By chance, she was there, and as he drove off, Bruno asked if she could identify the solitary man in the lecture hall. He could have kicked himself for not checking with her earlier when she answered that it had been Madame Darrail’s son, Dominic, and he like everyone else at the lecture had remained until the end. Bruno would have to double-check what had happened when the lecture ended and when Félicité had closed the castle and locked the main gate into the garden. Had she checked off everyone who had been present? Someone could have stayed behind.
Then Bruno recalled his climb over the roof onto the balcony that led into Claudia’s room. Dominic had been raised in the house and would certainly know about that route. As a boy he’d probably have found all the ways to climb into the castle gardens. He ought to be interviewing Dominic right now rather than racing to Périgueux. Then another thought struck him, and Bruno pulled in at the next available cutout and called Bourdeille’s home. Madame Bonnet answered, and Bruno, recalling that on occasion she had lent Claudia her car, asked if Claudia’s missing laptop might be in the vehicle.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t used the car since the last time I saw her. She borrowed it last week to do some shopping. It must have been Friday, maybe Saturday. She said she had to go to the pharmacy in St. Cyprien. But I can go home and check. It won’t take a minute and I’ll call you back.”
Bruno drove on, wondering why Claudia had gone to the pharmacy in St. Cyprien when St. Denis was so much closer. He’d have to talk to the pharmacist. And if Claudia had left her laptop in the car on Saturday, why hadn’t she picked it up on Sunday? She would have needed it when working in Bourdeille’s library. His phone rang, and it was Madame Bonnet to say that she had found the bag with Claudia’s purse and laptop tucked into the well behind the driver’s seat.
“Claudia had a shopping bag when she came to give me back the keys,” she said. “Perhaps she didn’t want to handle that and the laptop bag on her bicycle.”
Bruno thanked her and ended the call. He’d just entered the low-speed zone of the hamlet of Versannes and so put on his siren to race through. There was radar on the road here, but with his blue light flashing he ignored it and used his siren again to get through the usual lines of traffic at the roundabouts on the main road to Périgueux. He drove into the garage beneath the commissariat de police, took the elevator to J-J’s floor and found him waiting as the doors opened.
Chapter 13
“You’re just in time,” J-J said. “We’re meeting in Prunier’s office, and he’ll probably want to talk before the girl’s mother gets here.”
Bruno handed J-J the statements he’d taken at Château des Milandes and explained the two new developments about Dominic and Claudia’s laptop as they rose to the top floor. In return, J-J told him they had the complete autopsy report, which had nothing new to add. But Yves, who ran J-J’s forensic team, had filed his own report on the search of Claudia’s room. There had been some unknown fingerprints, probably male, on the balcony rail, and inside the hollow metal tubing of her rucksack he’d found a plastic straw.
“A drinking straw?” Bruno asked.
“Yes, and it was full of little red pills, those Burmese ones. I’ll let Prunier decide whether we tell the mother about that. For me that about wraps this case up. She must have been drugged to the eyeballs—you read the toxicology report. Still, we’d better do it by the book, just as Hodge advised. So you’d better interview Dominic and make sure to bring that laptop in. Yves has already been working on her phone, and he’s been trying to get access to her stuff on the cloud.”
Prunier was on the phone when they knocked, and he called for them to enter. He gestured to the conference table, and they each took a seat as the commissaire ended the call with a polite, “Bien sûr, Madame le Préfet.”
“She’s a big improvement on the last prefect we had,” he said, shaking hands. “She let me know she’s had a call from the foreign minister’s office after the American ambassador called him, but as far as she’s concerned we’re to treat this as a normal case. That means we handle it, and there’ll be no Parisian hotshot coming down to second-guess us.”
“Hodge warned me that the dead girl’s father was likely to hire some private investigators,” Bruno said.
“And now the mother’s coming with a fancy lawyer,” added J-J, his voice a resentful grumble.
“Look on the bright side,” said Prunier. “If she complains about the autopsy and starts demanding the body, which is what I expect, her lawyer can explain French law to her and save us the bother. But let’s be polite, professional and compassionate. This is a mother who’s just lost her child.”
Bruno had not known what to expect, but the idea of a wealthy divorcée from New York had triggered his subconscious to assume she would be a fashionably thin, overdressed and overstressed woman with a chip on her shoulder from the failed marriage and probably resentful of men, all men. Instead, he recognized the plump woman from Claudia’s family photos as she was led into Prunier’s office. Then, she had looked happy. Now she was stricken and staggered a little as she walked. She was wearing sneakers of leather and a shapeless tracksuit that looked comfortable over a cashmere turtleneck sweater. There were dark shadows beneath eyes that were red from weeping, and with an effort she squared her shoulders as if to brace herself.
“I’m very grateful that you gentlemen could spare the time to see me,” she said in excellent French and then introduced the elderly lawyer who had followed her into the room. Hodge took up the rear, shook hands all around and then they all sat at the conference table.
Prunier offered his condolences and suggested they help themselves from the pot of fresh coffee and small bottles of fruit juice and mineral water.
