Fatal Pursuit

by Martin Walker

  “I remember the song better than I remember the guy,” she said. “I had a lot of growing up to do.”

  “We always do,” he said. “Malraux in his Antimémoires says he asked an old priest what he’d learned after a lifetime of hearing confessions. And the priest thought for a moment and then said, ‘There are no grown-ups.’ ”

  “Thank heavens for that,” she said, smiling, taking his hand and giving Bruno that dangerous feeling that their eyes were saying much more than their mouths. “Time for the écrevisses?”

  He nodded, took the empty plates and returned to the kitchen, opened the white wine and poured each of them a glass before fishing out the crayfish. He filled a bowl with iced water from the fridge and took a set of evidence gloves from his bag and donned them before twisting off the heads and squeezing out the flesh from the tails and taking out the long veins. Between each one, he dipped his fingers into the iced water to cool them.

  “The ice water is a clever trick; the laziness of genius again,” she said. “This wine is terrific, and this is the best evening I’ve had for quite a while.”

  “I’m glad,” he said, putting the crayfish back into the bouillon and turning off the gas before turning to look at her. “I feel the same.”

  “What now?” she asked, her eyes teasing.

  “Now we wait until the bouillon cools to the point at which we want to eat,” he said, peeling off the gloves and taking a sip from his wine.

  “In that case…” She eased herself from the stool and came around to stand close to him and began to unbutton his shirt. She dipped a finger into the bowl of iced water and left it there while looking into his eyes. Then she brought up her chilled finger, rested it lightly against his bared nipple and leaned forward to kiss him as he shivered from the sensation. Her tongue teased at his lips, and she murmured, “You haven’t yet shown me your bedroom.”

  —

  Later, in front of the stove in the sitting room, Balzac was dozing with his head on Bruno’s thigh as Martine caressed the dog’s silky long ears. She was wearing Bruno’s white terry-cloth robe, and he had slipped on a rugby shirt and the trousers of a tracksuit. The emptied bowls of crayfish and salad plates were beside them on the floor. She had declined the zabaglione, insisting she’d eaten too much already. Now she put down her wineglass, looked at him fondly and said, “I’d like to stay, but my mother will be wondering where I am.”

  “I’d like you to stay, too, but I understand. Can we meet again tomorrow?”

  “Will you let me do the cooking?”

  He laughed. “You mean the meal was as bad as that?”

  She gave him a gentle slap on the thigh. “No, don’t be silly. It was perfect. But I’d like to cook for you, and you seem to have everything I might need in your kitchen. Can you get away a bit earlier tomorrow to give us some more time together?”

  “I’ll try. Coffee before you go?”

  “That would be great. You can make it while I dress.”

  Bruno put the kettle on as she went back to his bathroom. He spooned coffee grounds into his cafetière, readied the cups and sugar and then glanced at his phone, which was giving the gentle beep that said he had text messages waiting. The first one was from Fabiola, to say that the specialist had diagnosed Denise with a slightly torn retina, relatively easy to repair, and she would stay in the hospital in Périgueux.

  The second was from Yveline, telling him that Tristan had been released into the custody of his parents but would be charged with aggravated assault and illegal possession of cannabis tomorrow at the procureur’s office in Sarlat.

  The third was from Isabelle, and read: “Paperwork fixed. Arrive this evening. Propose to drop by for briefing unless inconvenient.”

  He typed back “Not tonight. Breakfast at Fauquet’s café at 8 tomorrow,” and was just clicking SEND when he heard a car coming up the road and then saw the glare of headlights turning as it headed for his driveway.

  The car stopped, its headlights illuminating Martine’s vehicle. Then it reversed back down the driveway and turned to head off toward the road. It must have been Isabelle, realizing when she saw the other car that he was not alone. She had no right to expect that he would be, he told himself, but felt embarrassed just the same. She would probably tease him tomorrow about having a new friend, but there would be an edge to it.

