by Peter May
‘Oh?’ she said, trying to sound enthusiastic. ‘That’s good.’
‘He’s also agreed to find money in his budget to provide an annual scholarship for the best student of the year. As recommended by me, of course.’ He couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face as her eyes widened. ‘And guess who I’m recommending for this year…’
II
Enzo walked Madame Durand across the Place du Palais past the three arches that once opened into the entrance hall of the Tribunal de Grande Instance before they turned right down the Rue Du Sel. Albi glowed brick pink in the autumn sunshine. But all the warmth had gone out of the air, and the cool wind had started taking leaves from the trees. The juge d’instruction again wore a conservative cut of business suit, this time in dark grey, and her auburn hair streamed out behind her as they walked. Enzo cast her an admiring glance.
‘Still married, Madame le Juge?’
She smiled. ‘Don’t you ever give up?
He shook his head. ‘Never.’
They climbed the steps and entered into the hall d’accueil. He followed her upstairs and along a wood-panelled corridor to her office. They had met several days before at Gendarme Roussel’s funeral, and she had asked him to drop by.
She laid her bag on a desk piled high with files, and dropped into the high-backed leather chair behind it. She found reading glasses in a breast pocket and slipped them on, then opened a folder in front of her.
Enzo dug into his satchel and pulled out a bottle of red wine. ‘By the way, I brought you a present.’
She looked up. ‘Wine?’
‘Petty’s only A1. His Holy Grail. A bottle of Domaine Sarrabelle’s 2002 Syrah. Can’t find it for love or money these days. But I’m told the 2003 is just as good.’
She turned the bottle to look at the label. ‘I’ve never tried it.’
‘There’s always a first time.’ Enzo took two glasses and a tire bouchon from of his bag. ‘Be prepared, I always say.’
‘I’m not sure I should be drinking in the office.’
‘I wouldn’t worry. I’ve heard the judge around here is a woman. A real soft touch. I don’t think she’ll bother us. And I won’t tell her if you don’t.’
Madame Durand pursed her lips to contain a smile, not sure whether to be amused or offended. But Enzo just grinned and opened the bottle, pouring them each a generous glass. He raised his. ‘To your very good health, Madame le Juge.’
‘ Sante.’
They both sipped the wine and she raised an eyebrow. ‘Hmmm. I’m impressed.’ Then her face clouded, and she laid down her glass. ‘But maybe we shouldn’t be celebrating too soon.’ She turned back to her file. ‘That piece of material your daughter’s boyfriend tore from your assailant’s pocket at Chateau des Fleurs…’ She peered over her reading glasses at him. ‘You know, you could have been in serious trouble for not handing that over straight away.’
Enzo shrugged and took another sip of wine. ‘What about it?’
‘I ordered a DNA test on the blood, and we did a comparison with a sample taken from the body of Laurent de Bonneval.’
Enzo frowned. He couldn’t see where this was going. ‘And?’
‘They didn’t match, Monsieur Macleod. Whoever tried to kill you up in the gallery at Chateau des Fleurs, it wasn’t him.’
Enzo’s frown deepened to a furrow. ‘But that doesn’t make any sense. If it wasn’t Bonneval, who was it?’
The juge shook her head. ‘We have no idea. But whoever it was, he’s still out there.’
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Document creation date: 13.08.2012
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