Black Diamond

by Martin Walker

  “Putain,” said the mayor, blowing out a stream of smoke. “This could cost me the election. Who else knows of this?”

  Bruno decided to ignore the question. When politicians asked who else knew about an embarrassment, it usually meant they were tempted to hush things up. “There is also strong evidence that this final auction is being used to launder cash. The records say that it comes from Boniface Pons, although I can prove that on some occasions he wasn’t present when the cash was supposedly paid. As you know, Pons started a truffle plantation that was managed by Didier.”

  The mayor nodded slowly. Bruno noticed that his healthy pallor had taken on a grayish tinge.

  “Since Pons always paid cash this was probably lost on your accountants and may not have come to your attention. I have to recommend that you bring in the Police Nationale at this point. At any rate, I have to report my findings.”

  “Half a million euros,” said the mayor, slumping down into his chair.

  24

  To Bruno’s surprise, all three mayoral candidates awaited him around the Christmas tree in the dining room of the retirement home, the largest indoor hall in St. Denis. Mathilde, the magnificently bosomed former nurse who ran the home, was engaging all three in stilted conversation while elderly ladies scurried back and forth with plates of sandwiches and cakes from the kitchens. They had clearly been baking all week, vying to outdo one another with their sacristains and madeleines, tartes aux noix and galettes for the children. There were bowls of raw baby carrots and tangerine segments, apples in bowls for bobbing and long rows of plastic glasses filled with orange juice and milk. Everything to fill with delight the soul of a healthy five-year-old, thought Bruno, and healthy forty-year-olds as well, even when clad in red velvet and a false white beard.

  “Ah, our Father Christmas has arrived,” said Mathilde. “You look splendid, Bruno. It is you under all that?”

  “Ho, ho, ho, it is indeed, Mathilde,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her thickly powdered cheeks and shaking hands with the three men. Pons senior, evidently still smarting from having Bruno’s wine poured down the front of his trousers, gave him a cold nod.

  “I’m very glad we were able to combine all the parties this way and leave politics out of it,” said Bill with a brittle and unconvincing brightness. His features were drawn and strained. He stood to the left of the mayor and his father to the right. Neither one looked at the other or seemed ready to acknowledge his presence in any way. “After all, it’s for the children.”

  “And after that incident with the manure pond, you wouldn’t have been allowed to hold it at your place anyway,” said the mayor drily.

  “You certainly took care of that,” said Bill, sourly. He began to speak again, but the mayor interrupted and spoke over him.

  “And, Bruno, we have to thank Boniface here for a most generous donation of a thousand euros to buy presents for the children. We just about cleaned out the toy department at the supermarket, and Mathilde’s dear ladies here have been wrapping them all day while you were in Bordeaux. How did that go, by the way?”

  “I’ll give you a full report tomorrow,” Bruno said, adjusting the hook that attached the white beard to his ears. Mention of Bordeaux reminded him with a jolt of Isabelle and the ambush at Arcachon later that night. He felt a flash of memory of his own days in the military, the rush of adrenaline before an operation, coming to terms with the fear, mouth dry and unable to eat. And then he remembered the sniper’s bullet that caught him in the hip and had spun him bleeding into the snow. He hoped she stayed well behind the Fusiliers Marins, as she’d said she would.

  He turned to young Pons. “Bill, I’m having trouble here, could you help with this hook for my beard? It seems to be tangled in my collar.” As Pons began fiddling with the hook, standing so close that the scent of his cologne was almost offensively strong, Bruno asked, “Where are your chef’s nieces? This party’s for all the children.”

  “They’re not well,” Pons replied. “Got the flu. Besides, they only speak Chinese.”

  “Kids learn languages fast, they’ll be bilingual by summer. You should have a letter from the mairie by now about getting them into school.”

  “Not much point. They’ll be going home to their parents after Christmas. There, that hook should hold now.”

  Parents? Bruno had read somewhere that China limited families to a single child. The excited sound of childish voices was swelling beyond the double doors that led to the hallway. Mathilde looked at her watch, cast an appraising glance over the array of food and drink and rolled her eyes.

