A Taste for Vengeance

by Martin Walker

  Moore caught Prunier’s eye. “I have enough to apply for a warrant to look at Mrs. Felder’s own bank and credit card records in Britain.”

  “Good, that’ll be useful,” said Prunier. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” chimed in Hodge. “You should all have seen my report on the travel data from Rentoul’s various passports, in addition to his travels as McBride. Colleagues back in the States are trying to analyze them, but I’d be grateful for any further insights you can give.”

  “Rentoul was a trained sniper, so it might be worth checking his travels against killings by rifle,” Bruno said. “There’s a photo of him on the wall of his house that was taken on a beach I recognized from my army days. It’s in Djibouti and there’s no scar on his chest, but there was one when he died. Guessing his age, the photo was probably taken around the time of the Somali pirate raids, when shipping companies were hiring private security guards.”

  Hodge scribbled a note and nodded his thanks.

  Prunier closed the meeting, and Bruno checked his phone as the others began to leave the conference room. There was one text message from Jack Crimson, which he opened as he headed for the door, only to feel a hand on his arm as Prunier discreetly held him back until the rest had filed out. He closed the door.

  “I gather your mayor thinks I was guilty of a power play in asking you for an explanation of that business with Louis in Montignac,” Prunier said. “Is that right?”

  “Well, he’s a politician, and they tend to see many things in terms of politics and power plays,” Bruno said, choosing his words with care. “And it’s obvious that there’s a lot of room for confusion about this new role of mine. But I think it’s starting to work out.”

  “Good. And I’m more than happy with the way you’ve been working with Moore and Hodge. I think we can agree that even though you don’t come under my direct orders you’ll help out where and when you can.”

  “Of course. By the way, where was Ardouin this morning?” Bruno asked. “I’d have thought the magistrate would have been present.”

  “He had to go to Paris last night for a meeting on this loot that was found in Rentoul’s safe. It’s taking place at the Quai d’Orsay today, but as well as the diplomats the finance and interior ministries are both involved. There’s no sign of a will and Rentoul had no living relatives, so Ardouin claims that under the law it all belongs to the French state. But now the Americans are getting involved, as you heard.”

  “Maybe we should have seized that wine as evidence while we had the chance,” said Bruno, grinning. “But I think Yves took too many photos.”

  “Interesting you should say that,” said Prunier, escorting Bruno to the door. “I suspect that one or two cases might have escaped his camera. And by the way, congratulations to you and that girl of yours, Paulette. It’s a great thing, playing for France. We’ll have to raise a very special glass to her when all this is over.”

  From Prunier’s last comment, Bruno understood that some of the wine would never reach the French or American states, but it would certainly find an appreciative home. Smiling at the thought, he looked at Crimson’s message: “McBride treated for gunshot wound in Saudi-German hospital Dubai Sept ’09 when young Felder based in Dubai. No further connection known.”

  Interesting but hardly conclusive, Bruno thought. He texted back: “Were any of Felder’s security guards treated at same hospital?”

  Thinking he’d better keep in touch with his team, he called Juliette on his mobile as he walked to the car park.

  “Routine motorbike patrols today, I assume,” he said when she answered.

  “Bonjour, Bruno, and thank you for that good dinner. It was interesting to meet those foreign cops, and those two women. I’ve just had a meeting with the mayor about enlarging the parking area, and this afternoon I plan to take those photos you sent around one or two places that aren’t on your computer list.”

  “Thank you. It’s the older woman in those photos that we’re most interested in. We’re pretty sure she was here in the region, but we need to prove it.”

  “Understood. Are the three of us meeting this week?”

  “Is Wednesday morning at nine possible for you? I’d like to meet on Louis’s turf, in Montignac. It would give me a chance to call in at the mairie and the new Lascaux museum. I want to find out what surveillance cameras they’ve installed and how they store the images.”

  “Wednesday at nine, that’s a date. A bientôt.” She ended the call.

