The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

by Martin Walker

Bruno returned home to find that Valentoux had explored his way around the kitchen and dining room. He had set the table and gathered wild flowers from the field behind the blackcurrant bushes. They filled the vase he had placed on the outdoor table, where Bruno’s champagne flutes had been polished and made ready. Balzac had raced ahead and was already making friends with their guest. A few moments later he spotted Pamela and Fabiola coming up the drive bearing bottles of wine. Balzac tore himself from Valentoux to greet them and then darted back to Valentoux again.

  ‘You look a lot better than you did yesterday,’ Fabiola told Valentoux. ‘At one point I thought of declaring you in shock, but you seemed to be pretty lucid in answering Bruno’s questions. My sympathies on the loss of your friend.’

  ‘I want to hear what you have planned for the theatre festival,’ said Pamela. ‘But maybe we’d better wait until Annette joins us.’

  Bruno was pouring the champagne when Annette arrived in her small blue Peugeot with the wide tyres for rally-driving, sending Balzac into another frenzy of welcome.

  Bruno excused himself to visit the kitchen to heat a pan of sunflower oil for beignets. Readying one bowl of spicy salsa, he took from the fridge a pot of Stéphane’s aillou, fresh cheese flavoured with herbs and garlic, spooned it into a bowl and took both bowls out to the garden with some small plates and a pile of paper napkins. Back inside, he dipped the sliced courgettes into a light batter he made out of flour and water and then eased them into the hot fat. Once they were brown and crisp, he took the beignets out with a slotted spoon, sprinkled salt onto them, and slipped in a fresh batch to fry. He took the first plateful out to his guests and left Pamela to show Valentoux how to hold the hot beignet in a paper napkin and then decide whether to smear it with salsa or aillou.

  The sound of laughter greeted him as he emerged with the second batch, Valentoux deploying a range of voices to play various roles in the story he was telling. He broke off to applaud Bruno’s return.

  ‘I never had courgettes like this, and adding this aillou makes a perfect couple,’ he declared. ‘It’s like oysters and champagne or caviar and vodka; heavenly twins.’

  ‘Wait till Bruno introduces you to his foie gras and Monbazillac,’ said Pamela.

  Nothing like food to get a conversation going, thought Bruno, smiling as he went for the final batch of beignets. But he wondered at Yves’s surprisingly cheerful mood so soon after his lover’s murder. Was it the thespian style, Bruno wondered, the tradition that the show must go on? He’d never come across someone quite like Valentoux before, a man quite so deliberately theatrical that Bruno suspected he’d never be able to tell whether Yves was being genuine or just acting.

  When he returned to his guests, Valentoux had opened a bottle of Clos d’Yvigne, the dry white Bergerac that Fabiola loved. She must have brought it. Knowing his fondness for Pomerol, Annette had brought a bottle of Château Nenin from 2005, which he decanted at once since they were to enjoy it that evening. He opened it to let it stand awhile. Pamela had brought a Monbazillac from Clos l’Envège, which would go perfectly with the strawberries, and he went back to the kitchen to put it in the fridge to stay cool. He put the marinaded duck into the oven, sliced some ham from the haunch that hung from the main beam and put a plate of ham and his fresh radishes at each place on his dining-room table. He added a slice of unsalted butter to each plate and sliced a big pain from the Moulin bakery.

  ‘À table,’ he called from the kitchen window, ‘and bring your wine glasses with you.’

  He steered Annette to the head of the table, he and Valentoux to her left and right and then Fabiola and Pamela, and explained to the table how the ham on their plates came from a pig that had been treated since the previous summer to a regular diet of acorns and chestnuts.

  ‘And I saw him pick the radishes from his garden today,’ added Valentoux. ‘This is an amazing way to live, I think I shall become exceedingly fat.’

  ‘Bruno isn’t fat,’ said Fabiola.

  ‘And nor are any of you,’ Valentoux replied, looking at each of the women. ‘How do you do it?’

  ‘Riding,’ said Pamela and Fabiola in unison.

  ‘I’ve gained three kilos since I came here,’ said Annette. ‘I blame the cheese.’

