A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “Excuse me, Monsieur, this is a restricted area,” came a voice to the side.

  It belonged to a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in the dark-blue uniform of a security firm which, according to one of the badges on the man’s right sleeve, was based out of Marseille.

  “I was just looking around,” Burke said.

  “Sorry, Monsieur, but you must move,” said the man in the singsong accent of the French West Indies.

  Burke had no intention of making any trouble, especially since the man’s features showed he might have done some boxing.

  “I’m with the media,” Burke said, offering his ID card and a smile.

  “Still, Monsieur … .” said the security man, using an oversized hand to point to the direction that Burke should go.

  Burke said “thanks” and started walking away. Then he stopped and turned.

  “I’m also riding in the race,” he said. “Is that the tent where we get to eat after the race?”

  The security man smiled and shook his head, as if he was dealing with a child.

  “That tent is for the race sponsors and other VIPs,” he said. “The race participants will have a beer garden on the far side over there.”

  Burke looked to where the security man was pointing. Some workers were starting to set up some long tables.

  Burke thanked the security man again and went toward the main street.

  If anything, there were even more people strolling about than the day before. And the party atmosphere seemed more vibrant.

  As he walked, Burke spotted several police officers along each block, most of them just standing, hands clasped, looking at the scene before them. They hadn’t been there the day before.

  Burke decided to try his luck with one of them.

  He walked up to an officer who might have been 25 but no older. She had shoulder-length blonde hair and a slender but muscular build. There was something in her demeanour that indicated she wasn’t any pushover.

  Using his ID card, Burke explained he was a blogger for a newspaper group and was looking for Sergeant Pascal Favreau for a comment about something which, Burke admitted to himself, was partly true. Did she know where he was?

  “No, Monsieur,” she said, her blue eyes staring deep into Burke’s.

  “Has he been around here recently?” Burke said. “I chatted with him yesterday. He was with Inspector Bonnier from Saint-Raphaël, Julien Sauvageot from Arles and Sylvie Côté from Nice.”

  Burke figured using the names of the others couldn’t hurt his cause.

  And it didn’t because the officer relented, saying Favreau had been around 10 minutes earlier in the company of some officers from out of town.

  “He might be back at the station,” she added.

  “Thank you,” Burke said. Then he looked at all the activity around them. “Is all this because of the vintage bicycle race?”

  She nodded. “It is,” she said.

  “Why are there so many gendarmes on the streets?”

  “It’s going to be a big party,” she said. “We just want to make sure it’s a safe party.”

  “By the way, do you know where the race headquarters are?” Burke asked.

  She told him he was about a half kilometre away from the community hall that was being used for the race.

  Burke didn’t want to push his luck so he thanked her again and began walking down the main street toward the race headquarters. After that, he would visit the police station.

  As he walked, he kept his ears alert to a Québec accent.

  But he didn’t hear one.

  Chapter 52

  Burke walked into the community hall and immediately heard the noise that comes from 30 volunteers handling dozens of tasks as the clock moves toward the start of a big event.

  He looked about for a familiar face and saw the woman who had given him the lists of finishers in Arles. He walked toward her desk which was actually just a fold-up table with a laptop and some papers on it.

  When she saw Burke approaching, she grimaced.

  At least that was better than not acknowledging him at all, Burke thought.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said, giving her his best smile and hoping it wouldn’t come across as too insincere.

  “I should have expected you’d show up here, Monsieur,” she said. “Now, what is it you want?”

  “Maybe I’m just looking around,” Burke replied.

  The woman said nothing, just shook her head.

  “OK, I’m from Canada and I heard a Canadian accent the other day from the province where I used to live,” Burke said.

  The woman said nothing, just waited.

  Burke asked how many Canadians were in the final vintage race and how he could contact them.

  “Why, Monsieur?” she said.

  “I do work for a newspaper in Montréal in Canada and talking to someone from that area would make for a nice human-interest story,” he said.

  She didn’t seem entirely convinced. But she took a minute to check something on her computer.

  “There is one person from Canada in the race,” she said.

  Although he still considered himself Canadian, Burke had listed himself as French because he lived full time in the country.

  “What’s his name?” Burke said. “Do you have a phone number for him? Or an email?”

  She waved a finger at Burke.

  “That is not possible,” she said. “We cannot give out information about participants before the race. It’s a question of privacy.”

  Burke could see she wasn’t going to compromise on the rule.

  “How many entrants do you have for Saturday’s race?” he asked.

  “We have 1,250 and can’t take a single person more,” she said. “This race is in the smallest community yet and that limits us. We could have accepted 3,000, but it would not have been possible with that many.”

  “So, more and more people are interested in participating in these races,” Burke said.

  She nodded. “We never expected this level of success when we started planning,” she said.

  Burke had doubts that the races would have attracted so many without the Yablonski troubles.

  He had a final thought for the volunteer.

  “Back to the Canadian cyclist, can you at least give me his race number?” he said.

  The woman gave the request a moment of thought and then she returned to her computer screen.

  “He has been assigned number 22,” she said.

