end of the Great War. He took down Madame Delpèche’s address and phone number, toyed with the idea of driving there at once, less than an hour away, but then thought of Albert’s call. The fire chief was right. Bruno needed some sleep. And he’d see Balzac. He picked up his cap, strolled down to the Mayor’s house, and greeted Balzac who raced from the far end of the garden where Jacqueline was weeding.

  ‘Bonjour, Bruno, you’re in the spare room,’ Jacqueline said, presenting her cheeks to be kissed after the first flood of Balzac’s welcome had receded. ‘I’ll wake you before ten. I have my orders from Albert along with a set of very impressive binoculars for you and a map that’s far too complex for me to read. Balzac stays with me, otherwise you’ll get no sleep. Your case is already in the room along with towels and some mineral water. Sleep well. Oh, and the last news bulletin reported two new forest fires, one in the Lot, east of Cahors, and the other south-west of us at Casteljaloux. The armée de l’air sent planes dropping water.’

  In his days in the army, Bruno had been able to fall asleep almost at will, seizing any opportunity to doze off. Perhaps because he was older, it was no longer so easy, or perhaps his life was now more complicated. Thoughts of Henri Bazaine, the dead Max and the frightened Tante-Do danced in his head. He was also surprised that Isabelle took so seriously the little flutters of panic that arose in the bizarre, self-absorbed world of French presidential politics. None of that was as important as protecting his valley from the threat of forest fire.

  He must have drifted off for when he heard a knock on the door and Jacqueline’s voice, his watch showed twenty minutes to ten. He called out that he was up, took a quick shower and went out to the smell of fresh coffee. Places were set for three at the kitchen table and Jacqueline was mixing a salad while the Mayor pulled toasted cheese sandwiches from beneath the grill.

  ‘I’m not sure if this is breakfast or dinner but either way I’m looking forward to it. Bonjour et bonsoir and thank you,’ Bruno said. At the sound of his voice came a scratching on the kitchen door and the Mayor used the hand bearing the spatula to open it, allowing Balzac to rush in to greet his master as if they’d been separated for weeks.

  ‘If you could pass that Worcestershire sauce, it’s time to add it,’ the Mayor said. ‘I’ll always be grateful to Pamela for introducing us to this. Grilled cheese would not be the same without it.’ Bruno complied and then began squeezing oranges from the bowl on the table as the Mayor brought the plates to the table. Ten minutes later, refreshed and fortified, with a thermos of fresh coffee, a bag of fruit, saucisson, water and a baguette, they were in Bruno’s van and heading for Audrix. There were still some customers dining on the terrace of the Auberge when they arrived, and the village’s own Mayor, Jolibert, was standing on the steps of his tiny Mairie to greet them.

  ‘My turn tomorrow night,’ he said by way of greeting as they shook hands. ‘We had three or four small outbreaks today, nothing the lads couldn’t handle. But this is the first evening when that damned southerly wind hasn’t died down. It could be a bad night. Be sure to call me if things start looking rough.’

  ‘I heard the planes were busy dropping fire retardant down south in the Lot,’ said Bruno. ‘But that was hours ago.’

  ‘Rocamadour and Biron were the nearest the fires came to us today,’ said Jolibert. ‘Now you’re here, I’m off to bed. But please wake me if you see a big one.’

  Bruno and the Mayor walked slowly around the hilltop village, able to see for at least ten kilometres in all directions except east, where the nearest skyline was dominated by a tall aerial mast. It was owned by the Defence Ministry and said to be a key link of French military communications.

  ‘Has anybody suggested we should have a watching post on top of that?’ Bruno asked. The Mayor shrugged and said, ‘Ask Albert.’

  Bruno phoned in, to be told the request had been dismissed on grounds of security.

  ‘Understood. But have we suggested that the military put their own fire-watchers up there? They’d have a much better view than we do. It’s crazy if we work with the air force to drop water but can’t use their facilities to check for fires.’

  ‘You’re with the Mayor,’ Albert replied. ‘Ask him. He’s the politician.’

  The Mayor agreed. ‘That makes sense. I’ll call the Minister tomorrow. Now you can tell me what’s going on with this old murder inquiry that’s made J-J so unpopular on social media.’

  Bruno did so as the Mayor made a slow scan of the horizon with the binoculars.

  ‘You and J-J seem very focused on collecting evidence to charge this Henri Bazaine with murder,’ the Mayor said once Bruno had finished. ‘I’m more worried that we’ve had a Communist mairie in Paris that’s been forging documents, creating fake identities and killing them off, and has since managed to destroy most of the evidence.’

  ‘That’s why Isabelle has brought in the internal security people. They’re trawling through the old RG files.’

