Bruno felt a small surge of relief. He hadn’t been thinking of that. From the road outside he heard the sound of a police siren. That would probably be J-J. Bruno went outside to greet him, only to find himself caught in the flash of Delaron’s camera. Putain, he thought, another front-page story on the crime wave of Saint-Denis.
“How come you’re always on the scene, Philippe?” he said to the photographer as J-J’s car drew in. “You’ll be at the top of the suspect list if you go on like this.”
“My uncle works here,” said the young man cheerfully, focusing his camera to get J-J’s hulking form against the gleaming array of what used to be pristine greenhouses. “He was the one who first saw what happened and called his wife, and she told my mother. You can’t keep secrets in Saint-Denis, Bruno.”
Bruno showed J-J the greenhouses and led him inside to the office, where Petitbon was still on the phone and Isabelle was downloading the images from the camera onto her laptop.
“Think it’s the same guy who set the fire?” asked J-J.
Bruno shrugged. “Who knows? But I think I might know where he got the paint. I even think I may have paid for it.” He turned to Isabelle. “Bring that little evidence bag you filled and let’s follow my hunch. J-J, I’ll leave you here to wait for your forensics boys. If I’m right, we’re going to need them.”
Isabelle was on the phone to a colleague in the minister’s office in Paris, so Bruno drove, wondering as he parked at the rugby stadium if this was a fool’s errand. The players were still on the field, the knot of girls still watching, and the painter’s ladder was still where he had left it. He took out his ring of keys, and Isabelle followed him to the rear door of the stadium, which led into the kitchen and the large dining room. He didn’t need his keys. The door swung open to his touch—the wood of the lock was splintered where someone had forced it open.
A dozen large cans of paint, each about half the size of an oil drum, were stacked against the wall, with two backpacks and nozzles leaning against them. Goggles and hooded white coveralls were draped over a trestle table. He was sure the contract had said there would be three painters on the job, but he went into the office to check. Isabelle held her small exhibit bag against the newly painted stadium wall to make a comparison, but she shrugged. White was white.
He called the contractor at home. Three painters were on the stadium job, and there had been three backpacks and fourteen cans of special cement paint, brilliant white, when they packed up on Friday. Would there be any way to remove it from glass? Bruno asked. Wait for it to dry fully and then scrape it off, he was told. It should peel away easily. How long would it take to dry? Two or three days, depending on the weather. Less, if you applied a dryer. Did he have one, or better still, did he have several? He had one, but could probably round up a few more. The local Bricomarché stocked them. Bruno told him to get to the research station with his workers as fast as he could, along with ladders and scaffolding. Then he called the Brico manager at home and asked him to open up. Finally he called the mayor, still back at the research station.
“We know where he got the paint and the equipment—from the rugby stadium. Somebody broke into the dining room, where the paint was stored,” he said, and then spoke over the mayor’s reply. “Wait, there’s more. The good news is that the painter says the stuff can be scraped off easily once it’s dry, and we can dry it with those big industrial blowers they have at Brico. He’s coming directly to the research station with his men. Can you call in the mairie maintenance staff with ladders and scaffolding? We can probably have the paint off by tonight if we move fast enough. I only hope that’ll be fast enough to save Petitbon’s research.”
“So much for the rest of our day together,” said Isabelle as he closed his phone.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re a cop too. You know how it is.” He tried to take her in his arms, but she came only with reluctance, seeming almost to sag in his embrace.
“I know down deep you’re always going to be like this,” she said flatly. There was no anger in her voice, more a resigned disappointment. “You’re married to Saint-Denis, and I don’t think I can compete with the whole town. Plus I heard what the mayor said about the wine deal being off. That means you aren’t going to have a fight with him and get sacked. So you’ll stay, and I’ll go.”
“Isabelle,” Bruno began, with no idea what he was going to say next.
“Not now, Bruno. Let me just take you back to the research station.”
