A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  First, he considered the areas which were missing the two skeletons. The people who took them were probably based close to those village cemeteries. Burke understood the perpetrators might have come from farther away, but he couldn’t see four people driving several hundred kilometres, stealing two skeletons and then driving several hundred more kilometres to plant the skeletons. The group had shown considerable resources and planning so far, plus lots of patience, but Burke felt they wouldn’t think they needed to travel to a distant part of the country to get the skeletons for the first part of their Yablonski assault.

  Next, he started to identify which universities were in a 100-kilometre range from where the skeletons were missing. There were a couple, but Burke thought he was limiting the region too much and so he expanded it to 250 kilometres. The list grew to a half dozen.

  But what could he do next?

  Burke didn’t know.

  He phoned Antoine back.

  “So, you need me again,” Antoine said.

  “Not for long,” Burke said. “How can you find out what research is being done at a university?”

  “A university usually has a research department that catalogues all the research being done by its faculty,” Antoine said.

  Burke thought for a moment.

  “Are you thinking some faculty at some institution are behind all this Yablonski stuff?” Antoine asked.

  “No. There are just too many signs that it has to be students.”

  “And that’s because?” asked Antoine.

  “Whoever is doing it is tech savvy, understands social media, has plenty of free time at this time of the year, rides a bicycle on a regular basis and holds a grudge with a lot of enthusiasm,” Burke said. “Those qualities could belong to people in their 30s or 40s or even older, but somehow I don’t think so. We’re looking at people in their 20s. And then there’s the matter of why it’s happening now.”

  “You’ve lost me, Paul,” Antoine said.

  “Why is this group of individuals persecuting Yablonski at this time? Why not two years ago, six years ago? I mean, the suggestion is that Yablonski or his family profited in some way from the Second World War which means the information, if it’s true, has been around for generations. So why make a big deal about it now? Because someone started studying Oradour-sur-Glane in the last year or two at most, probably because of that historic meeting of the French and German politicians. And in their research, they discovered something disturbing involving Bosco Yablonski.”

  Burke stopped talking. Antoine remained quiet.

  “They must have found out something that was personal to them,” Antoine finally said. “Maybe a family member suffered as a result of something Yablonski or, more likely, one of his relatives did.”

  “So, do universities release what their grad students are working on?” Burke asked.

  “They didn’t when I was a student and I doubt they do now,” Antoine said.

  “That’s a problem,” Burke said.

  “Considering the topic of profiteering and Oradour-sur-Glane, your Yablonski persecutors could be grad students working out of some history department,” Antoine said.

  “That seems reasonable,” Burke said.

  “You know, Paul, you could pretend you’re a journalist doing research on the massacre or on Second World War profiteers, and call each history department, telling them you are looking for some expertise for a story you’re doing.”

  Burke considered Antoine’s suggestion. It would mean a lot of phone calls, some misrepresentation, and a great deal of luck. The odds seemed long in getting any decent information.

  Burke thanked his friend and said he needed time to consider what he should do next.

  “There’s also another option, Paul,” Antoine said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You do nothing and leave it to the police.”

  Burke thought for a moment.

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said.

  Chapter 48

  The next day with his two bikes loaded onto the rear bike rack of his car and the rest of his travel stuff in the back seat, Burke was ready to leave Villeneuve-Loubet. He kissed Hélène and then held her.

  “Just ride your bike and write your blogs, chéri,” Hélène whispered in his ear. “Stay safe. Promise?”

  “I promise,” Burke said. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Then he got into his car and once more left the tranquility of his village and the woman he adored.

  As he drove, he couldn’t help wondering what he’d encounter when he reached Vaison-la-Romaine. He kept hearing Hélène’s advice to ‘Stay safe’ and vowed to himself that he would. He wasn’t any adrenaline junkie looking for the quick fix that comes with danger. He was an ordinary guy who was a little curious. Nothing more. At least that’s what he told himself.

  Three hours later, he was on the outskirts of Vaison-la-Romaine and immediately noticed an unusual amount of traffic. A tidy little market town, Vaison could be busy, but Burke had never seen it like this. He expected it was because of the upcoming vintage bicycle race.

  After a few wrong turns, Burke finally found his gîte and it proved even more attractive in person than the photographs had indicated. The owner, Martin, was a pleasant, retired man in his late 50s who showed Burke his accommodation while mentioning Burke might have landed the last gîte in the area.

  “That bike race on Saturday is attracting a lot of people,” Martin said. “We’ve had the Tour de France come through here and it hasn’t been as busy.”

  “Has the town been booked up since the first race back in Saint-Raphaël?”

  “There were a few bookings but a lot more happened later,” Martin said. “When that bombing happened in Arles, a lot of the hotels and chambres d’hôtes got people wanting to come and watch the final race. You’d think it would be the opposite, but it wasn’t. Very strange, but good business for the town.”

  “Do you know if the campgrounds in the area are booked as well?” Burke asked.

  “I don’t know for sure, but they probably are.”

  “Are the campgrounds good? You know, well maintained with good owners?”