  Standing by his van, Bruno phoned Louis. The call went unanswered, so he left a message to call him back and began negotiating the one-way traffic system to return to St. Denis. He remembered to put his phone on the passenger seat and insert an earphone into his right ear, and as he reached the roundabout with the trickiest crossroads, it rang.

  “Bruno, it’s Louis. Sorry, I was in the van and didn’t get to the phone in time to answer. What is it?”

  Louis’s voice sounded nervous. That was to be expected after their last angry encounter. Bruno sighed inwardly, pulled onto the side of the road and made an effort to sound cordial.

  “Can you meet Juliette and me in your office, Wednesday at nine, to review the week and see what we’re all working on?”

  “That’s fine, Wednesday at nine,” Louis said, sounding relieved. “Do you want to stay for lunch? And any word on that Irish guy, O’Rourke?”

  “He’s still in custody, not saying much, but lunch on Wednesday sounds like a good idea. I thought you might introduce us to some of the people in your mairie. Then I thought I’d call in at the new Lascaux museum, check on their security cameras. That would take us through to lunchtime.”

  “Ah, yes, cameras. That reminds me, those photos you sent. The younger one meant nothing to me, but you know I never forget a face? The older woman, I saw her here in Montignac, two or three weeks ago in that café opposite the tourist office, with O’Rourke’s wife. And a day or so later O’Rourke said he was planning to go to the new Lascaux place because his wife had just been with a friend and she was very impressed.”

  Bruno sat up, suddenly putting two and two together. “You sure about that?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, certain. I didn’t say hello because I was with my wife, loaded down with shopping. It was my day off, Thursday, the day after market day.”

  “Can you remember the exact date? This is important.” Bruno pulled out his notebook and turned to the page with the date of the phone call to Kelly.

  “Wednesday, three weeks ago. I’m sure of it.” Bruno heard the sound of pages being flipped. “Wednesday, March fifth, it would have been about eleven in the morning. I can check because the wife bought a new food mixer and it will be on her credit card receipt.”

  “Do me a favor, Louis—look it up and meet me at the new Lascaux museum in about an hour.”

  Bruno called J-J and left a message to say there had been a sighting of Felder’s first wife and that he was heading for Lascaux to view the security tapes. He avoided the autoroute and took the back road through Fossemagne, knowing it would be faster, and he reached the new Lascaux museum in forty minutes. Louis was waiting at the entrance, credit card receipt in hand, saying the director would be happy to see them. Ten minutes later Bruno and Louis were scanning the digitized film for the fifth of March, and within thirty minutes Louis had spotted her. Madame Felder was not alone. She was accompanied by O’Rourke’s wife.

  “I told you, I never forget a face,” Louis said proudly as Bruno clapped him on the back in congratulation and they went to organize some printouts of the two women. The date and time were added automatically to the prints.

  “I think this more than makes up for the other matter,” Bruno said. “I’ll take them over to J-J now and make sure Prunier knows you get the credit.”

  “Whatever happened about that? You warned me of the wrath of God
coming from Prunier and suddenly it went quiet.”

  “There were two reasons for that. The most important is that it turned out well, in that your remark spooked your Irishman and made him and his wife run, and they got caught at a roadblock. Then O’Rourke called his friend Kelly, in Bergerac, and he was caught as he was about to run, so it was a good result.”

  “Ah yes, Kelly, a very friendly fellow, I met him when he came up to visit O’Rourke for one of the Six Nations rugby games, Ireland versus England. We have this Irish-style pub in Montignac where they show the games on a big screen, and everybody was cheering for the Irish. I didn’t have the heart to tell them we French weren’t cheering for Ireland so much as against England.”

  “I’m the same,” said Bruno. “Unless France is playing I usually cheer for the Welsh or the Scots. England’s so big, that makes the others the underdogs.”

  “You said there was a second reason why Prunier didn’t give me a hard time,” Louis said.