  Valentoux copied the way Bruno smeared a little butter onto each of the plump, red radishes, dipped each one in salt and then alternated a bite of bread, a radish, a piece of ham and then a sip of the white wine.

  Pamela helped him clear away the plates. She prodded the potatoes and declared them ready as he removed the duck from the oven using bright red gloves emblazoned with a white Swiss cross that Fabiola had given him for Christmas.

  ‘Aiguillettes de canard au miel et moutarde à l’ancienne,’ he announced as they brought the dishes to table.

  ‘I thought that was honey I could smell,’ said Annette, as Bruno darted back into the kitchen to fetch the carafe of Pomerol. ‘I never heard of that with duck.’

  ‘It should go well with this wonderful wine you brought,’ said Bruno, pouring it out.

  ‘Tell us about the festival,’ said Pamela. ‘What can we expect?’

  ‘For a start, you can expect some complimentary tickets,’ Valentoux replied, and went on to describe the plays he planned, a mix of old classics and experimental new theatre, of French and foreign drama. The plates were cleared away, the cheese and salad brought, and then Bruno opened the Monbazillac.

  ‘Do you know where you’ll be staying while you’re in Sarlat?’ Annette asked.

  ‘Not yet, I was going to look for an apartment to rent in the next few days. As long as it’s fairly central, I‘m not looking for anything grand.’

  ‘I rent an old house with some friends on the Rue des Consuls, just around the corner from the festival office. We each have a floor to ourselves, two rooms and small bathroom, and we all share the kitchen, living room and garden. One of the tenants leaves this weekend for a summer school in Italy so his floor is free until the end of August.’

  ‘It sounds perfect. Let me come and visit and then take you to dinner,’ said Valentoux, and the two of them agreed to meet at her house in Sarlat the following evening. Bruno brought coffee, and as the dinner drew to a close, Valentoux proposed that he might cook and play host at a similar event. Pamela was the first to agree, placing her foot firmly on Bruno’s beneath the table; as usual, she’d slipped off her shoes as she dined. When they all rose from the table, she made it clear that she intended to stay the night, so Fabiola and Annette left together. Valentoux marched into the kitchen declaring his intention to do the washing up.

  ‘I meant to ask you, did Fullerton ever mention the name of Paul Murcoing, a young man from this area who seems to have been involved in antiques?’

  Valentoux suddenly went still at the sink. ‘I never heard that name. Is he somebody who might be a suspect?’

  ‘Could be. Did you meet any of Fullerton’s friends?’

  ‘Only when we were in England, and none of them was French.’ Valentoux was scrubbing at a pan that was already clean. ‘This Paul Murcoing, is he gay?’

  ‘So it seems. He’s disappeared and we’re keen to talk to him. I don’t know if you’re in a position to help.’

  ‘Would you like me to make some discreet inquiries? I don’t suppose you have many contacts in the gay community and I do know one or two people down here.’

  ‘Frankly, I’d be grateful for any information about him. He’s a bit of a mystery to me, and that’s a problem, given the way I work. I’m a village flic, which means I know everybody. In a town like this, where these things are important, I know whose grandpa was in the Resistance and who was a collaborator. And as often as not I know who’s having an affair, and if I don’t know I’ll probably get an anonymous letter of denunciation.’

  ‘And you don’t know any gays?’ All the dishes washed, Valentoux had turned and was leaning against the sink, looking at Bruno with a slightly amused expression.

  ‘Don’t
be silly. There’s three thousand people in this commune. We get all sorts. But it tends to be very discreet and Paul Murcoing doesn’t fit into any part of the closeted gay world that I know around here. He’s an urban type, an outsider to the rural Périgord that I’m familiar with, and as a result I feel a bit lost in trying to track him.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. Where was this Paul based?’

  ‘Bergerac mainly, but he worked for a while in Belvès, which is very like St Denis. He seems to have worked mainly as a driver. Hang on a moment, I’ll get a photo.’

  ‘I’ll be outside, having a much-needed cigarette.’

  Standing on the terrace, moths beating valiantly against the outside light, Bruno handed Valentoux a copy of the photo from the security camera.

  ‘Good-looking youth; with a smile like that he could be very popular in Paris. Can I keep this?’

