Fatal Pursuit

by Martin Walker

  Even as he spoke, Bruno realized that he hadn’t followed up on this case as he should have. If he hadn’t been in such a rush to get back to Martine he’d have gone to the mayor and asked his advice. The mayor would probably have called the subprefect in Sarlat, who in turn would have had a quiet word with the procureur about this being the kind of assault that stirred public opinion. But did Bruno think juvenile detention was really the right treatment for Tristan?

  “What do you think should happen to Tristan?” Florence asked. “I know the boy deserves to get punished, and he probably needs a real shock. But I’m with Annette; I never like the idea of putting young people in prison, even a special detention center. If the girl had been blinded, I might think differently, but since they saved her eyesight…”

  “I was so angry with him when it happened,” said Bruno. “All I could think of was making Tristan pay for it. He’s been a bully for years, spoiled rotten by his parents and so cocksure that he could get away with anything. And now there’s the drug charge as well. The procureur can’t ignore that after all the fuss he’s made about drugs in the past.”

  “You know possessing drugs triggers automatic suspension from the collège, so that means Tristan will not be going to the lycée as he expected.”

  “What sort of student is he?”

  “Lazy and arrogant, doing just enough to get by, and he’s intelligent enough to get away with it. He’s from a good home with educated parents, books in the house, his own laptop at home. I’ve caught him plagiarizing his homework a couple of times, just copying stuff straight from some website or other, usually Wikipedia. And he’s done the same in other classes. His parents have been warned that it could mean holding him back a year, but they said they’d hire a private tutor to make sure he caught up. They want him in a good lycée and then in a good university. Juvenile detention would probably wreck his life.”

  “He very nearly wrecked Denise’s life and did his best to do the same to Félix, so how do we treat a nasty young thug like Tristan?”

  “We get you and me and his parents together and we try to hammer out some agreed course of action,” Florence said. “I don’t see what else we can do. If Tristan doesn’t go to prison, what’s likely to happen to him?”

  “Two years of community service, probably with a hefty fine that his parents can easily afford to pay. Part of the problem is with them. The husband is henpecked by Tristan’s mother, who thinks her little darling is perfect. She swore out a false statement saying Tristan was with her when we know from witnesses and from his phone that he was throwing rocks at Denise at the time.”

  “Can’t you use that to make her see some sense?”

  “I don’t think the procureur would want to charge her with perjury, not for a mother trying to protect her child. She’d get no more than a slap on the wrist.”

  “She doesn’t know that.”

  “They have already hired a good lawyer for Tristan, who will probably tell the mother she’s unlikely to face any trouble. But maybe you’re right. Let me discuss this with Yveline. We can’t let this drop here.”

  “I’ve got to get the children back to school before I start teaching again. Meanwhile I’ll have a word with Rollo and see what he thinks. And thank you for calling.”

  “My love to your children,” he said. “And I’ll consult the mayor.”

  Bruno called Claire to ask if the mayor was free, to be told he was in a meeting. She would let him know when it ended. He used the time to call the mairie at La Bachellerie to ask if they had any school attendance records for the late 1930s and the 1940s. No, he was told, they would all be somewhere in the archives of the département in Périgueux. He looked up the number, called and asked for Madame Tronquet, the same helpful person to whom he’d spoken about Hugon’s searches. Yes, she said when he was put through, they kept their school registers, organized by commune.

  “Could someone look up the records of La Bachellerie for 1935 and 1938? I’m looking for any other details about a girl called Marie-France who was in the same class as a boy named Henri Boulier. It’s very urgent and it’s important, part of what we think is turning out to be a murder investigation. If you want to check with Commissaire Jalipeau of the Police Nationale…”

  “No, no, it’s all right, Monsieur Bruno. I was reading about you in the paper today, about that poor little girl who got hit in the eye. I’ll do it myself and call you back.”

