“You ever heard of a company called Hexagon Trust?” Yves asked.
Bruno shook his head.
“They’re based in New York, but their letterhead shows offices in London, Paris, Singapore and Dubai. They look like lawyers, but they seem to do something called forensic accounting and investigations. What’s the name of the guy who lives at this chartreuse? Did you say Bourdeille? There’s a long report these lawyer-accountants have done on him, but it’s all in English.”
He passed the laptop to Bruno, but the language was far too specialized for Bruno’s limited skill. It was broken up into sections, and he understood that part of it concerned Bourdeille’s career in the Resistance and his time in prison. Another was about a Resistance colleague called Paul Juin, of whom Bruno had never heard. Yet another was about Juin’s sister, and seemed to suggest Bourdeille had been married to her. The rest covered individual paintings and Bourdeille’s work as an art consultant and collector. He scrolled through to the end, more than sixty pages, and found a bill for the report made out to the Muller Investment Trust, for fifty thousand dollars.
“Mon Dieu,” said Bruno. “Look what they charged for this report.”
“Merde, we’re in the wrong business,” Yves said as he looked at the bill. “And J-J is going to go crazy over the cost of an official translation. To get something we can use in court the translators charge eighty euros a page. That’s going to cost five thousand.”
“We don’t need a copy for a court, at least not yet. I have English friends who can summarize it if you can print it out. Or put it on one of these USB sticks.”
“I’d better look at them first,” said Yves. He put the USB sticks from Claudia’s bag into the slot on the computer, one after the other. The first one seemed to be all about Claudia’s art research, but the second seemed to be personal—letters, bank statements and a copy of the Hexagon Trust report.
“Let’s go back to your place, you download this report onto your own laptop, then I’ll take all this back to Périgueux,” said Yves. “If there’s anything useful in her e-mails that isn’t duplicated on her phone, I can let you know. Fair enough?”
Bruno agreed and went back to the house to give Madame Bonnet a receipt for the laptop bag and its contents. He brought Yves to his home, copied the USB stick and then drove to St. Cyprien as Yves left for Périgueux. The pharmacy closest to the Carrefour supermarket was busy, but the pharmacist spotted Bruno’s uniform and waved him through to an office in the rear. Bruno asked if he recalled a young American woman on Saturday.
“Yes, it was unusual, so I recall it,” he replied and went on to explain that one of the counter staff had called him to deal with the young woman who had an American doctor’s prescription for a drug called fentanyl and asked if the pharmacy could supply it. The prescription seemed in order, and she’d presented another form about her international health insurance and her passport. The pharmacist had to explain that he couldn’t honor a foreign prescription for a controlled drug. She had offered to pay cash, but he’d repeated that it wasn’t possible. He’d said a French doctor might be able to prescribe it for her if Claudia’s own doctor in America sent an official e-mail. Otherwise, she should try the American clinic in Paris, which might be able to help.
Outside in the parking lot, Bruno called Hodge and found him in Bergerac with Madame Muller, sitting in a café while waiting for their appointment at the morgue.
“Are you free tonight?” Hodge asked, explaining that Madame Muller was exhausted and planned to go directly to her hotel and try to sleep once she had seen her daughter’s body. “My per diem doesn’t run to the kind of hotel she’s in, but I can certainly take you to dinner at that bistro I recall in St. Denis where we had lunch.”
“You mean Ivan’s place. That’s fine, but it will be a working dinner,” Bruno replied. “There’s a long but interesting document in English I’ll need you to translate, not word for word but enough for me to get the gist of it. It comes from Claudia’s laptop. Have you ever heard of a firm called Hexagon Trust?”
“Yes, but we’d better discuss that this evening,” Hodge replied. Bruno understood he did not want to discuss it in the hearing of Madame Muller and her lawyer.
“I’ve booked you into a decent place in St. Denis, the Vézère Lodge,” Bruno said. “It’s on the road out of town toward Les Eyzies.”
