On his desk phone was a recorded message from Delaron, who knew that a formal query on Bruno’s phone at the Mairie would have to be answered.
Bruno listened to Delaron’s chirpy voice telling him that the newspaper was very interested in his photos of the dead woman in the boat, but they would make sure it was decent enough for a family newspaper. Could Bruno confirm in time for his deadline that the woman was dead, that she had been murdered and that it was looking like a case of ritual Satanist killing?
‘Merde,’ Bruno muttered to himself, as Delaron went on to say that Father Sentout had already said that the corpse ‘carried all the hallmarks of a Satanist outrage’.
‘Putain de merde,’ Bruno muttered. The Mayor was not going to like this and Father Sentout should have known better. Bruno picked up the phone and rang Delaron to tell him that all inquiries should go to the official police spokesman in Périgueux. Bruno could confirm only that the woman was dead, but there was no visible cause of death and it was not even yet decided that the death was suspicious. Off the record, the doctor reckoned it was suicide. What about the Satanism? Delaron demanded. Any reference to Satanism was pure speculation, Bruno told him. He put the phone down and went to warn the Mayor.
Gérard Mangin had been the Mayor of St Denis for over twenty years. He had hired Bruno as town policeman and educated him, a former soldier still battered in mind and body from his time in the Balkans, in the traditional and peaceful ways of St Denis. Bruno revered him as a Mayor, loved him as a father, but had few illusions about the Mayor’s ruthless pursuit of what he saw as the interests of St Denis. The most important, of course, was that Gérard Mangin should remain as Mayor.
‘Ah, Bruno, I have excellent news,’ the Mayor said, as Bruno knocked and entered the light-filled room with its view over the Vézère. The Mayor laid down the fountain pen that he still used for all his business, refusing any suggestion that he adopt a computer. He closed the large notebook in which he was writing the history of the town and opened a manila file with a green ribbon attached to its corner. Green meant a project that the Mayor supported.
‘I think I mentioned this proposal for a holiday village, very exclusive, golf course attached, up the river toward Montignac. A big investment group based in Paris, impeccable credentials,’ the Mayor said, looking pleased with himself. ‘It’s at the very edge of our commune and some of the land will be in two other communes, but it looks like we’ll get the bulk of the taxes. Of course, we’ll have to put sewers in and widen the river road, but we’ll get our money back in a few years and then it’s all income. And our people will get the building and landscape work, and the maintenance and cleaning jobs, and a couple of hundred wealthy new customers for our restaurants.’
Much of the Mayor’s time was spent finding jobs for St Denis, or trying to save jobs that were threatened, or securing grants from Brussels and Paris for training and retraining schemes. He had always been obsessed with finding jobs for the young people who left for the universities of Bordeaux and Toulouse and never came back, but the global recession had made it more urgent. That St Denis flourished, when so many other French country towns were shrinking and dying as the populations aged, was testimony to his efforts and to his political connections. Bruno supported the Mayor’s plans in general, but tended to express only polite interest in the particular projects. He was thinking that an affluent holiday village with many of the homes empty throughout the year would be a magnet for burglars, which would be his problem, even though the village was at the far end of the commune, ten kilometres from St Denis. But he thought he’d better sound supportive.
‘Very good news, particularly if they agree to open the golf course to local people as well,’ Bruno said.
‘Good idea, I’ll raise it with young Foucher when he calls again.’
‘Would that be a young man with fair hair, dressed in white, accompanied by a dark-haired young woman?’
The Mayor looked surprised by Bruno’s knowledge. ‘That’s the man himself and the girl, a damn handsome couple. I didn’t know you were paying attention to these planning matters, Bruno.’
‘It wasn’t the planning aspect that struck me,’ Bruno replied drily. He knew the conversation would take a less agreeable turn as he recounted the story of the punt, the dead woman and Philippe Delaron’s inquiries about Satanism.
‘Why the devil can’t he just run the camera shop rather than dash around filling the newspaper with dirty laundry we don’t want washed in public?’