  Bruno began going through his e-mails, deleting or acknowledging as he went, when his mobile phone rang. It was J-J, saying that the Bordeaux lab had confirmed Fabiola’s theory. Hugon had been murdered with cyanide, sprayed into his face. J-J had a meeting scheduled with Isabelle at the St. Denis gendarmerie in an hour’s time to discuss the implications of the murder for Isabelle’s operation. The procureur would send someone and could Bruno attend? He checked his watch and said yes, telling J-J that he’d already briefed Isabelle on the matter.

  There came a knock on his door, and the mayor came in, sat down and said, “I presume you want to know about Tristan? I already had Simon calling me last night, asking if I could use my influence with the procureur to go easy on his son. As you know, that supermarket is now the biggest taxpayer in the commune.”

  Bruno said nothing.

  “I know you’re not a great fan of putting teenage kids in prison. Nor am I. But you understand the politics of this, particularly with the drugs as a second charge. Rollo tells me that Tristan had so much cannabis he suspects the boy may have been dealing it to others in the school. Have you heard anything about that?”

  “No, which makes me feel guilty. I had no idea that amount of stuff was available around here, and I ought to have known, or at least kept more of an eye on the collège.”

  The mayor nodded. “Rollo also said Tristan will now be suspended, but I can’t see how that will help. Is there anything we can do that would keep the boy out of jail and also get him back on track? Isn’t there some early engagement system for the army?”

  “There used to be,” said Bruno. “That’s what I did. But seventeen is the minimum age now, and the army probably wouldn’t have him after this. We’ll need to find him a useful and preferably tough job for the rest of the school year, then if he stays out of trouble and Rollo agrees, Tristan can retake his final year and go on to the lycée a year late.”

  “Any ideas? Remember, we can’t give him the kind of job that some unemployed person could fill, which rules out most community service work.”

  “That means an internship, and it would have to be with someone he could look up to, someone to set an example.”

  “You mean the way you seem to have taken Félix in hand?” the mayor asked, smiling for the first time since he’d come in.

  “No, I couldn’t give Tristan full-time attention,” Bruno said. “I’d been thinking about a farm, but it would take too long to make him useful. You’re on the conseil régional, and we’ve got the state forests. Do you know any foresters who might fit the bill? Get him doing something like that, and the procureur might give him conditional probation.”

  “You mean if he doesn’t shape up he goes straight to jail?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll talk to the chief forester.” The mayor rose.

  A few minutes after he’d gone, Madame Tronquet called Bruno back and asked for his fax number. She would send him a copy of the school register. Henri Boulier had been a classmate of Marie-France Perdigat, whose address was listed as Perdigat; the coincidence of names suggested a farm that had been in the same family for generations. Bruno thanked Madame Tronquet profusely and hung up just as his fax machine began to whir. Then came a knock on the door, and Philippe Delaron arrived.

  “I was doing some shopping at the supermarket when I got your text,” he said. “What’s up?”

  Bruno gave Philippe the two photos and asked him to blow them up and give him two copies and suggested Philippe keep copies for himself, since it could well turn into a s
tory.

  “You know Gilles, the guy who used to be at Paris Match?”

  “Yes, Fabiola’s boyfriend, the lucky guy.”

  “He’s been working on the background to this, and I’m sure he’ll do the usual deal with you—he gets the story nationally, and you break it in Sud Ouest at the same time. One look at that photo of the car, and Gilles will know what it’s all about. These were taken in wartime. The kid in the second photo is now a sweet old guy called Boulier who’s in the maison de retraite. The guy with him holding the gun is his big brother, Henri, a Resistance fighter who was killed later in the war, and the man in uniform is a downed RAF pilot whom Henri helped to escape over the Pyrenees.”

  “That’s a pretty nice story as it stands, but what about the car?” Philippe asked. “It’s a beauty.”

  “Gilles can tell you all about it,” Bruno said. “I’ll call him now if you can start working on those blowups. I’ve got a meeting at the gendarmerie on a separate matter that will also be a big story, and I’ll make sure you get it first.”