  ‘Renseignements Généraux? I never liked the idea of that kind of political police, neither the files they kept, nor their methods or the use that could be made of them. But in this case, I might make an exception. The idea that a French mayor could preside over a system where foreign agents could be provided with apparently genuine French identities in order to conspire against an elected French government is sickening.’

  ‘They were hardly discreet about it,’ said Bruno. ‘You remember the old Communist Party slogan, that my true homeland is the international working class?’

  The Mayor made a sound halfway between a grunt and a sigh and handed Bruno the binoculars.

  ‘Very distant red glow to the north-west,
’ said Bruno. ‘Better call it in.’

  The Mayor called the control room in Périgueux and reported the glow.

  ‘A fire in the woods north of Cendrieux,’ he told Bruno. ‘The pompiers are there. You know,’ he went on, ‘we’re going to need a better system of forest management to deal with this climate change. We can’t continue just cutting timber and leaving loose brush and branches all over the ground. It’s an invitation to fire.’

  ‘Yes, but it also provides a habitat for the insects and wildlife that regenerate the ground,’ said Bruno. ‘It’s complex. Maybe you should get our local agricultural research station to make some recommendations.’

  ‘I did a little research into this recent surge in forest fires,’ the Mayor explained. ‘A hundred dead in Greece three years ago and eighty in California, parts of Los Angeles evacuated and insurers losing more than twenty billion euros. And then there’s Australia with eleven million hectares burned, that’s about the size of England. What we’re doing here with fire watches, we’re just reacting. We need to think ahead.’

  ‘But how far ahead?’ Bruno asked. ‘When trees can live for hundreds of years we need a special kind of long view.’

  And so the night went on, the two men chatting while eating their bread and saucisson and drinking their coffee from the thermos, breaking off to report a red glow suddenly in the sky to the south-east, towards Cahors. Nearer to dawn they reported another, due south near the old abbey of Cadouin. Each time the control room had already been alerted.

  ‘How does a fire suddenly break out at three in the morning, when there’s no lightning, no tourists dropping cigarette ends, no sun to start a flame through a piece of broken glass?’ the Mayor asked.

  ‘Albert says fire can lie dormant, just glowing for hours if there’s the right amount of fuel, until a sudden gust of warm wind licks it into life.’ Bruno upended the thermos. ‘There’s no more coffee and dawn’s coming. What’s your schedule today?’

  ‘I shall write a letter to the Minister of Defence and call him, the same for the Environment Minister. Since French law allows me the privilege of an immediate audience with all ministers I’d be failing in my constitutional duty as a former Senator if I didn’t take advantage of such access. I’ll also talk to the head of the research station. And you?’

  ‘I have a meeting with J-J and Prunier with a police lawyer in Périgueux to see if we have enough of a case for the Procureur to bring charges against Henri. There’s a text on my phone saying I should be there. I’ll also want to arrange a police guard for our main witness, the one we call Tante-Do. Then I ought to call in on Virginie, the young woman who’s making a face out of J-J’s famous skull. I feel a bit guilty about not doing more to make her welcome so I’ve invited her down to St Denis for the weekend. Fabiola is interested in the project and said she’d gladly let Virginie have her spare room and you ought to meet her. Then at some point I’ll go to visit an old lady who used to work at the Belleville Mairie who may be able to tell me more about these fake death certificates.’

  ‘I hope you’ll get some time to sleep.’

  ‘I slept well at your place and I might take a nap for an hour or so when we leave here. After the military I’m accustomed to a few broken nights. These night duties are probably worse for all the volunteer pompiers but we wouldn’t have a fire or rescue service without them. And it’s the same for you, taking your turn on fire-watch.’

  ‘If I didn’t, not a single volunteer pompier would ever vote for me again,’ the Mayor replied. ‘And they’d be right. When I think of the hours they put in . . .’

  ‘It’s not just the pompiers,’ said Bruno. ‘We have more than two hundred people from St Denis who’ve volunteered themselves and their cars to go pick up any old folk at risk. These are decent people that we work for.’

  19

  By nine in the morning, after a nap, a brisk ride of Hector with Balzac trotting behind, a shower and breakfast, Bruno arrived at the address of the woman with the unforgettable name of Rosa Luxemburg. He had to work at his memory to recall her surname, Delpèche. She lived in a small cottage outside the hilltop village of Carlux, close to the bridge over the Dordogne. The far side of the river was heavily cultivated but this side was so thickly wooded that the whole area looked to Bruno like a fire risk, threatening even the lavishly restored Château de Rouffillac on the slope dominating the bridge.

  He parked his police van, put Balzac on a leash and approached a wooden gate that led to a well-tended garden. He stood for a moment admiring the neat rows of lettuces, peas, aubergines and tomatoes before wondering how on earth she watered them. Then he saw the large cistern, rather like his own, into which the cottage gutters fed. Interspersed between the rows he saw the tell-tale glint of inverted plastic bottles. She was using a drip system of irrigation, not unlike his own.