21
Bruno was ready to drop with tiredness after his day up and down ladders and moving the scaffolding along the greenhouses. The research station was back to normal, the glass scraped clean of its quick-dried paint. And Isabelle was back in Bordeaux. All he craved was a good, satisfying supper and then some sleep. The restaurant where he felt most at home was the Café de la Renaissance. It wasn’t just because Ivan was a friend but because it was one of the few restaurants in the region that was designed for the locals rather than the tourists, with their expectations of confit de canard, tarte aux noix and other famed specialties of Périgord. The people of Saint-Denis ate enough of that at home. The café contained a small zinc-covered bar and an elderly coffee machine in the front room and enough space outside for a handful of tables. In the rear was what Ivan boasted was the smallest kitchen in France, and a dining room into which he’d squeezed half a dozen tables. So as soon as Bruno heard that the plat du jour at Ivan’s bistro was rabbit in mustard sauce, his decision was easy.
Bruno was not in the mood for company, but when J-J called and asked about his plans for dinner, Bruno invited him along. When J-J arrived he could see how exhausted Bruno was. They exchanged pleasantries during the meal, talking mostly about sports after Bruno curtly blocked J-J’s innocent inquiry about Isabelle. They went easy on the wine, sharing a small pichet of Ivan’s Bergerac red, but Bruno drank most of the bottle of mineral water. Realizing there would be no long after-dinner conversation with Bruno in his current state, J-J paid the modest bill and left a generous tip for Ivan. Bruno walked him down the street to J-J’s car, which was parked in the open ground by the gendarmerie, where a group of determined old men played boules by the light of a streetlamp. J-J paused as he fished for his car key, and asked Bruno if he had any suspects among the locals.
“Maybe, but I haven’t got any evidence, just a hunch,” Bruno said, yawning mightily.
“What’s the brigadier got you doing?”
“He’s had me calling all the other municipal cops for miles around to ask if they’ve seen anything suspicious, if they’ve seen any strangers,” said Bruno. “Half of them thought I was mad and the other half wanted to complain about the GMO crops. The brigadier won’t find them very cooperative. Most farmers around here think whoever burned those crops is a local hero.”
“What about you?”
“On the science, I don’t know, though I can’t say I’m comfortable about tampering with nature. But as far as I can see, there’s not much of a crime here.”
“How do you mean? It’s arson.”
“By the letter of the law, maybe. Yet growing those crops requires a series of permits. That’s the law, too. The research station didn’t have a permit from this commune or from our conseil général. And if the crops were illegal, what exactly is the crime in destroying them?”
“What about the shed and the equipment that got burned?”
“Same thing. No construction permit, no taxes paid on it, no listing of the water pipe and no water fees paid. Whoever did this committed the questionable crime of destroying an illegal building.”
“You should have been a lawyer,” J-J said, laughing and climbing into his car. He was just closing the door when some shouts and a woman’s scream and the sound of breaking glass came from the Bar des Amateurs, and a small knot of bodies erupted onto the pavement outside the bar, stumbling over the café tables and sending them flying. Trouble at this bar, run by two burly stalwarts of the town rugby tea
m, was unheard of.
Bruno ran toward the scene, while J-J maneuvered himself out of his car. By the time Bruno reached the bar, René, one of the owners/barmen, was holding Max firmly by one arm, and a disheveled Jacqueline was clinging to the other. Gilbert, the other owner/barman, was kneeling on the chest of another man, and the rest of the crowd had become so many shouting spectators.
“Silence, all of you!” yelled Bruno, and pushed his way through to René, noting the smashed plate-glass window of the bar and the stream of blood that trickled from Max’s nose. “What’s going on here, René?”
“It’s this bastard here who started it,” panted Gilbert, struggling to keep hold of the flailing arms of the man he sat on. “Just came in and started the trouble. He took a swing at Max and tried to drag the girl out.”
“He hurt my arm,” said Jacqueline, her eyes blazing. “Max saved me.”
“It’s true, Bruno,” said René. “This guy came into the bar and just punched Max in the face, knocking him off his chair. Then he started pulling the girl and Max got up and began pulling her back. I tried to separate them, then the troublemaker toppled backward and broke the window.”