  ‘Yes, I have copies. Pamela and I leave quite early in the morning to go and ride the horses, but I’ll probably be in the café by the Mairie by eight unless something comes up. And I can recommend the croissants. Goodnight. And sleep well.’

  When he came in from the bathroom, Pamela was sitting on the bed draped in a large bath towel. She had applied some fresh perfume and his bedroom was lit only by a single candle.

  ‘That was a lovely evening,’ she said as he started to unwind the towel. ‘I’m looking forward to your reminding me just why it is you prefer women.’

  11

  Bruno was enjoying his croissant at Fauquet’s café when his phone rang just before eight.

  ‘Have you seen the paper yet?’ Isabelle asked, her voice sharp, almost shrill.

  ‘I’m just looking at it.’ He gestured to Fauquet to hand him the café’s copy of Sud Ouest, where the second story on the front page was ‘British spymaster burgled’.

  ‘You’re the only one who could have leaked that, Bruno. The Brigadier’s furious and I don’t want him taking it out on me.’

  ‘Not guilty. Check with Sergeant Jules. He told me that the reporter had simply looked up Crimson on Google.’ He scanned the report. It looked as if Delaron had transcribed the details of Crimson’s career from some official biography. On an inside page was Delaron’s photo of Crimson’s house and a file photo of Crimson receiving his knighthood at Buckingham Palace.

  ‘Well it’s building up as a story on the news wires and on the radio. The BBC ran something, so now we’re getting inquiries from the British press. The last thing we want is reporters running all over the place.’

  Bruno’s mental antennae alerted. Why would that be a problem if she were simply making an effort to find Crimson’s burglar as a matter of professional courtesy?

  ‘What are you up to, Isabelle?’

  ‘Stop it, Bruno. You know perfectly well I need the Brigadier’s backing to get this new job. He’s on the warpath and coming down here with Crimson when he flies in tomorrow. Have you made any progress?’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said, leaving the café to speak in private. ‘At least I’ve got a suspect. Name of Paul Murcoing, low-grade criminal record, last known address in Bergerac. J-J has a team looking for him now but he seems to have gone to ground. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Crimson’s house, babysitting the place till he gets back, and we’ve got forensics crawling all over it. If this Murcoing’s been arrested we’ll have his prints and DNA on file. Meanwhile I’ll see if we can round up some Gendarmes to keep the press away from the house. The question is whether this is just a straightforward burglary or whether there’s something more to it. Does this Murcoing have any British or American connections?’

  ‘He’s a suspect in the murder of the British antiques dealer,’ he said.

  ‘Jesus, this gets worse.’ She rang off, leaving Bruno holding a dead phone. Why might it not be a straightforward burglary? And why had she asked about American connections? Apart from a retired New York lawyer, a widower, and two old dears who had taught French in Californian high schools, he didn’t know any Americans in the area. There was Jacqueline, of course, but she was a French citizen. Suddenly he remembered why she had looked familiar when he’d called at her house. He had not simply seen her in the market or at the Post Office, it had been at Crimson’s garden party the previous summer and she’d been wearing a black cocktail dress. They hadn’t spoken, there must have been forty or fifty people present.

  Jacqueline knew Crimson, and she was writing a book which could make a big splash in the media about American funding in French politics. But that was history, sixty years ago, the dawn of the Cold War. It wasn’t the kind of issue that would have any serious political impact today. Most of the old parties had disappeared or merged into new ones; only the Socialist and Communist parties remained from the old days. He shook his head; that couldn’t be it. However, there had been that cryptic remark Jacqueline had made about the French nuclear deterrent not being really independent. That was different; that could have an impact, he mused. If Crimson knew about it, and had just been holding high-level talks with the Americans, with French elections coming up the prospect of a scandal about the crown jewels of France’s defence system was likely to worry the Brigadier and his Minister. This was all very fanciful, Bruno concluded, and way above his pay grade. He’d better talk to the Mayor.

  His phone rang again. It was Monique, asking if he was still looking for Yvonne Murcoing. Indeed he was, he replied. Monique had just checked Yvonne’s room, to see if she might have returned, and on the notepad by the bed she’d found a phone number with the words ‘camper van’.