  “Prunier went a bit too far. He demanded that I file a report on the incident and present myself in front of his desk the next day, as if I were under his orders. So I checked with my mayor, who said he was my boss, not Prunier, and as far as he is concerned there was no case to answer. Prunier is no fool. He doesn’t want to pick a fight with a powerful mayor.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Louis, with a cheerful glint in his eye.

  “I thought you might,” Bruno replied. “But you haven’t got long to go before you retire, Louis, so go easy on the booze. That Armagnac your cousin makes could get you into trouble. That would be a shame, because you did really well today.”

  When Bruno got to police headquarters in Bergerac, he was told that J-J was still in the interrogation room. He went to the observation chamber behind it and found Moore staring through the one-way glass, several empty plastic cups before him.

  “You must be desperate, drinking that coffee,” said Bruno, shaking hands and casting an eye into the room where J-J sat glaring at Kelly, who was staring silently at his feet. He was wiry and looked fit and bronzed, probably from gardening in the open air. His gray hair was cut very short, and he had the thick wrists and powerful arms of a man who worked with his hands.

  “I’m getting desperate because that bastard won’t say a word,” said Moore. “He’s been too well trained.”

  “We might have a lever,” Bruno said, showing Moore the printed photo. “That’s Madame Felder, visiting the new Lascaux museum three weeks ago in the company of O’Rourke’s wife. We also have an eyewitness of their meeting for coffee. The same eyewitness puts Kelly and O’Rourke together watching a Six Nations match.”

  “That could do it,” said Moore, perking up. “Does J-J know about this yet?”

  “No, that’s why I brought the prints in person. We just got them, thanks to my colleague in Montignac. He’s the eyewitness.”

  “The photos are just what we need.” Moore glanced at his watch. “It’s almost noon, so they’ll break for lunch soon, thanks to your magistrate’s rule. No more than three hours’ questioning at a time, says Ardouin, and then they get lunch from the canteen. I have to admit, it’s a lot better than we get in ours.”

  “You’ve been sitting in here the whole time?”

  “I’ve been feeding J-J lines to try, based on what we know of Kelly. But he knows he’s going down on the narcotics charge. I think he’s waiting for the Garda guy to arrive and then he’ll start complaining of inhumane treatment. They usually try that.”

  “So Kelly knows an Irish cop is coming?”

  “He kept demanding an Irish diplomat, so J-J mentioned that someone from the Garda was coming.”

  “What about his wife?”

  “The same, not a word. When she gets bored she starts singing old rebel songs.”

  “This would drive me around the bend,” said Bruno. “I’ll just go to the toilet and be back in time to see J-J at noon.”

  As Bruno was washing his hands, J-J came in looking grumpy and frustrated.

  “Hi, Bruno, have you come to share in our misery? This has to be the worst interrogation I ever suffered. I’ve never come across a more stubborn and tedious old bastard. At least his wife breaks into song from time to time.”

  “I may have something that can help.” Bruno showed J-J the prints and explained the background. “It was Louis, that cop from Montignac, who remembered seeing her in town and recalled the exact date. Make sure Prunier knows that. Then we went to the new Lascaux place, and there they were on the surveillance camera.”

  “So we can put them together with Madame Felder, the wife of an English general?” J-J raised his eyebrows. “That won’t be popular in the Dublin pubs. Do you think we can use this to get the FBI to arrest Madame Felder and start extradition proceedings?”

  “I’m no lawyer, but I’d have thought so. You weren’t at the conference this morning, but Hodge said the FBI already had enough to detain her and that he’d support extradition.”

  “Putain, we’re going to get this case all wrapped up,” said J-J, coming to the washbasins. “I was supposed to meet the Garda man at the airport, but Prunier wants me in Périgueux to tackle O’Rourke. Apparently Ardouin wants them all kept together, separate cells, but in one place. I must say I’m looking forward to seeing O’Rourke’s face when we show him that sniper’s gun we found in his garden.”