  “Brace yourselves, messieurs,” she said, heading to open the doors. “The barbarians are at the gate.”

  The noise grew into a high-pitched roar, the doors opened and the sound redoubled. Wriggling, pushing and squeezing to be first into the hall, the horde erupted into the vast room, which was suddenly filled with shrieking children, heading like so many locusts toward the food on the tables. Anxious mothers followed them in.

  “Silence,” roared Bruno in his best parade-ground voice. The place was suddenly still.

  “Ho, ho, ho, is this any way to greet Father Christmas,” he went on in an almost normal voice. “We have to arrange ourselves so I can say hello to everybody properly.” He asked all those age six and over please to go to the right of the hall and all the under-sixes to the left. Mothers with babies and toddlers were instructed to keep their children at the back of the hall.

  From the corner of his eye, Bruno saw a new figure hurrying through the doors, slipping off her coat. It was Pamela, coming late to volunteer, and heading toward Bill, holding up her cheeks to be kissed. He had no time for that now.

  “Alain, Régine, Mireille, Simon, Dominique, Jean-Louis, Philippe and Colette, come over here to me please,” he called. He knew them from his tennis classes, and they came forward eagerly. He explained how he wanted them to organize the under-sixes into groups of four and take them to the tables.

  “They are allowed one sandwich each, and one of each of the cakes. Otherwise we might run out. If you have a brother or sister among them, pick them first. Off you go.”

  He heard Simon muttering, “I’m sure that’s Bruno” as they left, so he raised his voice again, gave a few more Ho, ho, hos and walked across to the mothers with the toddlers.

  “Mesdames, I count on you not to let your little ones grab too much or make a mess. Perhaps you would go after the under-sixes have been fed.”

  Then Bruno turned to the over-sixes, who were almost dancing with impatience, and he told them to go to the CD player and decide which of the Christmas music discs they wanted to hear. He waved Bill over and asked him to supervise the music. The elder Pons had disappeared, and the mayor was being political, kissing the cheeks of each of the venerable ladies who were watching proudly from behind the tables as their cakes and biscuits were eagerly devoured.

  “Where are the presents, and when do you want to give them out?” Bruno asked Mathilde.

  “I think Monsieur Pons wants to hand out the presents,” she said crisply. “That’s what he said, and he added very firmly that since he’d paid for them, he was the one to do it.”

  “Ah,” said Bruno. “Well, just so long as he doesn’t dress up as Père Nöel to do it. The kids would get awfully confused if they saw two of us.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’d better go and find out what he’s planning.”

  Bill had gotten the CD player to work. Pamela stood close beside him. Bruno could discern the gentle tones of “Silent Night” being drowned by the low roar of children’s voices. Ah well, time for some more Ho, ho, hos, and perhaps a sandwich or two. He headed over to the tables, ruffling the hair on little heads along the way and lifting toddlers for a Christmas kiss until one of them became alarmed and started to bawl. He quickly handed the infant back to a clucking mother and moved on.

  “I think these two want a kiss from Père Nöel,” said Florence, pushing her children toward him, the
ir cheeks round with food and their mouths smeared with chocolate.

  “Happy Christmas, Dora,” he said, swinging her up. “And you, Daniel,” he said, scooping up the boy with the other arm. He received a smacking kiss from each, and then their mother leaned forward and kissed him on each cheek.

  “Merry Christmas to you, Père Nöel, and thanks for everything. You’ve got a bit of chocolate on your beard.” Florence pulled a tiny handkerchief from her sleeve, popped a corner into her mouth to wet it and began to scrub his cheek. He felt himself blushing, convinced that Pamela was watching.

  “Ho, ho, ho. Thank you, Florence. I’d better get some food before it all goes.”

  He had time to devour a ham-and-cheese sandwich, a madeleine and a galette, and was washing them down with a glass of orange juice when the mayor approached with an urgent look on his face and holding out a mobile phone.