  Martin looked surprised.

  “I don’t see them often, but I think they’re all good and clean,” he said. “Do you have some friends looking for someplace to camp?”

  “Just curious,” Burke said.

  But Martin wasn’t really interested and proceeded to go through the basics of the two-bedroom apartment that had its own terrace that looked onto a small swimming pool shared by everyone in the compound.

  Then Martin handed over the keys and left.

  Burke went back to his car and unloaded his bikes. Then he unpacked his clothing, put on some cycling gear and took his racing bike out of the compound.

  A ride would freshen him up and get his legs stretched out after the drive.

  Instead of heading into the gentle hills to the north or to the flat countryside to the west, Burke opted to start by going into the downtown. If nothing else, he’d get a chance to remind himself about how beautiful Vaison was.

  Within two minutes, he was cycling by the Roman amphitheatre where he had once accompanied a friend to a concert featuring a group of male opera singers. Burke hated opera, but, in the open air and under a starry sky, it had been a memorable experience and, to his shock, he had been amazed how the voices carried so effortlessly from the stage to the highest seats of the ancient theatre.

  Then it was past more ruins and into the heart of Vaison.

  And even more traffic.

  Burke had to be alert because a lot of the motorists seemed to be glancing everywhere in hopes of securing a parking spot, a task Burke knew would be challenging since Vaison had limited parking at the best of times.

  In the parking lot opposite the Tourist Information Office, a dozen large trucks were being unloaded. Burke stopped and watched. The workers were prepping the area for the ra
ce on Saturday. It looked like there would be a couple of large tents and a stage plus some large tables for vendors.

  In one corner of the parking lot were some cars.

  And Inspector Julien Sauvageot.

  And then, to his surprise, Burke saw two others he knew: Inspector Daniel Bonnier from Saint-Raphaël and Detective Sgt. Sylvie Côté from Nice. They were talking in a small group which included a uniformed gendarme in his 40s with a sergeant’s rank.

  That’s when Burke knew the dead cyclist in Arles was being considered a murder victim.

  He thought about leaving the police officers to their discussion, but he was curious. So, he rode into the parking lot.

  And right up to the four police officers.

  “Serious business, I see,” Burke said, stopping two metres away.

  The flics, especially the gendarme sergeant, stared at him and Burke wondered who would take the initiative to respond.

  “We expected you to show up at some time, Monsieur Burke,” Sauvageot said.

  “It’s the last race and I’m here to cover it,” Burke said.

  “I’ve been reading your blogs, Monsieur,” Bonnier said, adding his ingratiating smile. “You write with some style. As for the content, I see you have some ideas about how we might improve our investigations.”

  Burke decided to blame Lemaire so the flics wouldn’t brush him off.

  “That was my editor saying that,” he said with a shrug. “It wasn’t my opinion.”

  The four officers showed no change of expression.

  Burke looked at Sylvie Côté whose face, as usual, was stern.

  “I understand you have again been involving yourself in an investigation, Monsieur,” Côté told Burke. “And once more I hear you might have contributed some useful ideas.”

  Burke shrugged, noticing the gendarme looking puzzled at the exchange.

  There was a pause and then Sauvageot introduced Sergeant Pascal Favreau who gave Burke a slight nod in response.

  Since Sauvageot seemed to be taking control, Burke turned his attention to the Arles policeman.

  “You can’t be here because of some police convention so I expect it’s because you consider the death of that cyclist in Arles to be murder,” Burke said, deciding to forgo a question and see what he could get in response to a statement. “And with all of you here, it must be because you consider there’s some danger surrounding the final race.”

  “We’re here because there are matters that require some investigation,” Bonnier said, jumping in before anyone else had a chance to speak.

  Burke saw that Bonnier seemed intent at saying nothing of substance.

  Burke wondered how the group would work out a pecking order.

  “Is it possible you intend to make an arrest or arrests here?” said Burke, scanning the four faces before him.

  “We’re here because there’s work to do,” Côté said. “And it’s work that’s best done as a group.”

  She wasn’t being any more helpful than Bonnier, but at least she was speaking to him; in their exchanges months before, Côté had been reluctant to discuss anything with him.

  Burke figured he’d tighten his focus.

  “Have you checked any of the nearby campgrounds for the individuals you think might be behind all the troubles?” he asked.

  “I don’t think you … .” Favreau began.

  Sauvageot cut him off: “We have, but there weren’t any persons matching the characteristics we are looking for.”

  Favreau looked both puzzled and annoyed at Sauvageot’s interruption, obviously wondering why the Arles officer would provide assistance to a blogger.

  “Were there any campground reservations made months ago that have gone unfilled?” Burke said.

  “None,” Côté said.

  “So, they don’t need a campsite anymore,” Burke said, mostly to himself.

  “Why?” Côté asked.

  “Because they no longer have large items that can be seen by curious bystanders. That means they’re likely staying in a hotel, a chambre d’hôte or a gîte.”