  ‘Bonjour, Madame Delpèche, and my congratulations on your watering system and the splendid potager you’ve made,’ he said, touching the brim of his cap as a tall, thin, elderly woman came briskly around the corner of the cottage. She was wearing baggy khaki pants, a blue denim shirt and an enormous straw hat. She carried a plastic bowl that looked half full of muddy water and she poured it into the cistern before turning to reply politely to his greeting and to stare at him with a confused half-smile as if trying to remember when and where she might have met him.

  ‘I assume you save the water from rinsing your vegetables,’ he said. ‘I do the same, but I don’t think you learned your gardening skills in Belleville. I’m Bruno Courrèges, municipal policeman from St Denis, and I’d be grateful for a few minutes of your time. The people at today’s Belleville Mairie tell me you’re the only person who can help make sense of what’s left of the old archives.’

  ‘I’m saving water because my cistern is nearly empty and I don’t see this heatwave ending soon,’ she said, coming forward to open the gate before shaking his outstretched hand. Her face widened into a broad smile when she saw Balzac. He always helped to break the ice.

  ‘What a splendid dog,’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you work with him?’

  ‘I’m training him to find truffles but he’s a wonderful guard for my geese and chickens.’

  ‘I had a little terrier who passed away last year and haven’t had the heart to replace him,’ she said, going down on one knee to fondle Balzac’s ears. She was spry for her age. The archivist had told him she was nearly eighty but she looked to be in her sixties. As she rose again and took off her straw hat, he saw she had iron-grey hair, cut short, and watchful brown eyes.

  ‘Would he like a drink of water?’ she asked, looking down again at Balzac. ‘I was about to make myself some coffee. You’re welcome to join me. It’s cooler on the terrace at the back, and you can tell me why you’re here.’

  ‘It’s about a man, born in Belleville, called Henri Zeller,’ Bruno began as they sat in the shade of an awning behind the house. Chickens pecked in the small fenced area of land that gave way to a steep and wooded cliff that rose to Carlux on the hilltop. The slope was too steep to see the ruins of the old castle at the heart of the village.

  Bruno explained that Henri had failed to appear for his military service because the Mairie sent the army his death certificate in December of ’89. But he was alive and well and running a vineyard in the Bergerac under the name of Bazaine. Bruno was helping to investigate the long-ago murder of a friend of Henri’s that same summer while the two men were camping near St Denis. The dead man, also from Belleville, was called Max Morilland. The Belleville Mairie sent the army a death certificate for him at the same time. They had both grown up in the Lafargue orphanage in Belleville. Could she help?

  ‘Have you been to Belleville?’ she asked, after studying him for a moment.

  ‘I walked through it once, from the cemetery of Père Lachaise to the park of the Buttes Chaumont. I was in love at the time and only had eyes for the girl. We failed
to find the lamp-post on the Rue de Belleville that marks the spot where Edith Piaf was supposed to have been born.’

  She smiled and said, ‘I know you look the part, but it’s hard to believe you really are a municipal policeman.’

  ‘You could call my friend Montsouris in St Denis, a train driver and a party member. We play tennis together.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve believed a word any party member said to me for thirty years. But don’t worry. I read Sud Ouest and I remember seeing a photo of you and your dog when you arrested those IRA people.’

  ‘So you know I’m genuine. What can you tell me?’

  ‘The Lafargue orphanage was very small for the number of children it was supposed to house, because most of those registered were never there. We all knew it, even though I wasn’t in the registrations department which managed such matters.’

  ‘How do you mean, they were never there?’

  ‘They were invented, just names on lists. I assumed it was a way of getting more money from the central government, welfare payments for non-existent orphans.’

  ‘Which department did you work in?

  ‘I was in a section known as “Fraternité”, which dealt with relations with comrades elsewhere, from Italy and Britain to Poland, Cuba and above all East Germany.’

  ‘Why above all?’ Bruno asked.

  ‘Many of our senior party cadres had been conscripted to Germany as forced labour during the war and had learned the language. The German comrades were keen to maintain the connection, inviting us to their holiday camps and so on. I went twice, although I was most useful for my English and my Spanish. First time I visited Schwerin, a beautiful place, a lovely castle on a lake and a fine old town. That was in the late seventies. The second time, in ’86, I was invited to Radebeul, near Dresden in the Elbe valley, an area of vineyards. It was sad. They had no corks so used bottle caps instead. Their old barrels were rotting and they couldn’t afford stainless steel vats so they used enamel ones, designed for making beer. Still, the people were very welcoming.’