  “It’s Nicco from Ste. Alvère,” he said. “There’s been a tragedy and they want you over there.”

  Bruno took the phone, but couldn’t hear. He turned away toward the door to the kitchens, fumbling to unhook his beard from his ear as he tried to make out what Nicco was saying.

  “It’s Bruno, it’s Bruno,” called out one of the older children as his beard swung down to one side of his face and Nicco’s voice said, “It’s Didier—he’s dead. He shot himself.”

  Then the kitchen door swung open and another Father Christmas emerged, flanked by two elves dressed in green and carrying large sacks. Bruno had just begun to register this when Pamela appeared before him, her face tight with anger.

  “I’m not going to make a fuss here, but I think you’re a bastard.”

  He stared at her in bafflement, and one of the elves brushed against his arm with a sack of presents, knocking the mobile phone from his hand. He bent down to grope for the phone on the floor. People were turning to look at the appearance of the second Father Christmas as Pons strode majestically to the center of the hall.

  “I suppose you didn’t know Dominique was doing her Christmas shopping in Bordeaux and saw you and your Isabelle together in your hotel last night,” Pamela snapped as his hand found the phone. “She just told me. Well, good luck with your policewoman. But that’s it for me.”

  He had the phone, rose and in one fluid movement took Pamela firmly by the arm and frog-marched her out bodily through the kitchen door before letting her go in front of three very startled old ladies.

  “Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I’ve just been told somebody has killed himself, and I have to get to Ste. Alvère. Second, yes, I was in Bordeaux and Isabelle was there because we were working on the same case. We slept in separate rooms.”

  “I don’t believe you. Dominique saw you huddled together in the bar.”

  “That’s all she saw. I slept alone. Third, I had to get out of that room because there are hundreds of kids who want to believe in Father Christmas, one Father Christmas, not two. I’m sorry I hauled you out here, but that’s why. And I’m even more sorry it has to end this way, but I have to go.”

  “I suppose you’ll try and pin all this on Bill as well,” she said. “You’ve been out to get him ever since he challenged that precious mayor of yours. It was you who got his restaurant closed down, and it’s all your damn politics, Bruno, and I’ve had enough.”

  “Closed his restaurant? When?”

  “This morning. A huissier came with a court order to close the only hopeful Green place in the region. They even closed the campsite and made people leave. Some made-up claim about water supplies, but I know that you were behind it, you and the damn mayor. You’ll do anything to win this election and stay in power.”

  “This damn mayor had nothing to do with the arrival of the bailiffs, madame,” came a voice from behind Bruno. The mayor had slipped into the kitchen. “On my word of honor, Bruno and I weren’t responsible for this. I only just heard about it.”

  An odd time of year to have campers, thought Bruno as he began pulling off his red jacket and red trousers. But he had to get to Ste. Alvère. The old ladies were rapt with attention, as if this scene was almost worth growing old for.

  “Damn the pair of you,” Pamela said, and turned to walk past them. “You might as well be one person, the two of you. Your harassment of Bill has been unforgivable.”

  The kitchen door swung closed behind her. The mayor came up and put a hand on Bruno’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “She’ll calm down. But what’s happened in Ste. Alvère?”

  “That investigation you asked me to make into the truffle market,” Bruno said, taking off his false beard. He turned to the kitchen tap and splashed cold water onto his face and looked in the mirror. He was still wearing the Father Christmas hat. He pulled it off and turned back. “I gave their mayor my report this afternoon. It was the market manager, stealing them blind, and I advised him to call in the Police Nationale. Now the manager’s killed himself, and they want me over there.”

  “You did not hear that, mesdames,” the mayor said to the old ladies. “This is police business.”

  “That means it will be all over town within the hour,” said Bruno, steering the mayor out of the kitchen to the bathroom where he had left his clothes. “There’s something else you need to know. It looks as if Boniface Pons is up to his neck in this truffle business.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” said the mayor. “I’ve always seen him as a bit of a crook, ever since he came back from Algeria with enough money to build his new sawmill. How’s he involved?”