  The kettle was boiling. He closed the phone and made the coffee, letting it rest before he pushed down the plunger. He went into the living room to clear away the bowls, plates and glasses, and then Martine was back fully dressed and looking terrific, eyes shining, skin glowing.

  “Did I hear a car?” she asked.

  “Probably someone who took a wrong turn. But there’s good news from the hospital. That little girl, Denise, her sight will be fine, though they’ll keep her in for a few more days. I’ll try to get to Périgueux to visit her. Maybe you’d like to come, too, and we can have dinner there.”

  “Sure, but not tomorrow, that’s my evening to cook for you.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “The cold water has got the blood out of your jacket. I hung it up to dry, but it will still need cleaning.”

  She looked at her watch, drank her coffee quickly and said, “Do you think I’ll pass my mother’s inspection, or will she detect that I’ve been disporting myself with a louche bachelor all evening?”

  I don’t know, he thought, since I never had a mother. But he said, “You can complain about the boring local official you had to dine with while persuading him to support your plan for the rally.”

  “The one who told me that his wife didn’t understand him just before he made a clumsy pass at me over the dessert,” she countered. “Bad breath, overweight and with hairs growing out of his nose.”

  “That’s the one, but don’t pile it on too thick.”

  She came into his arms and kissed him good night, then bent to stroke Balzac. At the door she stopped, turned toward him and said, “I’m glad about that little girl, Bruno, and thank you for a wonderful evening. Your food more than lived up to my expectations, and so did you. I’ll look forward to tomorrow, at about six, unless you call me.”

  “About six should be fine,” he said. “We can walk Balzac together before dinner.”

  He stood at the doorway to watch the taillights of her car disappear, knowing himself to be a very lucky man but wondering how long it would last and how much time they might have to deepen the relationship before her work took her away again. Independent and wealthy, she had her own business to run in London; he could see her coming back to the Périgord only for visits even if the rally project worked out. And even then she’d feel obliged to stay with her parents. He sighed, thinking that his love life seemed to run in a predictable but ultimately unsatisfying pattern, driven by his attraction for women who were determined to forge their own lives without the conventional constraints of a family and children. He shook his head and went back indoors to slip on some shoes and a jacket and take Balzac out for the last stroll of the night.

  19

  Refreshed by his morning ride on Hector, Bruno entered the café a few minutes before eight and glanced at Fauquet’s copy of Sud Ouest as the owner put a still-warm croissant on his plate and began making his espresso. Bruno shook hands with the regulars and explained that he was meeting someone and took his croissant and the paper to a table by the window. Some new horror in the Middle East took up most of the front page, but there was a small headline saying “Horseback Girl Blinded in St. Denis?” Below it was a passport-sized photo of Denise’s bloodstained and bandaged face that steered him to an inside page, where he found a much-bigger photo of Tristan in rugby clothes, probably blown up from a team photo, with the caption “Teen vandal arrested.” A smaller photo of Félix had the caption “Young hero saves the day—Police.”

  “Specialist eye doctors in Périgueux were battling last night to save the sight of a ten-year-old girl from St. Denis as a local schoolboy rugby star was arrested for throwing the st
one that may blind her,” the story began. It must have been printed before the good news came from the hospital. Farther down the page there was Bruno’s official police photo. He was quoted as saying the town should be proud of Félix. Tristan’s lawyer was quoted as saying he would appeal to the public prosecutor for his client, just a few weeks beyond his sixteenth birthday, to be treated as a juvenile for “a foolish schoolboy prank that had ended in tragedy.”

  Fauquet brought Bruno’s coffee, muttering, “Terrible business, that poor little girl. You won’t catch me using Simon’s supermarket anytime soon. You know there’s talk of a boycott?”

  “It wasn’t Simon’s fault,” Bruno said. “His son’s sixteen, old enough to be responsible for his own behavior. A lot of local people work at the supermarket, so I hope that idea goes nowhere.” He handed the paper back to Fauquet as he saw Isabelle heading across the town square toward the café with that unmistakable stride of hers, a long black coat floating out behind her. “Would you bring an extra croissant and some more coffee for my guest?”