Bruno refrained from replying that as often as not the Mayor found ways to turn Delaron’s reporting to his own advantage. This was the moment for one of the Mayor’s occasional rants, and as long as Bruno was not the target he rather enjoyed them.
‘Satanism is the very last thing I want associated with this town. It’s quite the wrong image. Delaron must be made to see that. Tourists will stay away in their droves, and that will hurt his business as well as everyone else.’
Bruno wasn’t so sure. The more he thought about it the more he suspected that tourists might flock to a town associated with such sensational events. In any event the story was now out of their control. He told the Mayor of Father Sentout’s statement to Delaron.
‘Interfering old busybody,’ the Mayor snapped. ‘That priest should stick to his choir practice. Would it help if I rang the editor?’
‘Knowing journalists, it would probably make it worse. But I’ll go and have a word with the priest. Once they read the story in Sud-Ouest all the other reporters will be calling him. The suggestion of suicide might help.’
‘I’m not sure that will work,’ the Mayor said, shaking his head. ‘Exorcism has always been one of Father Sentout’s interests. He even did a couple of them around here, driving out devils from some poor mad soul. He told me he’d taught exorcism when he was a tutor in the seminary up in Dinan. I suspect he’s been aching for another chance to try it. No, you won’t find it easy to talk our priest out of his latest brush with the devil.’
Before he left, Bruno mentioned the anonymous letter and said he’d drive out to Junot’s farm.
‘Junot’s a drunk, just like his father,’ the Mayor said, looking at his watch. He rose from his desk and put on his jacket. ‘Excuse me, but I have to pick my wife up from the hospital at Sarlat.’
‘Nothing serious, I trust?’ Bruno liked the motherly woman who spent much of the year knitting socks and scarves to hand out to the Mairie staff at Christmas.
‘No, Fabiola said it was just some routine tests.’ The Mayor held the door to let Bruno out. ‘Good luck with Junot. He’ll never make that farm work now they’ve cut the subsidy for sheep. Do what you can, Bruno. But keep it discreet.’
Bruno started at the supermarket, but learned that Francette no longer worked there. She’d left a couple of weeks earlier, claiming to have a new job. That was all the manager knew. Bruno asked Michèle, the veteran cashier, but neither she nor anyone else seemed to know what the new job might be nor where. But apparently she had looked a different girl when she handed in her notice, with new clothes, new hairstyle and make-up and a more cheerful manner.
‘One of her friends said she was in love,’ Michèle told him. Bruno was directed to the staff room where two of Francette’s friends were enjoying coffee and a cigarette. Neither one knew anything about the boyfriend, except that he was not from St Denis, and they confirmed that Francette hated her father and had complained regularly about him.
Before he left, Bruno asked if the supermarket sold black candles, big ones. The manager said he’d never heard of them, nor did he know anywhere that sold them, but he gave Bruno the number of the main distributor for candles in the region, based in Sarlat. Bruno sat to take a coffee at the small restaurant beside the supermarket and dialled. He learned that large black candles were speciality items and always imported. He was given the Paris number of the main importer, and from them got the names of four stores, two in Paris, one in Lyon and another in Marseille.
<
br /> ‘Apart from the theatricals, that is,’ the voice from Paris went on. ‘We have a regular order from Gallotin, the big theatre supplier. They supply the film industry and the Opéra and the Avignon festival, all the main events. That’s the biggest market for things like that.’
Bruno made a note, finished his coffee and checked his watch, thinking he’d have time to visit the Junot farm before lunch, when his phone vibrated. It was J-J, chief of detectives for the Département and a good friend, asking for a briefing on the dead woman.
‘Sorry I didn’t call back earlier,’ J-J said. ‘I was with the new Procureur de la République, seems a real live wire. He’s from Lyon but keen on rugby so you’ll get on fine with him.’ With wide powers to define the scope of criminal inquiries and to appoint juges d’instruction to lead investigations, the new Public Prosecutor could make J-J’s life a misery. The last Procureur had been close to retirement and content to let J-J run his own show.