  “Money laundering, hundreds of thousands in cash, and making some special auction arrangement with the manager, who used to work for him.”

  “Do you think he will be charged?”

  “Probably. Certainly he’ll be hauled in and questioned, and the tax people will be all over him about the cash. But without Didier to testify, he might be able to squirm out of it for lack of evidence.”

  “Will the scandal break before the election?”

  “Now you sound like the politician Pamela accuses us both of being,” said Bruno.

  “Like life itself, politics goes on,” the mayor replied. “I thought I’d taught you that.”

  Bruno paused and looked at the mayor somberly, thinking of the mixture of admiration and affection that he felt, with a thread of cynicism running through it. “You taught me everything else,” he said, already at the door that led out to the parking lot. “I have to go.”

  “And I have to stay, and make a speech of thanks to Pons. That’s politics, too.”

  Bruno put his head around the door. “The new science teacher at the college, her name’s Florence and she has two toddlers. I brought her over from Ste. Alvère but she’ll need a ride back.”

  “Is she the blonde who was wiping chocolate off your face?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Consider it done. If she’s moving here she’s a new voter, so I’ll drive her myself.”

  “She might represent a vote for the other side. She’s teaching environmental science, so I guess she’s a Green.”

  “So am I,” said the mayor. “When I have to be.”

  25

  Didier was sprawled on the floor behind his desk, his legs still entangled in the chair. Inspecteur Jofflin from Bergerac was bending over the body. He squinted at the inside of the ring he had removed from Didier’s hand. “Didier—Annette” was engraved upon it.

  “Is that a Rolex he’s wearing?” Bruno asked. “They cost a fortune.”

  “Rolex Oyster Perpetual,” said Jofflin. “About five thousand euros. And his name’s engraved on the back.”

  “The bastard,” said the mayor of Ste. Alvère, his eyes squinting against the smoke from the Disque Bleu hanging from his lip. “That was the town’s money.”

  “He left no note?” asked Bruno.

  Jofflin went to the desk and handed him a piece of notepaper inside a plastic bag. “Just this.”

  Bruno glanced at the three words,
and read them out: “Je regrette tout.” The mayor snorted.

  “And these were in the wastebasket.” Jofflin pointed to a not-yet-crumbled mass of burned paper inside another evidence bag. It looked as if it had been glossy. “I think they were photos. Maybe the forensics boys can get something from them. They’re on their way.”

  “Has his wife been told?” Bruno asked.

  “My wife is with her,” said the mayor. “She knows.”

  “About the fraud?” Bruno asked. He felt a great weight of responsibility creeping over him.

  “Not yet,” said the mayor. “Just the suicide.”

  “The mayor showed me your findings,” said Jofflin. “Would that be enough to make him blow his head off?”

  “He’d have been going to prison,” said the mayor, about to stub out his cigarette in the wastebasket. Jofflin put out an arm to stop him, took the stub from the mayor’s fingers, opened the window and tossed it outside.

  “Mustn’t pollute a crime scene, sir,” Jofflin said with a polite smile. This young man would go far, thought Bruno.

  “Sorry,” said the mayor, lighting another cigarette. “I wasn’t thinking. But yes, we’d have made sure he went to prison, and I made that clear when I spoke to him. I called him in soon after you left, Bruno, once I’d looked at the logbooks and verified the notes you gave me. I kept Nicco here as a witness.”

  “It was Alain’s statement that got to him,” Nicco said. “He broke down, said he’d been waiting for this to happen and was very sorry. I took some notes because it sounded to me like a confession. Then he said something about being under a lot of pressure and wanting to call a lawyer. We let him go, and about ten minutes later we heard the shot. I’m pretty sure I recognize it as Didier’s shotgun, a Manufrance.”

  “It seems strange that he would have kept it in his office,” Bruno said. “And the ammo as well.”

  “Probably kept it locked in the trunk of his car,” said Nicco. “A lot of people do.”