  Fauquet turned, looked through the window at Isabelle and back at Bruno. “It’s her again, is it? The one who broke your heart.”

  “Just get the croissant,” Bruno replied, shaking his head in mock despair. The one disadvantage of the close-knit community of St. Denis was that his love life seemed to be everybody’s business.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, just when you’ve started seeing Oudinot’s daughter,” Fauquet went on.

  Bruno rolled his eyes and then stood as Isabelle came into the café, eyed him grimly and presented her cheeks for the usual bise in a way that signaled she wished that courtesy did not require such a greeting.

  “Bonjour, Bruno, I’m sorry you weren’t able to brief me yesterday,” she said coolly. “It means we have all the more work to do today. I see you’re in the local paper again.”

  “Never a dull moment in St. Denis,” he said.

  “That’s not quite how I recall it,” she shot back, and then flashed a smile at Fauquet as he served her breakfast and said how pleased he was to see her in his café again. She murmured a polite reply about how much she missed his croissants and turned back to Bruno.

  “You can’t brief me here,” she went on. “I’ve arranged a room at the gendarmerie. We’ll go there as soon as we’ve finished our coffee. So, tell me, how is that poor little girl?”

  “Doing better, she won’t lose an eye. But it won’t do the riding school any good, and it’s a tough enough business venture in times like these without clients having stones thrown at them.”

  “J-J told me the place is now being run by your mad Englishwoman in partnership with that spy’s daughter. I can see why you’re concerned.”

  “That’s really not worthy of you,” he said mildly. “You know perfectly well that her name is Pamela and that she’s Scottish and that Crimson is not just retired but a good friend to the brigadier as well as to me. You’ll have me thinking you’re getting prejudiced against our friends across the Channel.”

  Isabelle was the only one who still referred to Pamela as “the mad Englishwoman,” the nickname she had been given by the locals when she first arrived in St. Denis. Pamela had long since been affectionately absorbed into the community, but it was one of Isabelle’s few unpleasant traits that she would never accept any woman she saw as a rival, even though she had long since left Bruno to focus on her career. He’d have to make sure he steered Martine out of Isabelle’s way.

  “Are you and Pamela still an item?” Isabelle asked casually, sitting back in her chair as if she couldn’t care less either way. “J-J wasn’t sure. I’d have thought she was a little old for you.”

  “I hope J-J said it wasn’t any business of yours,” he said, irritated, and instantly regretted letting Isabelle see how easily she could provoke him. She’d always known how to get under his skin. He took the final bite of his croissant, washed it down with his coffee and then smiled at her, most of his memories still precious and fond.

  “Shall we start again, without any point scoring?” he asked, leaning forward. “You’re looking great. From the way you strode across the square it seems like your leg has fully recovered, which is also great. And congratulations on your new job. I’m sorry I wasn’t available at such short notice yesterday, but as you know from the newspaper it was a difficult day.”

  “Okay,” she said coolly, as if acknowledging a brief truce rather than a peace treaty. Then she smiled, with what seemed like a trace of an old affection. Perhaps she was mollified that he had made the gesture of reconciliation. “I hope I’ll get to see Balzac.”

  “You can come with me to pick him up. He’s having a regular checkup at the vet and getting his nails clipped. I’m always worried about hurting him if I clip them myself. He can come with us to the gendarmerie; they know him well.”

  As Bruno paid for their breakfasts, Fauquet came across and handed him an envelope.

  “I almost forgot,” he said. “That kid you called a hero in the paper today came in about seven-thirty and asked me to give this to you. He said he didn’t have a phone. Then he rode off on a bike.”

  Bruno quickly scanned the note, neatly written in individual letters that were not joined up. Félix thanked him for the photo of the car and said he’d seen another photo just like it and, if Bruno was interested, could they meet at the seniors’ home at 12:30?

