“It’s clear that we are dealing with an exemplary employer who does not seek to flout the law,” the judge finally declared. “I sympathize with him and wonder whether some members of the union, particularly those currently out of work, might want to ask their leaders whether their campaign against this particular bakery makes any sense. However, given the law as it stands, I sincerely regret that I have little choice in the matter but to impose the minimum fine of five hundred euros and order each bakery to close one day each week.”
A bunch of media people were waiting outside the court talking to the two sets of demonstrators when Vaugier, the union representative, pushed brusquely past Bruno and Hugues to ensure he was the first to get to the microphones and proclaim the union’s victory.
“This is just the beginning, and I warn other bosses who try to exploit our workers by making them work every day of the week that we’ll be coming after them, as well,” Vaugier announced proudly. A thin-faced man with close-cut gray hair, he was wearing a dark blue shirt and red tie and sported a Parti de Gauche badge in his lapel.
The local police had disappeared, and already a brief scuffle had broken out as two of Hugues’s bakers advanced angrily on Vaugier to denounce him as a liar. Bruno took Hugues’s arm in a tight grip to hold him back from the fray.
“Stay out of this and let your lawyer do the talking,” Bruno told him. “Anything you say will make this worse.”
Bruno tried to push Hugues off to the side but found the way blocked by a big man who was carrying a sign that said MAKE THE RICH PAY and chanting some slogan Bruno could not make out. He put out a beefy hand to grab Hugues’s arm, but Bruno pushed it aside and tried to move on. The man began to bring his sign down on Bruno’s head as someone else tried to grab his arms from the rear.
Bruno had learned about street brawls in the army and knew he needed some space, free arms and one decisive blow. He slammed one elbow back hard into the belly of the man behind him, raised his other arm to block the descending sign and then moved forward, raised his leg and slammed the side of his boot down hard, scraping it along the shin of the man before him. It did no permanent damage, but the pain was intense, and the man’s face collapsed as he screeched and sank down to clutch his leg.
Bruno turned and pushed Hugues to get him clear, seeing two of the bakery employees suddenly surrounding them in support. Bruno looked back and heard the union leader, Vaugier, shouting about police brutality.
“Stop this now or you’re next,” Bruno shouted to him, feeling his blood rising. Then the trade unionist who’d greeted him stepped between Bruno and Vaugier, his arms outstretched and calling for calm, and the moment was over. Bruno thanked him and followed Hugues as the bakery workers dispersed. Then Philippe Delaron of Sud Ouest, the regional daily, came up to tell Bruno he had a good photo of the sign being aimed at Bruno’s head, just in case he might need it.
“I’ve got a better photo than that for your paper,” Bruno said, and told him of the dead woman and the graffiti that now desecrated the château of Commarque. In return, Bruno added, he’d expect a prominent placement for the dead woman’s photo to help identify her.
“Thanks, Bruno. I’d heard about the dead woman from the pompiers, but the graffiti makes it a better story. Fluorescent-red paint, you say. And what is it, some kind of political slogan?”
“More than that, it’s a mystery. Go to Commarque and take a look and see for yourself. Maybe your readers can work out what it means. And there’s another mystery. The unknown woman wasn’t alone. Somebody took away the spray can of paint and the climbing rope she was using. Your headline writes itself—‘Mystery Woman’s Secret Slogan Defaces National Monument. Did She Fall or Was She Pushed?’ ”
Back in his office, Bruno e-mailed a description of the dead woman to other local newspapers and radio stations, along with an appeal for anyone who might have known or met her to call him. He looked at the photo of her face that he’d taken on his phone. She looked peaceful, and French law recognized no privacy in death. The priority now was to identify her, so he e-mailed the photo to the message network of mairies, tourist information offices and hotels in the communes up and down the valley. The kids in the computer club at the local collège had developed the system at Bruno’s request. He then posted the woman’s few details onto the missing-persons register, in the hope that some family member wondering where she might be would contact the police. Finally he called the number the count had given him for the secretary of the Templars’ club, left a message asking for a call back and e-mailed him the photo, asking if he would share it with other club members. He was about to turn to the day’s mail when the mayor called on the internal line and asked Bruno to step into his office.
He assumed the mayor wanted to hear about the unknown woman. Bruno left Balzac in his office, closing the door to stop the dog wandering into the kitchen in the hope that someone would give him a biscuit. He took his notes and a printout of the woman’s face to the mayor’s office. Bruno was surprised when the mayor introduced him to a young black woman whose perfume already filled the room with a powerful blend of musk and gardenias. She rose from the visitor’s chair to shake Bruno’s hand.
“Amélie Plessis,” she said. “Enchantée.”
She had a strong grip and wide shoulders, her hair had been cut very short, and her black patent-leather shoes boasted perilously high heels. She had lively eyes with maybe a hint of mischief in them. Bright red lipstick and even-brighter blue eyeshadow combined with very white teeth to make Bruno think of the French tricolor. Amused by the thought and impressed by the self-confidence of the young woman, he smiled at her as they exchanged business cards.