“Thanks. When we get back from Bergerac, I’ll go there and take a shower and meet you at Ivan’s at about eight.” Hodge hung up.
Bruno checked his watch. He had time to get to the mairie, scan his mail and e-mails, brief the mayor and still get to Pamela’s riding school in time for the evening exercise. Once installed in his office, he scanned the e-mails from his colleagues Juliette in Les Eyzies and Louis in Montignac. They had each taken statements from the people at the lecture, and although he saw nothing new in their reports, he added them to the case file on Claudia’s death.
“It’s very sad about this young American girl,” said the mayor, coming into Bruno’s office and closing the door. “I got your message about her mother flying over from New York. What are her plans?”
Bruno explained that she intended to stay until the magistrate was able to determine whether the death had been accidental, and that private investigators might be hired.
“It must be very distressing for her. Jacqueline was wondering if she could help in any way. A woman of a similar age, a fellow American…” His voice trailed off.
Jacqueline was a historian who taught at the Sorbonne, daughter of a French mother and an American father, and she was at home in both countries. After the death of the mayor’s wife, he had started an affair with her that seemed to make them both very happy. It had certainly put a new spring into the mayor’s step and a gleam in his eye. There was no more talk of his retiring before the next election, rather to the discomfiture of Xavier, the deputy mayor, whose ambition for the succession had become something of a local joke. And there was nothing worse for a politician than to be thought of as a joke, Bruno knew. He got on reasonably well with Xavier and admired his confidence in running the town budget, but he had few of the mayor’s political connections in Paris and Brussels and was no match for his massive experience in local and national politics.
“I’m having dinner with Hodge, the FBI man at the American embassy who came down for that IRA problem we had,” Bruno said. “His ambassador has sent him down to babysit Claudia’s mother. Not that she needs it—she speaks excellent French, spent some years working in Paris. She’s a professor of economics and on some board of America’s central bank. And as you know Claudia’s father has powerful political connections, which is why Hodge has been sent down here to escort her. I’ll mention Jacqueline’s offer to him over dinner. It’s a kind thought.”
“There’s another thing,” the mayor said. He’d been telephoned earlier in the day by Bourdeille, who wanted to discuss something interesting for St. Denis. He had mentioned a bequest, without going into specifics. Might the mayor and Bruno find it convenient to call on him at some point in the week, his own mobility being understandably constrained.
“A bequest?” Bruno asked. “Do you think he wants to include the town in his will?”
“He didn’t want to go into details on the phone.”
“Maybe he’s heard that rumor about Claire listening in on your calls,” Bruno said with a grin. “She seems to have given up on me, but I know she’s been fluttering her eyelashes at Xavier lately.”
“Xavier is safely and stably married,” said the mayor. “And he’s a careful man, so I think we can be sure he’ll stay that way.”
Bruno nodded. Xavier’s father owned the town’s Renault agency, but there was talk of its being closed unless the family could come up with the funds to build a lavish modern showroom. The old man was close to retirement and had been heard to say that Renault wanted to close the
small local agencies and focus on those in the big towns. That could blow a hole in Xavier’s income, but his wife’s family owned a lot of woodland as well as the town’s sawmill. And Xavier was far too careful a man to risk that for Claire’s blowsy charms.
“I’m surprised Bourdeille wants me to be there for the meeting,” Bruno said.
“He stressed it, saying he’d enjoyed seeing you despite the sad occasion of Claudia’s death. He called you his cher confrère, which I presume was a reference to that foie gras club you both belong to.”
Bruno nodded. “That’s right, but I’m intrigued by his talk of a bequest. He told me that Claudia had been trying to buy his chartreuse, along with all the art inside it.”
“Did he? That’s interesting. Did you believe it?”
“Oh, yes,” Bruno replied, explaining the report that had been found on Claudia’s computer. “I can let you know what’s in it tomorrow, after I’ve gone through it with Hodge.”