  He called Gilles to brief him and told him to expect a visit from Philippe with photographic evidence that the Bugatti had been in the region at the time of its disappearance. He briefly related what Boulier had said and added that the car had been dismantled and hidden in a barn somewhere on a farm called Perdigat, near La Bachellerie.

  “Jesus,” said Gilles. “This is starting to get real. As soon as Philippe gets here, we can go over to La Bachellerie and take a look.”

  “That’s exactly what I hoped you’d say,” said Bruno. “If you’re still at the house at about four, I may see you. I want to pick up Hector for an early ride.”

  He ended the call, put on his kepi, checked his appearance in the mirror and strolled down the rue de Paris toward the gendarmerie, thinking it was convenient to have a couple of inquisitive and friendly journalists around. They could save him a great deal of legwork.

  21

  As he passed the office of Brosseil, the notaire, the door opened and Oudinot emerged looking extremely pleased with himself.

  “Ah, Bruno,” Oudinot greeted him. “The deed is done, the land is sold, and the feud is settled. Sylvestre has signed the contract pledging the sale and paid a fat deposit to ensure that the deal goes through as quickly as possible. You must come to dinner at the farm so I can thank you for all your help, and I still want you to meet my daughter, Martine, properly, over dinner.”

  “Congratulations,” Bruno said, startled, but thinking quickly. “You know, I met your daughter when she came to the mairie to explain her proposals for the electric-car rally. She’s a charming woman and obviously very good at business; you must be very proud of her.”

  “Very much so, I just wish her business let us see a little more of her or at least to get started on making me a grandpa. Then again, my wife tells me she suspects there may some new romantic interest in Martine’s life.”

  Trying to forestall his blushes, Bruno glanced at the door of the notary’s office behind Oudinot, which remained closed.

  “Wasn’t Sylvestre in there with you to sign the deal?”

  “Yes, of course, but he’s staying. Apparently he has some other property deal he’s arranging, so he stayed behind to discuss it with Brosseil. I have to get back to the farm. So you’ll come to dinner and get to know Martine a little less formally. Shall we say Sunday evening at seven?”

  “I’ll be delighted to come, and I’ll look forward to it, but now you must excuse me; I have to get to a meeting at the gendarmerie.”

  “Of course, but I’m so pleased it all worked out with Sylvestre. I really made him pay through the nose for the land.” Oudinot looked around with a conspiratorial air and whispered, “When should I expect those colleagues of yours to come about Sylvestre’s taxes?”

  “As soon as they get here, I’ll let you know, and not a word to a soul. I know I can count on you, Fernand.”

  “Indeed you can. Au revoir, Bruno.”

  Oudinot headed to his car, parked immediately behind a Range Rover that Bruno recognized as Sylvestre’s. With a glance at the still-closed door of the notaire, Bruno walked on, wondering if the sale to Sylvestre would still go through if he were arrested before the final contract was signed. If not, he’d forfeit his deposit, so Oudinot would at least have that. As he trotted up the gendarmerie steps, noting J-J’s official car parked down the street with Annette’s blue Peugeot behind it, Bruno wondered what other deal Sylvestre might be negotiating.

  The meeting was being held in Isabelle’s temporary office. J-J was in the visitor’s chair, beaming paternally at Isabelle, who rose with a smile to let Bruno kiss her cheeks. Balzac jumped out from beneath her desk to greet his master.

  “Thank you for letting me have some time with him,” she said, bending to stroke the dog. “Maybe you could bring him again tomorrow? I’d like to keep him with me, but I don’t think my hotel would welcome his staying in my room tonight.”

  “Of course,” said Bruno, picking up Balzac’s leash from her desk. “I’ll buy you croissants again at Fauquet’s if you like. I’ll be there at eight tomorrow morning.”

  “If you two dog lovers have finished, our real business is all settled,” said J-J. “Isabelle and I have agreed that you and I can continue our investigation into Hugon’s murder as far as we can without alerting the two suspects, but once Isabelle’s operation is complete, we can move in.”