“That’s exactly what happened” came a chorus of voices from the spectators. “The guy must be crazy.”
“Let’s take a look at him and see if he’s hurt,” said Bruno, and Gilbert rose carefully from the prone figure, still keeping firm hold of one of his arms as he grabbed the man by the lapels and hauled him to his feet. Bruno was not greatly surprised to see that it was Bondino.
“I’m okay,” said Bondino, shaking his head and standing upright. He was clearly drunk, but hardly incapacitated. He pointed at Jacqueline. “She’s my girl.”
“That’s between the two of you. Stand still for a moment,” snapped Bruno. He inspected the back of Bondino’s head, brushing some glinting shards of glass from his back and from his hair. He was not bleeding, and his coat seemed to have taken the brunt of the window’s impact. Bruno looked at René and Gilbert. “It’s up to you to bring charges.”
“He smashed a few things, a chair and some glasses, plus the window,” said René. “That’s the big thing.”
“I’ll pay,” said Bondino, reaching for his wallet and taking out a wad of seldom-seen yellow five-hundred-euro notes. He peeled off three and handed them to René. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If it costs more, tell me.”
“What about you?” Bruno said, turning to Max. “Do you want to bring charges for assault?”
Holding a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, Max shook his head. “As long as he promises to leave Jacqueline alone and stop making trouble. But if he comes at us again, don’t blame me if I beat the shit out of him.”
“Right,” said Bruno. “No charges, so we all go home. You first, Bondino. Now.” He watched as Bondino shambled off toward his hotel and then looked back over his shoulder at Max and Jacqueline.
“You haven’t asked me yet,” Jacqueline said, angrily but with control, casting a look of pure hatred after Bondino’s departing figure. “He tried to pull me out. That’s assault.”
“So it is,” said Bruno coldly, recalling the way she had danced with Bondino and left with him after Joe’s party. His mild liking for the girl was rapidly disappearing.
“It seems the American thought he had a relationship with you,” he said. “If you want to bring charges, you understand that I’ll have to take statements from everybody involved, and I mean everybody, to establish whether there was something that could have misled him to believe he did. You might want to consider that, mademoiselle, before you make a decision. You may also want to get advice from a French lawyer, since these matters can be complicated once it becomes a formal matter.”
“I’ll help you take the statements, if it’s to be a criminal matter,” said J-J, who had been standing off to the side since his arrival. He could tell Bruno needed no help. “I should introduce myself: Chief of Detectives Jalipeau of the Police Nationale. I’ll start by looking at your passport, mademoiselle.”
Jacqueline looked for a moment at Bruno and then shrugged. “I don’t want to put anyone to such trouble, so long as the bar owners are happy to let it drop,” she said, and turned to Max. “I’d better take him back and make sure the nosebleed stops. I’m sorry that this happened.”
It isn’t over yet, Bruno thought as she led Max away.
22
Sitting alone at the bar in Fauquet’s over his morning coffee, Bruno checked his phone again. Three days now without any word from Isabelle. He had left messages and sent two e-mails and had gotten no reply. But then it had been the same after she had left for Paris—not a word until her sudden announcement that she was arriving. He wasn’t irritated so much as mystified that she behaved this way. When she left the first time, he had understood her silence to mean that it was over. Now he supposed it meant it was really over. Or did it? In another woman, he might have suspected crude manipulation, but not in Isabelle. She was too honest for that, he told himself when his cell phone rang, and with a surge of hope that surprised him he scrambled to fish it from his pouch.
“It’s Pamela,” said the voice, strangely subdued. “I’m afraid there’s been a death. That sweet old man Cresseil. I’m at his place now, over by the Domaine. I think he’s been dead for a while, but can you call a doctor? Damn, my battery’s running out. I’ll wait till you get here. I’m okay.”
Tempted to head over there right away and comfort Pamela, Bruno knew there were things he had to do first. He called the pompiers, who handled all emergencies, and then called the medical center. One of the doctors would have to certify the death. He climbed the stairs of the mairie to tell the mayor the news. Then he headed for his van, punching into his phone the number for Max, who was now the next of kin. There was no reply.