  “We’re quietly checking all types of accommodation for reservations for a group of four or two groups of two that were made months ago,” Sauvageot said.

  “And have you checked if any of those reservations have been altered to three persons?” Burke said.

  “We are being diligent in all areas,” Bonnier said.

  Burke knew they had not thought about a reservation being changed to three persons. Of course, he also thought there was a good chance that Yablonski’s tormentors would not bother with making any adjustment to what they had booked.

  Burke looked around at the scene.

  “Do you have more officers here for extra security?” he asked.

  “Monsieur Burke, I think you’re now looking for a quote for your next blog or column,” Sauvageot said.

  Which was true, Burke knew. He wanted something straightforward that he could toss at François Lemaire.

  “We’re here to ensure the final vintage bicycle race is held without incident,” Bonnier said.

  Burke noticed how Côté frowned at the Saint-Raphaël flic. And, in a way, he couldn’t blame her. Bonnier, in his eagerness to look good for a possible blog or news story, had just promised that nothing bad would happen at the race. But based on the first three events, how could he guarantee it? And if something did happen, there would be criticism that some kind of elite police squad hadn’t been able to do a thing to prevent it, even if they managed to catch who did it.

  “Now, Monsieur Burke, if you’ll excuse us, we have matters to discuss without the long ears of the media nearby,” Sauvageot said.

  Burke nodded and then turned his bike around. He rode off, thinking about what the police were planning and, more importantly, what the Yablonski protestors were intending.

  Chapter 49

  Besides all the traffic, the downtown was jammed with pedestrians, some of them sporting vintage bicycling outfits. Burke had to pedal slowly to avoid colliding with anyone.

  There was a party atmosphere in town. Besides race banners hanging from lampposts, more than a few shops had old-time cycling memorabilia in their storefronts and even out on the sidewalk.

  There was lots of laughter and joking.

  When the crowd became too big, he stopped riding, got off and started to listen to passing conversations.

  In the main square which featured a lovely fountain, towering plane trees and a score of cafés, he joined a discussion being conducted among at least 20 people of all ages. The topic was the upcoming race and the people were debating, in good spirits, the course route which was 80 kilometres and included a handful of neighbouring hilltop villages.

  Burke waited a couple of minutes and then asked if anyone was worried that something like what had happened in Arles would happen in Vaison.

  The good-spirited tone didn’t change as the opinions flooded out:

  “That was in Arles. They always have trouble in Arles. This is Vaison, much quieter, much safer.”

  “The people who bombed that limo will be afraid to do anything here. I mean, look at all the flics around.”

  “Let them try something here. Just let them try. If they do, we’ll catch them and then there will be hell to pay.”

  “I always have my smartphone with me. I could get some good video for YouTube if they do anything.”

  Burke explained he was a blogger and looking to add some video for his followers. He asked if they would allow him to do a little video and, to his surprise, they all agreed. When he pulled out his smartphone, the group started acting like they had just won the lottery. When he asked the group if they intended to watch the race, they erupted into cheers. Then he asked if there were any racers in the group and a couple of 20-something men said they were and then broke into some kind of soccer chant.

  Burke thought it was hard to believe these were the normally reserved French.

  He thanked them and moved on.
>
  After an hour of chatting with people and taking video and photos, Burke sat on a bench overlooking the Ouvèze River and sent some pictures and the video scene of the large group to Lemaire, promising he would soon send a blog when he was back at his gîte where his tablet was.

  Ninety minutes later, sitting at the kitchen table in his gîte, Burke finished his blog, focusing on the unexpected party mood of people at the final race and saying he hoped the people were right that there was nothing to worry about. He didn’t add what he truly believed – that something bad was going to happen on Saturday.

  Once he sent it off, Burke got aboard his bike again and rode out of town, deciding to head southwest along the race route to Séguret, a beautiful, sleepy village that attracted amateur painters from everywhere keen to capture its unique alleys, its ancient stone buildings and its panoramic views. The main road stopped at the bus turnaround, but Burke continued on a steep, narrow lane into the old village where he saw a dozen artists lining the side of the main alley, all studiously trying to capture on canvas the scene before them.

  After Séguret, he rode to Rasteau, another appealing hilltop community on the race route, and then he continued north to Roaix before going east to Entrechaux where he stopped at its majestic castle ruins overlooking the tree-lined main street of the village.

  He took photos and a video of the old chateau and marvelled at the beauty of the village and the entire region.

  Sitting on an old stone bench, Burke looked at the backdrop to the village.

  Behind the tiny community, looming like some monster, was Mont Ventoux, the legendary Giant of Provence, a moon-like, 1,900-metre climb that had wrecked the legs of many a pro cyclist and yet remained incredibly popular with cyclists from around the world who wanted to test themselves on one of the hardest climbs in the sport.

  Burke made a decision. After breakfast the next day, he’d tackle the Ventoux, taking the route from nearby Malaucène instead of the more-used Tour de France route from Bédoin. Either way, the climb would be tortuous. If he could do it, he would know he was all the way back from his accident the year before.

  If he could do it.