Bruno strolled back to the Mairie to pick up his official van, and was surprised to see a small procession of a dozen or so townsfolk crossing the bridge ahead of him. They were in single file except for two of them at the front who carried poles bearing hand-made posters. One read, ‘Homes for Locals, Not Tourists’. Catching them up, Bruno saw a number of familiar faces, some of them regulars from other demonstrations over the years. But he was surprised to see Gaston Lemontin carrying the other poster, which read ‘The People Say No’.
Lemontin had for years been the quiet deputy manager of the local bank. Married, with grown children who had moved away, he lived with his wife in a remote but pleasant home overlooking the river at the far end of the commune. As he recalled this, Bruno began to guess the nature of the demonstration. He also recognized two of the people filing along behind as neighbours who lived down the same side road as Lemontin.
‘What’s this about, Gaston?’ he asked, in a friendly tone. ‘It would have been a courtesy to let me know, in case I have to do something about the traffic.’
‘There aren’t that many of us, Bruno, more’s the pity. We’re just here to deliver a petition to the Mayor,’ the banker replied. ‘We’ve got over a hundred signatures. The Mairie will have to listen to us now. Here, why don’t you sign it?’
With what was now a practised gesture, Lemontin whipped out a petition form and pen from his shoulder bag. Bruno took the form, but ignored the pen and began to read. As he’d suspected, the petition was against the plans for the holiday village that the Mayor had mentioned earlier that morning. According to the petition, the golf course would waste water, the need to provide roads and sewers would raise the town’s taxes and no environmental assessment had been done. The banks of the river would be at risk, and it would make it even harder for local youngsters to afford homes of their own. There were far too many holiday homes in the region anyway, without adding more places that would be empty most of the year.
Bruno agreed with a lot of that. But he also agreed with the Mayor’s focus on the jobs, taxes and tourist trade the development would bring to St Denis.
‘All very public-spirited,’ said Bruno, as he handed back the petition and fell into step beside Lemontin. ‘But you didn’t put in the bit about it spoiling your view and maybe shaving a bit off the profit you’ve already made on that house of yours. Isn’t that what this is about? I’ve never known you to attend any other demonstration in these parts.’
‘Well, what if I do have a personal interest?’ Lemontin replied, a faint blush spreading on his cheeks. ‘I’m entitled to make my point, just like any other citizen. And those arguments are real – there hasn’t been an environmental assessment but the Mayor is hell-bent on pushing this through. I’m told that he’s already granted preliminary approval without any public discussion and without the council even seeing the plans. And the more I look into it, the more I smell something fishy in this investment house that’s behind it.’
‘I thought it was some big reputable firm in Paris,’ Bruno said. Now they were almost at the Mairie.
‘That’s what they say, but when you look into the real owners you get into a maze of finance companies in Luxembourg and investment trusts in Switzerland and offshore places like the Cayman Islands. There’s even a Lebanese connection.’
It all sounded a bit too sophisticated for St Denis, Bruno thought. ‘Well, all this can be sorted out at the next council hearing. Have you got any councillors on your side?’
‘Only Alphonse,’ Lemontin said glumly. Alphonse was the local Green, an elderly hippy who had come to establish a commune in the hills above the town at the end of the Sixties. ‘I know, he’ll support anything. Or oppose anything, more likely. I can’t say I’ve ever voted for him and I’m not sure I would even now.’
‘He’ll still be listened to,’ Bruno replied, noting that Alphonse hadn’t bothered to turn up for the demonstration. ‘Besides, a lot of people think highly of Alphonse, and I’m one of them. Do you want me to take that petition inside for you?’
‘No, I want to put it into the Mayor’s hands, but then I have to get back to the bank. I’m on an early lunch break.’