The mayor left for the evening, and Bruno locked up and drove to Pamela’s place, where his dog seemed to recognize the sound of the police van and raced out to greet him. The others were already in the stables, saddling up. Bruno quickly greeted them all: Pamela, Fabiola, Gilles, Félix, and for once Miranda was there too. Her father would be looking after the children. Despite their renewed status as lovers, Pamela was careful to give Bruno only the usual friendly bise on each cheek, the same courteous formality the other women offered. From this he assumed she wanted their relations to remain private.
Bruno put on his riding boots and cap and changed his jacket. He gave Hector his customary carrot before putting on the saddle and bridle. Hector was feeling playful and tried his little game of blowing out his stomach, and Bruno kneed him there gently so he could tighten the girth.
“Your choice of route, Miranda,” called Pamela as they led the horses out of the yard and mounted.
“Let’s go to that long firebreak in the woods on the way to Campagne,” she answered. “I feel like a real gallop. But I don’t want Hector’s hooves kicking mud into my face, and you know what he’s like, Bruno. He always wants to be in front. Can you hold him back for once?”
“I’ll take a different route, since I can’t ride for long tonight. I have to get to dinner with a visiting FBI man about the dead American girl.”
“Wait,” said Fabiola, signaling the others to go on ahead before addressing Bruno. “They certainly rushed through the autopsy report in record time. Somebody must have been putting the pressure on. I hear the American embassy got involved.”
Bruno nodded. “They certainly did and I’ve seen the report. The pathologist carefully hedged his bets. He said her injuries were consistent with falling in by accident or being pushed.”
“What happened to her skirt?”
“How do you mean?” Bruno asked.
“Her legs were bare. I’d be surprised if she’d been wearing trousers or jeans. They tend to stay on, so I assume she was wearing a skirt, which I’d have thought would have floated like that ballet shoe Ahmed brought up. There was no sign of it at the scene and no mention of it in the pathologist’s report.”
“I didn’t know you’d seen it.”
“Professional courtesy among the medical mafia.”
“Would it tell us anything?” he asked.
“I have no idea. Do you plan to drag the well?”
“No, but it’s a good point and I’ll raise it with J-J.”
Fabiola trotted off after the others, and Bruno turned Hector to ride up to the ridge with its familiar view over St. Denis. He stopped and called Florence at home to ask if she recalled what Claudia had been wearing at the lecture.
“Let me think. A light-colored blouse or shirt, pleated. I noticed it because it looked like an Anne Fontaine, which is way out of my price range. She was taking notes in a small notebook, and yes, she took it from a blue denim skirt that had pockets.”
“Nothing else? The evenings get cool.”
“I didn’t notice. Maybe she hung up a jacket when she arrived.”
He thanked her, ended the call and cantered on, making a mental list. He still had to check with Félicité about closing the castle. Had she locked the gates, counted everyone leaving and checked for any forgotten coats? He needed to inform Jack Morgan of the death and suggest that J-J or perhaps Prunier might ask Scotland Yard to make a discreet check on his movements. And this evening, with Hodge’s help, he could look at that curious file on Bourdeille from Hexagon Trust. Bruno could understand Claudia commissioning some research into Bourdeille if she was serious about buying his home and his art collection, even more so if she was still suspicious about his attributions.
As he reached the open stretch of ridge, he checked that Balzac was still at Hector’s heels and then let his horse bound forward into the gallop Hector loved as much as his rider. Everything else faded from his mind as Bruno thought only of the wind in his face, the sound of drumming hooves and the intense awareness of his horse and the speed they were making together. It felt so much faster than any journey by car or train, faster even than accelerating along a runway as an aircraft reached flying speed. And it ended all too soon as the trees and brush came close and Hector turned without any nudge from Bruno’s knees and trotted back to meet Balzac, who was bounding toward them, giving a joyful bark. Hector threw back his head and whinnied in response.