  Bruno put the note away, wondering what Félix meant. He thanked Fauquet, and he and Isabelle took his van to the vet’s office, where Balzac was declared to be in excellent shape. As the vet brought the dog out, Balzac saw Isabelle and galloped toward her, ears flapping like the wings of some mythical creature, half dog and half bird, before he leaped into Isabelle’s arms, licking passionately at her throat.

  “That’s what I call a welcome,” said the vet, staring admiringly at Isabelle as much as at the dog. “I wish I got them like that.”

  At the gendarmerie, Sergeant Jules gave her a welcome just as warm and enfolded Isabelle into an embrace in which she was almost hidden by his vast bulk. She was delighted to see he was still passing his annual fitness tests, she told him.

  “Oh, we don’t bother about those around here,” he said cheerfully. “How long are you with us for?”

  “Not sure yet,” she said, and went in to pay her courtesy call on Yveline as post commander and to thank her for offering a work space.

  “She hasn’t changed a bit,” said Sergeant Jules, fondly. “You should never have let that one get away, Bruno.”

  “If only it had been up to me,” he replied.

  Isabelle came out with Yveline, who greeted Bruno formally and showed them into the room set aside for Isabelle’s team.

  “We’ll need a statement from you on what you found at the scene of Denise’s injury, Bruno,” Yveline said. “Can we do that sometime this morning before the procureur’s meeting this afternoon?”

  “As soon as I’ve briefed Commissaire Perrault,” he said, and followed Isabelle into the modest room with two desks, two chairs, a phone and an empty bookcase.

  “I see the facilities here haven’t changed, but it’s certainly a warmer welcome than we used to get with Capitaine Duroc,” Isabelle said, putting her computer case on a desk and handing Bruno her coat as she took a chair. He found a hook on the back of the door. “So what can you tell me?”

  He described what he had learned of Sylvestre and Freddy since meeting them at the Concours d’Élégance, from the family row with Oudinot to Sylvestre’s hunt for the lost Bugatti.

  “I mentioned that the Police Nationale were planning an autopsy of Hugon, but he showed no reaction,” Bruno went on. “I also talked to a policeman in Alsace, a friend of mine, who said there was a rumor that Sylvestre came close to bankruptcy in 2008 with the financial crisis and was bailed out by Arab contacts. Certainly his operation in the Gulf seems to be very lucrative, and he’s planning a new showroom in Shanghai.”

  “What’s your impressio
n of him?”

  “Very smart and determined, probably ruthless when he has to be, but also ready to cut his losses and strike a deal, which is what he’s doing with the family feud.”

  “You mean you think he might be open to working with us if he knew the alternative was a prison term?”

  “I think it’s very likely, unless he is a lot more frightened of his Arab friends than of going into a French prison.” He paused and added, “There’s a complication. J-J and I think Sylvestre and Freddy might be involved in a murder. They were working with a local researcher, a retired archivist who died in suspicious circumstances. There’s an autopsy under way in Bordeaux as we speak, and we’re waiting for the report.”

  “How was this man killed?”

  “We suspect cyanide poisoning. That’s what the lab is testing for. The dead man had recently sent off some papers to Freddy at a poste restante in Strasbourg.”

  “Researching what?” she asked. Bruno explained about the lost Bugatti, its history and the fact that one just like it had sold for thirty-seven million dollars.

  She shook her head in disbelief. “That much money may well be worth killing for. But let’s wait and see if the lab confirms the cyanide before I discuss the implications with J-J. I’m sure he’ll agree to wait until my operation is complete. He’d better.”

  “He and I already talked about it,” said Bruno. “I think you’ll find him sympathetic, but as soon as the lab confirms it, he’ll have to bring in the procureur, who might not be so ready to cooperate.”

  “We’ll see. What can you tell me about Farid, the one you call Freddy?” she asked. “Have you met him?”

  “He’s not at all forthcoming, and I’ve met him only briefly. I tried to start a conversation but was politely rebuffed. He’s a fitness freak and a very good driver. And he seems to be living in a separate house from Sylvestre, so I don’t think they’re gay. Can you tell me where you’re going with this operation?”