“Maître Duhamel has explained the provisions of French law to me, so I understand that for the moment you’ll have to keep Claudia’s body while your investigation continues,” she said with a catch in her voice. She paused to dab her eyes and apologized before she blew her nose. “I’ll have to discuss this with her father, but I expect we’ll have her cremated here, and then I’ll take her ashes back to New York. What can you tell me about the circumstances of her death?”
Prunier gave a standard response: inquiries were at an early stage, but so far everything pointed to an accident, to which Claudia’s medication may have contributed. The builders who had failed to secure the well faced charges for negligence.
“Is there any background information I might have about Claudia that could help you?” she asked. She tightened her mouth, bracing herself. Bruno saw a woman devastated by grief but determined to hold herself together.
“Let me just add that after hearing from Chief of Police Courrèges here about the medicine found in her room, I checked with the pharmacies in New York and New Haven,” Hodge interrupted. “I also spoke with her doctors, one in Manhattan and the other at the medical center attached to Yale. The fentanyl and oxycodone were separately but legally prescribed, and the New Haven narcotics unit tells me her doctor has a fine reputation. He’s not known for overprescribing. The doctor told me that it was an unusual case, that your daughter suffered very severely from menstrual cramps. He was not aware that she already had a prescription for oxycodone from New York. If he had, he’d never have prescribed the fentanyl.”
“Do you know if your daughter ever took any recreational drugs, madame?” Prunier asked.
“I know Claudia tried marijuana because she told me so, but she said she didn’t like the feeling of not being in command of her senses. She tried cocaine once at college, she told me, but I don’t think she made a habit of it.”
Her hands were twisting together in a way that looked painful. She coughed, or perhaps it had been a sob. “I know that she suffered from menstrual cramps, often accompanied by migraines.”
“Thank you for your frankness. What about amphetamines?” Prunier as
ked.
“Not that I know of. Why do you ask?”
Her lawyer intervened. “I presume that by now you have the toxicology report. And I advised Madame Muller that you almost certainly arranged an autopsy. We very much would like to see copies of both reports.”
“In principle, I have no objection,” Prunier replied. “But I think that had better wait until our investigation is complete and one of our magistrates has had an opportunity to examine our findings and make a judgment.”
“I have explained the critical role of the magistrate under French law,” Duhamel said. “Is there any reason to expect anything but a verdict of accidental death?”
“Perhaps I could answer as the officer in charge of the investigation,” intervened J-J. “It’s too soon to tell. We have just located Claudia’s laptop, which we have yet to examine, and have only just received the autopsy report. We are still interviewing the people at the lecture who seem to have been the last people to have seen your daughter alive, but since there are twenty of them it takes time. It was only yesterday morning that Chief of Police Courrèges tracked her down to the well with the help of a sniffer dog. Otherwise this might still be a missing person case.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” the woman said to Bruno, forcing herself to be polite. Her fingernails were digging hard into the back of her hands. “Could you tell me exactly what happened?”
Bruno explained about Florence’s unanswered phone call to Claudia, the landlady finding that the bed had not been slept in, Bruno’s dog tracking Claudia to the well, his own descent and the arrival of the pompiers and the doctor who pronounced her dead.
“We did all we could, madame,” he said. “I tried giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but it was much too late. She’d been dead for several hours.”
“The autopsy report is wholly consistent with her death by drowning after falling down the well, perhaps while trying to help a cat,” J-J said. “Certainly her arm was marked with cat scratches.”
“Claudia was a real cat person, endlessly sending me little videos she’d seen on social media,” said her mother. She gulped, and for the first time since entering the room she seemed on the verge of losing control. Then she looked intently at Prunier. “You didn’t reply when I asked why you had that question about amphetamines. Is there any evidence she was taking them?”
Prunier nodded. “I’m afraid so, a pill called yaba, a mix of caffeine and amphetamine that’s common in Asia. Several more of the pills were found hidden in her rucksack. They are illegal under French law. Her passport shows that she visited Thailand earlier this year.”
Madame Muller had her hand to her mouth, and her eyes looked alarmed. Bruno opened a bottle of mineral water and poured her a glass.
“Shit,” she said in English. “Yes, she went to Thailand with her boyfriend, a young man I’ve known for years.” She closed her eyes, sighed and dabbed at them again with her handkerchief. “Does he know yet that she’s dead?”
“I just learned about Monsieur Morgan today,” Bruno said. “I was about to contact Yale Law School to get a current address for him in London when I was called to this meeting. Would you know where we could reach him?”
The woman pulled out a phone. She consulted her address list and read out some numbers and an address, which Bruno noted down.
“One of her friends in Paris told me that Claudia had broken off the relationship with Morgan after his last visit to her in Paris, just over a week ago,” Bruno said.
“I didn’t know that,” Madame Muller said slowly, examining Bruno with new interest. “But you’ve obviously been working hard if you’ve been talking to her friends in Paris. It’s interesting that you would go to such lengths if everything points to an accidental death.”