“From the Ministry of Justice,” she added, superfluously, since her card already explained her provenance. And so did her bureaucrat’s uniform: black suit, knee-length skirt and white blouse. “I’m looking forward to our working together and learning about your philosophy of policing.”
What on earth did that mean? He tried not to show his surprise. And why was the justice ministry sending someone like this down to St. Denis, rather than the usual pasty-faced clerk from Paris? And to work with him? What were her origins? Her accent was not entirely French; the vowels were a little too generous, the rhythm of speech bubbling rather than tinkling in the approved Parisian style. It was not quite Caribbean, not quite the accent of Quebec, not quite from Marseille, but had hints of all three. Her smile was perfunctory rather than genuine, not reaching her eyes. Bruno detected a touch of suspicion, or perhaps apprehension, in her gaze, as if she’d learned to be wary of policemen.
“Mademoiselle Plessis was telling me that the new minister is a great supporter of the municipal police as being much closer to the public than the gendarmes and with a more friendly image,” the mayor said, one eyelid drooping in what might have been the ghost of a wink at Bruno. “But the minister needs some evidence that would allow her to act upon her belief, and we think you might provide it. Mademoiselle Plessis would like to accompany you for the next two weeks for a time-and-motion study, recording your work minute by minute throughout the day.”
Bruno was speechless. A Paris bureaucrat at his side every moment of the day, recording everything he said or did? He felt his jaw dropping as he gazed helplessly at the mayor, wondering what on earth could have induced him to commit this act of betrayal to his faithful chief of police.
“I knew you’d like the idea,” said the mayor. “And there’ll probably be a security aspect to her work, given the opening of the new Lascaux museum later this year. Mademoiselle Plessis tells me that the president of the Republic is planning to attend. You’ve always been a great supporter of the village police and their local knowledge against the gendarmes who seldom stay long enough in one place to be useful. Now’s your chance to prove it.”
“Understood, Monsieur le Maire,” said Bruno, trying to come up with an excuse that would extract him from this chore. “But now that we have such excellent relations with
the new head of the gendarmerie here, those concerns have largely disappeared. As you told the local newspaper only last week, relations between us and Commandante Yveline are now exemplary.”
“Yes, yes, but our guest has no time to lose. Perhaps you could escort her to the hotel where she’ll be staying, and then come back here while she unpacks before taking her with you for the rest of the day.”
Chapter 5
Bruno did as he was told, picking up the suitcase and leading the way across the square to the hotel, his mind reeling as he tried to pay attention to the young woman who insisted that he call her Amélie. She announced briskly that she’d recently graduated from magistrates’ school and had been recruited by the ministry. Her family, she went on, came originally from Haiti, but she had been born on French soil, the island of Guadeloupe, after her parents had fled the corrupt rule of the Duvaliers. She had grown up in Marseille and won a scholarship to university in Montreal, sang in nightclubs to earn extra money, returned to France, joined the Socialist Party and decided on a career in politics via the law. She relayed all this in a walk of fewer than a hundred meters, leaving Bruno breathless by the sheer energy her stocky frame produced.
“How did you get the job in the ministry?” he asked when they reached the hotel and Amélie paused for breath. He was more interested in her singing but thought he’d better show polite interest in her career.
“I got to know the minister through politics. We’re in the same branch of the party. I suppose you’re on the right, given your mayor’s politics. But I’ll try hard not to let that shape my conclusions.”
“I don’t think party politics has anything to do with policing,” Bruno said.
“Really?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “In my view everything is to do with politics.”
He waited while she checked in, then walked back to the mayor’s office, still thinking of some way to squeeze out of this absurd imposition. As if any policeman could ever act normally when his every moment was under the scrutiny of someone from the ministry!
He’d no longer be able to throw away after a quick glance the reams of paperwork that came from the ministry but would have to pretend to read the stuff, which would leave little time for any sensible work. Nobody would tell him anything with this young woman constantly at his side, scribbling notes on a clipboard. Fauquet at the café would shrink from passing on any choice item of gossip if he suspected for a moment that it was being recorded. Bruno’s habit of stopping at various houses in the scattered hamlets that surrounded St. Denis for a small glass of something would be entirely misunderstood by the bureaucrats at the ministry.
Worst of all, it was just approaching that moment in late spring when the fish were rising and Bruno’s garden needed maximum attention. People living in Paris would never understand that no country policeman would command respect if his vegetable garden were less than exemplary, or if he failed to demonstrate his skills at hunting and fishing and other rural pastimes. He’d have to think of a good excuse to give the mayor and rehearsed a couple as he climbed the stairs to the mayor’s office.
“Much as I’d like to cooperate with the ministry, I honestly don’t think I’m the right police officer…”
“Forget it, Bruno. It’s settled and you can’t back out. And if you can’t charm that nice young woman who’s still wet behind the ears, you’re not the Bruno I know. Now go and take your medicine like a man.”