  Chapter 23

  After picking up Balzac from home, Bruno was back in his office in the mairie of St. Denis plowing through paperwork and thinking about dinner. Gilles and Fabiola, Crimson and the baron and Florence were coming, along with Florence’s and Miranda’s children. Bruno would have to go home in time to put sheets on the guest beds and organize supper. He had lots of chicken stock and potatoes in the pantry and there were leeks in his garden, so a leek and potato soup would be easy. In the freezer he had some pigeons and a couple of rabbits he’d shot; they would thaw quickly. The idea attracted him, but how would the children feel about eating bunnies?

  Then he remembered one very successful evening when Miranda had let the children make their own pizzas, using whatever leftovers they chose as toppings. From tuna salad, pineapple slices, sliced beetroot, salami, meatballs, stewed apple, they had concocted some strange-looking dishes, but they had gobbled them all down. He grinned at the memory and thought he had enough assorted items in the fridge to keep them happy. He’d pick up some pizza pastry and tomatoes from the supermarket after he went to buy bread. Crimson had said he’d bring wine and apple pie. Bruno called the baron to check that he was coming.

  “I’ll be bringing strawberries from my greenhouse,” his friend replied. “I tried one this morning and they’re perfect. Do you need anything else?”

  “No, we’re fine,” said Bruno. “I’m making soup and I have a couple of rabbits and I’ll let the kids make pizza for themselves. Crimson is back and he’s bringing wine.”

  “See you about seven, Bruno.”

  Having reduced the pile in his in-box by a few centimeters, Bruno picked up his cap and headed with Balzac to the collège for the end of the school day, thinking he’d get the bread and other items on the way back. Then he might have time to exercise his horse before heading home to make the soup. He was greeting various mothers and teenagers when his phone rang. It was Philippe Delaron.

  “What’s this about a shooting on the route nationale?” Philippe demanded. “It just came up on the police radio.”

  “Which route nationale?”

  “Périgueux to Bergerac. Haven’t you heard? I’m heading there now.”

  “I’ll try to find out, but it’s not our district and I hadn’t heard about it.”

  Trotting back toward the mairie, Bruno called the control center in Périgueux, but it was busy. He tried J-J’s mobile and went straight to his voice mail. That was unusual. He called Prunier’s office and reache
d Marie-Pierre, who said, “I can’t talk now, Bruno, there’s an emergency and we’ve got chaos here. Please clear this line.”

  Bruno called Yveline at the gendarmerie, without success. But as Bruno reached the mairie, Sergeant Jules answered his phone and at last gave him some answers. About thirty minutes earlier a truck driver had seen three men fighting beside a blue Renault Espace parked off the road, one of them a cop in uniform. Then one of the others had pulled out a handgun and shot him. Police and gendarmes from all over the region were either heading there or setting up roadblocks. No word yet from the urgences on injuries.

  “Was it a police vehicle?” Bruno asked, wondering where the cop might have come from.

  “I don’t know, but we’re trying to organize roadblocks throughout the region in case they come this way. Yveline has gone to the bridge at Limeuil and has another group at the bridge near Le Buisson. I’m surprised they haven’t called you in yet. Maybe they’re too busy.”

  “Right,” said Bruno. “Let your operations center know that I’ll block the bridge at St. Denis and that I’ll get Juliette to block the one at Les Eyzies and Louis to do the same at Montignac. But make sure they know we only have handguns. After I call them I’ll try to keep this line clear.”

  His van was parked in front of the mairie, and he drove to the bridge and parked it across the entrance so that only one car at a time could squeeze through. Leaving Balzac inside the van, he put on his flak vest, checked his weapon and then reached for his phone. Juliette answered at once, and there was a shocked silence on the end of the phone after he told her what he needed her to do.

  “Whoever they are, these people shot a cop, one of ours, Juliette. You might try to get one or two hunters to bring weapons and join you, which is what I’m planning to do.”