  “If Isabelle succeeds in turning Sylvestre into an informant, her operation could last for some time,” Bruno said, his tone deliberately neutral. J-J looked surprised, and Isabelle gave Bruno a sour look. “Or didn’t she explain that?”

  “She didn’t have to,” said J-J. “Prunier got a call from the minister’s office saying that this Eurojust operation was to be given my complete cooperation and top priority.” Prunier was J-J’s boss, the police commissioner for the département.

  “I understand,” said Bruno. “You’d better make sure nobody from the Bordeaux lab says anything about the autopsy. Murder by cyanide spray is unusual enough for people to start talking. If Sylvestre hears about that, he’s smart enough to deduce that the game is up.”

  “I’ll make sure nobody talks,” J-J said. “I have to go to Bordeaux anyway. One of the two targets is there today, the Indian fellow, and I have a meeting with the Bordeaux detectives who have been handling the surveillance there.”

  “I’m told you have another meeting in the post commandant’s office over the case with the little girl who was almost blinded,” Isabelle interrupted, looking at Bruno. “That young magistrate from Sarlat is going to be there, so you mustn’t let us keep you. And don’t forget those data cards you promised me.”

  “Just one thing,” Bruno said. “If your surveillance picks up anything about a property deal that Sylvestre is arranging, not the one with Oudinot himself, I’d be grateful to know what it might be.”

  “So long as it doesn’t compromise my operation, of course,” she said and fell silent, pointedly waiting for him to leave.

  In Yveline’s office next door, the mood was grim, and even from the corridor he’d heard their raised voices. Yveline sat stony faced, and Annette’s cheeks were flushed and she looked flustered. As if grateful for the distraction, Annette looked at her watch when Bruno entered. He apologized to them both for being late, explaining he’d been called in to see J-J about another matter.

  “I was expecting him to be at this meeting as well,” Annette said. “The procureur said to be sure to get his views on the cannabis aspect of this case.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be here as soon as he can,” said Bruno. “Are you both agreed on how to proceed against Tristan?”

  “No,” said Yveline firmly while at the same moment Annette was saying, “Not exactly.”

  “The young man has been told he’ll be charged with aggravated bodily harm and possession of cannabis in quantities suggesting he’s a dealer. It’s open and shut,” said Yveline. “Annette is trying to ge
t me to recommend a noncustodial sentence, and I won’t. Tristan needs locking up. If he just had a couple of joints, maybe, but he had half a kilo, and I don’t want that being peddled around to the kids in this town.”

  “You know as well as I do that juvenile detention centers are like a high school for criminals,” said Annette. “They’re understaffed, underfunded and probably do more harm than good. This is an intelligent youngster from a stable and comfortable home who made a bad mistake, two bad mistakes. But there’s a chance we can set him right. If he goes inside, we’re likely to have a very smart criminal on our hands when he gets out.”

  “I don’t think a stable and comfortable home entitles him to escape the penalties the law requires. It doesn’t seem to have done him much good so far,” Yveline replied.

  The two women, usually good friends, glared at each other, and then they both looked at Bruno, each of them obviously expecting him to agree with her. He could lose two friends here if he couldn’t find a way to move them beyond their immediate argument.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Bruno began. “I think you’re both right. Tristan is a nasty piece of work who deserves to be punished. At the same time, if he goes into a detention center he’s probably going to come out as even more of a menace than when he went in; we all know that.”

  He paused. “As I understand it, we’re not taking a decision here. We’re simply expected to come up with a recommendation for the procureur and, if we can’t agree, we send him separate recommendations, and he makes the choice.”

  Yveline nodded agreement, and Annette said, “He specifically asked us to come up with an agreed recommendation.”

  “Well, it looks like he’s not going to get one from you two, but he will be getting one from the mayor, and since the mayor has been a senator and sits on the conseil régional, I think he’d take that one very seriously.”

  “Where does the mayor come into this?” Yveline asked, suspiciously.