4
The Junot farmhouse had one of the best views in the valley, a privilege it paid for with thin, infertile soil and by suffering the chill winds that swept the high plateau in winter. Built in the boom time of the 1880s when the new wonder crop of tobacco had brought prosperity to the Périgord and a sharp rise in the population, it had seldom prospered since. Sheep and goats were the only livestock that could thrive on the tussocks, thorns and bracken. Generations of Junots had hauled up topsoil from the valley to build a sheltered vegetable garden to feed the family on turnips, beans and potatoes. A very modest living could be scratched from the place with hard work and determination. Louis Junot seemed capable of neither.
Bruno paused at the crest of the hill, looking at the tiles that had fallen from the farmhouse roof and not been replaced, at the broken fencing and the weeds in the garden. More weeds choked the half-dozen rows of spindly vines, and Bruno winced at the thought of the sour wine that Junot would be making. It was probably all he could afford. There was hardly any chopped wood left on the terrace. Any decent farmer up in these hills would have at least another winter’s worth of firewood in hand. The ducks and chickens looked healthy enough, but they were traditionally the responsibility of the farmer’s wife and the source of her pin money.
His problem, however, was the husband. Louis Junot was known to drink, and was no doubt capable of violence, but so far the only justification for his arrest was an anonymous letter, which was not enough. Without a complaint from his wife, Bruno had few options. Before coming he had checked the list he kept in the office of those who’d paid for that year’s hunting permit. Junot’s name was not on it, so any evidence of hunting – even for rabbits – would justify Bruno in making an arrest. That would be a last resort and the Mayor had asked him to be discreet. His first task was to assess whether the beating was happening; the second to see if the wife would testify; the third to issue a warning. It was one of those tricky moments of policing when Bruno had few cards to play.
Bruno heard the sound of hammering and a curse from the barn below the house. He saw a curtain twitch at the window by the door to the house. Junot’s wife had seen him coming, but she took her time answering the door and opened it just a crack. She knew him from open days at the tennis club, watching her young daughter play and mixing with the rest of the mothers as their children attacked the refreshments afterwards. But still she eyed him with suspicion as he removed his hat, smiled and asked if he could come in.
‘What for?’
‘I have some questions I have to ask you.’
‘What do you mean, questions?’ She had opened the door a fraction wider and he saw a bruised cheek and a black eye.
‘Questions about a written complaint we’ve received,’ Bruno said. ‘Either I come in and ask you about them or we’ll have to take you and your husband to the Gendarm
erie.’
It was not a threat he liked to make, but he had to. All anonymous letters were supposed to be filed, and the Inspectorate of Police had the right to read them and demand why a case had not been pursued. Wife-beating had become a prominent issue and Bruno could be in trouble if the Inspectors thought he were ignoring complaints.
‘I’ll get Louis,’ she said, opening the door with reluctance.
‘It’s you I need to speak to first,’ he said, stepping briskly inside in a way that made Madame Junot step back. As she moved, she lifted her hand to her side, as if her ribs hurt.
‘You’ve been hurt, Madame. What happened?’ He cast an eye around the big kitchen with its stone floor that would be bitterly cold in winter and an original stone sink. There were no taps. Water would have to be pumped up daily from the well outside. The only modern amenities were an electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling and an elderly cooking stove fuelled by bottles of gas.
‘I fell down the stairs.’
‘The stairs did not blacken your eye. What caused that?’
She did not answer, but turned back to the stove where a large pot was simmering. She lifted the lid, releasing a scent of duck stock and of garlic, broke two small eggs into the soup and began to stir with an age-blackened wooden spoon.
‘Making tourain?’ Bruno asked, noticing the bowl filled with evidently stale bread she had placed beside the stove. A classic dish of the Périgord, it was the traditional cheap but filling lunch of the farmers, and simple to make. Based on the stock from the carcass of a duck, some garlic and salt, stale bread and an egg or two, it could be thinned out with water or milk or thickened with more bread or vermicelli. And when the bowl of soup was almost finished, any true Périgourdin would make chabrol, pouring in half a glass of red wine to swirl it around the plate, and then lift the bowl to his lips.
The Devil's Cave Page 3