Dismissed and admonished, Bruno turned to go, thinking at least that time spent with Amélie promised to be interesting, if exhausting. As he opened the door, the mayor said, in a kinder tone, “Look on the bright side, Bruno. When she logs all those drives you have to make, perhaps those idiots in the capital will finally realize that this commune alone is larger than Paris. And she’s a protégée of the new minister. So she has piston, political influence. She’s already on the executive committee of the Socialist Party youth wing and I know she’s having dinner with the pharmacist this evening. So bear that in mind. A bright young black woman with a law degree and political ambitions is just what his party is hoping to publicize and promote. This young woman is going places.”
The pharmacist was the Socialist Party chairman in the valley, who would doubtless be aware of just how much piston Amélie commanded. And since both Amélie and the mayor had now confirmed that the president of the Republic, a Socialist, would attend the opening of the new Lascaux museum, half the local Socialist Party would be angling for invitations. Bruno himself was interested to see the new project, which went by the name of Lascaux IV. Lascaux I was the original cave, discovered in 1940 and closed to the public in 1963 when their respiration and the bacteria they brought into the cave had combined to produce a white fungus that was damaging the seventeen-thousand-year-old paintings. Lascaux II, an exact and impressive copy of the two most impressive chambers of the cave, had been opened to tourists after it was completed in 1983. Lascaux III, a traveling exhibition of partial copies, films, fossils and audiovisual explanations, had been on display at successive museums around the world for the past five years.
The new Lascaux IV, at a cost of some sixty million euros, was designed to be a showroom for French technology to display a Lascaux for the twenty-first century, with a new copy of the entire cave as precise as modern computers could achieve. It was planned to include 3-D presentations, interactive demonstrations of how the images had originally been painted, comparisons with cave art from other cultures, prehistoric and more recent. Above all it was to allow more tourists to experience the cave than the thirty at most that Lascaux II could accommodate.
Promoted and pushed by a veteran Socialist politician of the region, with financial backing from the Socialist government, the project had become a political football, with opponents grumbling that the money could have been better spent elsewhere. Bruno disagreed. He had been so awed by his first sight of Lascaux, so struck by the realization that he would never again think of the people who had produced this masterpiece as primitive, that he wanted the whole of the human race to see the cave and be similarly moved. He had already attended meetings to plan the security measures for the grand opening.
Bruno collected Balzac and was about to cross the square to meet Mademoiselle Plessis when he was hailed by Father Sentout, the priest of St. Denis who followed the fortunes of the town’s rugby team with the same devotion he gave to his dwindling band of worshippers.
“My dear Bruno, is there any progress on the dreadful pedophile business they were discussing on the radio this morning?”
“None at all, I gather. It’s a difficult case, involving recovered memories many years after the events. Why are you interested?”
“The priest who has been accused of this, Father Francis. I knew him before his death when he was a colleague, another teacher at my seminary. This was after he’d been at Mussidan. I find it impossible to believe he could have done such wicked things.”
“He wouldn’t have been the first priest to have gone astray like that.”
“No, indeed, and that is a tragedy for the Church. But I knew Francis to have been a truly good man. Since he can’t stand up for himself, surely his friends and those who knew him should try to defend his memory. Is there some way I and some other priests could give some kind of character reference to the police or the investigating magistrate?”
Bruno gave Father Sentout J-J’s name and address at police headquarters in Périgueux and suggested he write a letter. Then he excused himself, since he saw Amélie emerge from the hotel. The priest laid a hand on Bruno’s arm.
“Francis may be dead, Bruno, but for this unjust accusation to continue to sully his name would be an offense against God and man. You believe in justice on earth just as I believe in the ultimate justice of heaven. I know that you must understand that.”
Father Sentout released his grip and Bruno said, “A bientôt.” He could feel the priest’s curious gaze follow him as Bruno crossed the square to greet the young woman on the hote
l steps. She had changed from her suit into tight jeans over the same black shoes and now wore a black leather jacket over her white blouse.
He introduced her to Balzac, who was already charmed by the woman, and she seemed equally enchanted with the basset hound. She bent down despite the tight jeans and caressed the dog’s ears. Balzac responded by leaping up to give her face a friendly lick. She laughed and gave him a kiss in return, on his head.
“Do you have any other shoes, suitable for walking in the countryside?” he asked. “Not a lot of my time is spent on paved streets.”
She darted back up to her room to change and descended in a pair of suede boots, with heels that were chunky and lower than the stilettos. He sighed, thinking it would be quite a challenge to persuade her to wear the spare rubber boots he kept in his van.
He escorted her back across the square to Fauquet’s for a coffee and an attempt to lay down some ground rules. He’d try to get her to stay in the car, noting down simply that he was making inquiries, seeing confidential sources, following up reports of suspicious activity. He introduced her to Fauquet and the other regulars as a colleague from Paris. Not quite sure what to make of this, and clearly startled by Bruno’s guest, they greeted her with reserved formality and quickly left the bar. Bruno was surprised they hadn’t stayed long enough to ask about the dead woman. By now they must have heard the news from the pompiers. Fauquet turned his back in silence to make the coffees.
The Templars' Last Secret Page 4