“We are taking this very seriously, madame, as you can see,” said Prunier, “following every possible lead. Do you have any more questions, since these officers naturally want to get back to work?”
“Can I see her? Don’t you need a close family member to identify her body?”
“There is no need, madame. She was identified by several people who knew her here in France. And after an autopsy, it might be upsetting for you.”
“I’d still like to see her, please.” Her voice was suddenly firm, and for the first time Bruno saw fire in her eyes.
Prunier glanced at the lawyer and then back at Madame Muller. “If you insist, I’ll make arrangements with the morgue in Bergerac. The pathologist put off some other urgent cases to work on Claudia, so I think you may have to wait until the morning.”
“I think she would like to see her daughter today, if that’s at all possible,” said Duhamel eagerly, at last finding something for which he could justify his fee.
“Leave it to me,” said J-J, rising to his feet and pulling out his phone as he left the room.
“To which of her friends in Paris did you speak, monsieur?” she asked Bruno.
“I don’t think we want to identify any of our witnesses at this stage,” Prunier intervened.
J-J came back into the room to tell them they could see the body in the morgue at six that evening.
“I know where it is,” said Hodge. “I’ll go with Madame Muller.”
Prunier rose. “With your permission, madame, I think it’s time for these officers to return to their work. Can we help you with any arrangements for staying in the Périgord, or will you be returning to Paris?”
“I’m already booked into a hotel near Limeuil,” she replied. “I expect to stay here until you or your magistrates reach a conclusion.”
“Fine. If I can be of further assistance, madame, please don’t hesitate to call me.” He handed her a card.
“Thank you, Commissaire Prunier,” she said, glancing at his card. “I’m sad to return to France under such tragic circumstances. I lived in Paris for some years when I was a young economist at the OCDE.” She used the French initials for the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development, the body that had been founded to manage the Marshall Plan after World War II, when the Americans pumped money into rebuilding the war-torn economies of Europe.
“It was a very happy time for me, and I’ve always loved Paris. I suppose I should think of it as a comfort to know that Claudia loved it too.” From her handbag she took out a card case and gave each of them her card. “This has my American cell phone and e-mail address if you need to reach me. And Maître Duhamel can tell you the name of my hotel.”
“The Vieux Logis in Trémolat,” Duhamel said.
Bruno was looking at the card she had given him. It was engraved rather than printed and revealed that she was a professor of economics with a doctorate. The card also said that she was a member of a policy advisory board of the New York Federal Reserve.
Bruno was no expert in such matters, but he seemed to recall from reports of the financial crisis in 2008 that it was a regional wing of the American central bank. Evidently she was a formidable woman in her own right. That might add some complications to her divorce from a husband who ran a large investment trust. Bruno’s thoughts went back to Claudia’s family photo, the one that showed just her and her father with a third person carefully scissored out of the picture.
Chapter 14
Yves from the forensic unit followed Bruno in a separate car to Bourdeille’s home outside Limeuil, where Madame Bonnet handed over Claudia’s laptop bag, and Bruno took it out to Yves, waiting in his car. Bruno slipped into the passenger seat and opened the bag.
The laptop was a slim, sleek MacBook, and the purse held eighty euros in banknotes, an American driver’s license, a Louvre ID, a French student card and loyalty cards for airlines and hotels. There was a diary, a set of headphones and a small notebook along with pens, tissues, lipstick and a tube of hand cream. There was a slim book in French, La Renaissance Française by Thérèse Castieau, and a thicker one in En
glish on the same theme by Henri Zerner. The two men donned evidence gloves, and Bruno examined the diary while Yves opened the laptop.
“Password protected,” said Yves. He tried various combinations of Claudia’s date of birth, initials, passport and cell-phone numbers, without success.
“Merde,” he said. “Anything in her diary?”
Bruno skimmed the first pages in which Claudia had written her addresses and various ID and credit card numbers. None worked. He turned to the backflap and saw a Latin phrase in capital letters: VIRTVTEMFORMADECORAT. Yves typed it as Bruno spelled it out, and the screen opened. Yves opened the search function on his own phone and typed in the same phrase.
“It means ‘Beauty adorns virtue’ and it’s painted on the back of one of Leonardo’s portraits of a young woman,” he said. “Interesting choice. I’ve never seen Latin used in a password before.”
Thumbing through the diary, Bruno saw a small red cross against the dates for the latest weekend, and again for each date four weeks earlier throughout the year. He saw references to flights and train times, Jack’s weekend visit to Paris, lunch with Chantal and some dates with simply a capital M, which could be Marcel, the dance partner from the Batofan. Birthdays were listed for her parents and friends, and he saw random shopping lists.
At the bottom of the bag he found two USB sticks, a handful of euro and American coins and various receipts for Paris restaurants, the hilltop restaurant in Limeuil and for two supermarkets, Monoprix in Paris and Carrefour in St. Cyprien, dated the previous Saturday. She’d bought soap, chocolates, a three-pack of white T-shirts and another of panties, Tampax, two pairs of black tights and a bottle of Smirnoff vodka. What had happened to the vodka?
The Body in the Castle Well Page 12