Pamela always dressed smartly for her morning ride in riding boots, jodhpurs and a black jacket, with most of her bronze hair tucked into her black velvet hat. On horseback, she looked magnificent. But now on foot, holding on to the bridle of her horse, who was munching on the grass by the small farmhouse, she appeared oddly diminished. As Bruno parked his police van at the end of the yard, he noticed that the small plot of vines had been picked.
“Bonjour, Pamela,” Bruno said, kissing her on both cheeks, and hugging her. “I’m sorry you had to find him; it must have been an awful shock. Are you all right?”
She hugged him in return and then stepped back, nodding.
“I suppose he’s in the house?”
“No, he’s not,” she said in a small voice. “He’s in that barn, just where I found him. I touched nothing and called you as soon as I realized he was dead.”
“What brought you here?”
“I was looking for Max. He wanted me to come and try some of the wine he made. He’s got some idea of selling it to all the guesthouses, with special labels that he can print up. He rather sold me on the idea of a Château Pamela. But there was no sign of him, or of the old man, so I looked around.”
She hitched her horse to a fence post and walked with Bruno through the yard and down the small pathway that led to the big stone barn and the two smaller ones. She went to the farthest door, which was half open. Inside, Bruno saw Cresseil lying crumpled at the bottom of the stepladder that led up to the ancient wooden wine vat.
“I just touched his wrist to see if there was a pulse,” she said.
Bruno nodded, crouching by the body. He put the back of his hand against Cresseil’s cheek. It was cold but not yet stiff, showing that he had been dead only a few hours. The neck looked odd, twisted. Bruno looked at the rickety stepladder, its rungs slippery with grape juice. Had Cresseil been looking into the vat and lost his footing? Or had it been a heart attack or a stroke, a mercifully quick end that Cresseil might have prayed for? The doctors would know.
“There’s nothing we can do for him now,” he said. “We’ll wait for the pompiers and the doctor and then get him to the funeral parlor. If you wait in the y
ard, I’ll go into the house and see if there are any papers; a will or something.”
She nodded. “I wonder what happened to Max. He must have been held up. When we arranged to meet he said he’d be picking the grapes in the cool of evening because it was too hot for them in the day, and that he’d see me here this morning. He’ll be devastated, having just gone through the adoption and now this.”
“So now he’s got a vineyard of his own, a nice little inheritance. All the same, I’d better go inside and look around. The pompiers will be here any minute.”
Bruno had been in a lot of homes where an elderly person lived alone, and he was expecting the usual stale smells. But Cresseil’s place was clean and tidy. There was a large living room and a kitchen on the ground floor, with a small bedroom and a bathroom off to one side, and another room that looked like a study. Cresseil’s legs had almost gone, so he probably spent all his time downstairs. Bruno went quickly upstairs, which contained two spartan bedrooms and no bathroom. One of the beds was made up, but the sheet and pillow were slightly creased, so it looked as if it had been slept in. Perhaps Max used it when he slept over.
The kitchen sink was clean and empty except for two tumblers with dregs of wine. The towels in the kitchen and bathroom were fresh, the crockery all where it belonged. The study was equally well ordered, with an old sofa facing the window, and a pigeonhole desk off to the side. Most of the pigeonholes were empty; in one was a roll of papers held together with red ribbon—the adoption documents. In the drawers, Bruno found bank statements and electricity bills neatly filed, an old Resistance medal and a box of photographs. Some dated from wartime, showing groups of smiling young men with weapons, but most of the photos were of Annette, Cresseil’s wife, and a baby, growing into boyhood and young adulthood. At the bottom of another drawer he found the property deeds; the last transaction, dated 1949 and recording the inheritance of the Cresseil farm, carried the name of a local notaire, Brosseil. He was long dead, but the practice was still maintained by his grandson. If there were any legal papers to be found, Brosseil would have them.
Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard Page 13