  Bruno scribbled down the number in his notebook and thanked her. The woman who answered his call said Yvonne had rented their camper van the previous year and she’d recently asked to do so again. But she and her husband were about to take a week off themselves. When had Yvonne called, Bruno asked. In the evening, three days earlier, he was told. That would have been the day of Fullerton’s murder. Bruno rang J-J and left a message asking if his team could start checking van rental agencies. As he put his phone away, it gave the little ding that meant a call had come in while he’d been talking. The number showed it had come from Paris. He checked the voicemail and listened.

  ‘Salut, Bruno. Gilles here from Paris Match. I’m interested in this burglary of your British spy chief. It’s a quiet week otherwise so I thought I might come down to your delightful part of the world, maybe do an interview with Crimson with a sidebar on the Brits in Périgord. I’d be grateful if you’d call me back, ciao.’

  Gilles was a reporter Bruno had known from his time in Sarajevo, during the siege, and they’d renewed their friendship recently when Gilles had been more than helpful in the case of the Red Countess. Gilles was a smart man. Once he realized that Isabelle, whom he also knew, had come down to St Denis he’d soon sniff that there was more to this burglary than met the eye. Bruno would have to handle this with care.

  The Mayor looked rather more cheerful when Bruno knocked and entered his office. The delay with the new sewers had apparently been fixed and the Mayor asked Claire to make two fresh coffees. Bruno described his talk with Isabelle. Could her sudden interest in the Americans be somehow connected to the revelations in Jacqueline’s book?

  ‘I doubt it,’ the Mayor said. ‘Her book isn’t finished and it won’t be published until well after the elections.’

  ‘Bits could leak,’ said Bruno. ‘Has anybody seen it but you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I imagine she has sent parts of it to her editor at the university press which is publishing it. And I know she’s given a talk to a couple of historical societies. This is history, Bruno, old stuff; a lot of the old passions have died.’

  ‘Not when it comes to nuclear weapons cooperation.’

  ‘Hmm, I see what you mean,’ the Mayor said. ‘I don’t know the details, of course, just what Jacqueline has told me in a general way. And it will come as no secret to the French and American officials involved. If they haven’t publicized it in the past I see no reason why t
hey’d want to do so now.’

  ‘Presumably Crimson would know about this,’ Bruno said. ‘The Americans and the British usually work closely on intelligence, and on nuclear matters.’ He put down his cup and sat forward. ‘Maybe I’m adding two and two and coming up with five, but you know politics. This looks like a pretty close election we have coming up. Could something like this make a difference if it blew up?’

  ‘Any little thing can make a difference in a tight race. Let me think about this. After all, I’m involved.’ He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them to look out of the window. ‘I signed the paper that secured Jacqueline special access to our Senate archives. My name will be on the paper trail.’

  Bruno waited but the Mayor had no more to add. He thought it best to change the subject.

  ‘I meant to ask before about Cécile. I hope she’s not in too much pain.’

  ‘They give her morphine. I’ll visit again this afternoon.’

  ‘And dinner?’

  ‘Jacqueline is doing something with last night’s leftovers. She’s a good woman.’ Bruno took the cups and left him staring out of the window.

  *

  After an hour searching on toutypasse.com for ads renting camper vans in the region, Bruno had made over twenty calls but little progress. His labours were interrupted by a call from the curator he knew at the Centre Jean Moulin in Bordeaux, to report that nothing embarrassing had been found in Murcoing’s war records. He had joined the Maquis in late 1943, after the Germans had occupied southern France and begun the STO, Service du Travail Obligatoire, the compulsory roundup of men and young women to work in labour camps in Germany. He’d joined the Groupe Valmy in early 1944, fought at Terrasson in June and took part in the battle to liberate Périgueux in August.

  ‘Some of this we have confirmed by Marcelle Murat, a real Resistance heroine known as Le Caporal. She used her pharmacy as a postbox and informal hospital as well as acting as a courier between the various groups. I’ll draft a complete paragraph that you can use in a press release or have read out at the funeral,’ said the curator. ‘I’ll miss the old boy. He used to come and see us once a year, always to ask if there was anything new about the money he’d helped take from the Neuvic train. Are you familiar with that?’