Chapter 15
Thirty minutes later, his horse rubbed down and his own head, chest and shoulders rinsed off in the sink of Pamela’s stables, Bruno entered Ivan’s bistro with his laptop in hand and a copy of Yves’s USB stick in his pocket. Hodge had not yet arrived. Bruno shook hands with Ivan and then greeted two other tables of friends who were dining there: Rollo, the headmaster of the local collège, and his wife and Lespinasse from the garage with two strangers, who appeared to be talking business.
Bruno chose the table farthest from the others and booted up his computer. He inserted the USB stick and called up the file on Bourdeille. Ivan brought him a kir and pointed to the blackboard on which he’d printed in chalk the menu of the day: split pea and ham soup to be followed by a terrine of hare, with rognons de veau au vin blanc as the main course. The desserts on offer were a choice of crème caramel, a selection of sorbets, chocolate mousse or rhubarb and apple pie. Ivan had a special way with fruit pies.
“How are you preparing the kidneys?” Bruno asked.
“A bit of fatty ham for flavor, shallots, some old-fashioned mustard with seeds, crème fraîche and a persillade. I’d recommend a red wine with that, even though I cook it with white. For the red wine, that Montravel you like from Château Moulin Caresse would go well. I’ll decant it now if you like. Who’s your companion?”
“That FBI man from Paris I brought here before. We need to catch up, so maybe you could bring him a kir and give us a few minutes before you start to bring the food.”
“I remember him, a tall guy, looked a bit like one of those sheriffs in a Western movie. You and he had lunch here with that other man from Scotland Yard. Will ten minutes be enough?”
“Make it twenty,” Bruno replied and checked his phone. He had an e-mail from Claudia’s professor at Yale, who said he was flying to France at her family’s request. He’d contact Bruno on arrival. That was interesting, Bruno thought as the bistro door opened. He stood to welcome his friend.
Hodge was tall enough to duck his head as he entered. He stuck out a hand to greet Ivan and spread his arms to give Bruno a warm hug before he sat down and rolled his eyes at Bruno’s laptop.
“I thought it was only us barbarians from across the seas who spoiled a good dinner by working,” he said.
“I need your help with a file that’s in English,” Bruno said, explaining the relationship between Claudia and Bourdeille and the very expensive investigation carried out by Hexagon Trust. Not only had Hodge heard of it
, he had former colleagues from the FBI who had joined the firm for much higher salaries. It was a small but very exclusive company specializing in financial investigations, often hired by banks and corporations to run due diligence checks on potential takeover targets or acquisitions. Unlike the usual private investigators who hire ex-cops, they hired accountants, computer geeks and money-laundering experts from the United States Treasury and the FBI.
“They have a reputation for being able to get through banking secrecy and into tax havens and track money and the real owners of assets,” Hodge said. “I’d be surprised if that investment firm of Claudia’s father didn’t use them. When I warned you about the kind of overpriced private investigators Muller might hire to investigate her death, these were exactly the sort of guys I had in mind.”
“Have they been going long?”
Hodge explained that Hexagon had started in the seventies when President Carter had appointed Stansfield Turner to clean out the wild boys at the CIA. Turner laid off eight hundred agents in a purge that became known as the Halloween Massacre. Many of the ex-agents took their skills into the private sector as consultants and started Hexagon. Pretty soon they realized the real money was in finance, and they began to hire lawyers and accountants. That was when they added the name “Trust.”
“But they never stopped picking up good people with intelligence backgrounds: us and the Brits, Mossad and the French,” Hodge went on. “I might end up with them myself, if the college fees for the kids start breaking my back. I’d be surprised if that Brit friend of yours, Jack Crimson, isn’t tied in with that kind of organization.”
“I know Jack does some consulting,” Bruno said. “That’s why I thought twice before asking him about this file. Claudia mentioned to me she thought Bourdeille might have been playing tricks with his attributions of paintings to make money.”
The Body in the Castle Well Page 13