  “That’s a low number,” Burke said. “Does that mean he registered very early?”

  “Probably. The people with numbers below 100 probably entered within two weeks of the races being announced,” she said.

  “And the earlier a person registered, the lower the number?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “For all the races?”

  “Yes.”

  “Including if a person registered for all four at the same time?”

  “Well, a person would still have had to register race by race, but if he did at the very start, he would have been given a low number,” she said.

  Burke thought about that information. He thought for so long that the woman finally tapped on her desk to catch his attention.

  “Monsieur, are you finished with your questions?” she said.

  Burke remembered the results for each race listed the names of the riders and their numbers. And Burke had sheets of results from the first three races back in his gîte.

  “I am. Thank you very much, Madame,” he finally replied.

  “Mademoiselle,” she corrected.

  Burke turned and left.

  Outside, he took a few big breaths.

  Next was the police station.

  Chapter 53

  Burke was no longer strolling. He was walking briskly and, if it wouldn’t have seemed too strange to onlookers, he would have jogged to the police station.

  Then he put the brakes on.

  Leaning
against the corner of an old building that overlooked the Roman Bridge and the Ouvèze River running underneath it were Julien Sauvegeot and Sylvie Côté, both of them working on ice cream cones. It was almost like they were on a date.

  Burke walked up to them.

  “You’re never far away from us, are you, Monsieur Burke?” Sauvageot said.

  Burke looked around. No one was nearby so they couldn’t be overheard.

  “I gather, Inspector, that you’re convinced the dead cyclist in Arles was murdered,” Burke said. “Otherwise, I doubt you would be here.”

  The two flics said nothing. Neither took another lick of their ice cream, though.

  “Was he held under the water long enough to drown?” Burke said, taking a shot at producing a response.

  The two officers shared a glance.

  “Once again, is this off the record, Monsieur?” Sauvageot asked.

  “Yes,” Burke agreed.

  Sauvageot studied Burke for a moment. Then he looked at Côté who met his gaze and nodded.

  “Well, our cyclist did indeed drown, but there was some laryngospasm that led to a limited amount of water in the lungs,” Sauvageot said.

  “Laryngospasm? What’s that?”

  “The constriction of the vocal chords,” Sauvageot said. “The amount of constriction relates to the amount of water in the lungs.”

  “So, was there a lot of water in his lungs?” Burke asked, feeling a little confused.

  “Not much at all,” Sauvageot said.

  “Why does constriction happen?” Burke said.

  “A variety of factors can be involved. It might be due to some allergy, a medical condition, anxiety or even stress.”

  “Or fear?” Burke suggested.

  “Yes, fear as well,” Sauvageot said.

  “So what does all that mean to your investigation?”

  “It means our pathologist did a little more examination of the body,” Sauvageot said.

  “And what did he find?”

  “Some faint finger marks on the back of the victim’s throat.”

  Burke considered the scenario he was being given.

  “So, he hit his head and … .”

  “Most likely, he was hit on the head with a blunt object,” Sauvageot said.

  “A rock?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Or even a gun?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “And then when he was groggy or even unconscious, someone held his head under the water in the canal and he drowned,” Burke said.

  Neither Sauvageot nor Côté said anything.

  “And then this person – or persons – positioned the body in such a way as to make it look like the victim crashed, struck his head on that big rock by the canal and then rolled into the water where he died,” Burke said.

  The two officers said nothing.

  “What about the old man and his dog?” Burke said.

  “What about them?” Côté said.

  “Do you have any evidence that suggests they were deliberately drowned by someone?” Burke said.

  “We’re investigating,” Sauvageot said.

  “Let’s put it another way, do you have any evidence that shows they weren’t drowned by someone?” Burke said.

  “We’re investigating.”

  “Three people drown during a storm in Arles. It seems more than coincidental,” Burke said.

  “Did you know that 21 people from Vaison died during floods in this area in the early autumn of 1992?” Côté said.” Overall, 32 died in southern France due to that storm.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “The rains in this region were described as ‘monsoon like.’ People were swept down the river right over there,” Côté added.

  “So, three people dying in a terrible storm like we had in Arles is tragic, but not unique,” Sauvageot said.

  Burke nodded. Sauvageot had a point. But Burke wasn’t done.

  “Do you believe the deaths of the old man and his dog are suspicious?” he asked again.

  “We’re investigating,” Sauvageot said.

  Burke looked at Côté.

  “Why are you here?” he said.

  “I like ice cream,” she said, finally taking a lick of her cone.

  “Why are you here in Vaison-la-Romaine?” asked Burke, refusing to get frustrated or angry.

  “Joint interests,” Côté replied.

  “Is this some kind of special task force investigating all the events that have targeted Bosco Yablonski and which may be connected to one death and maybe as many as three?” Burke said.

  “Joint interests,” Sauvageot said.

  Burke knew the two could have walked away at any time from the conversation. Instead, they were standing before him, stonewalling. He had the sense they wanted to tell him something. Or maybe they wanted to get something from him without his knowing it.

  “What about the homeless man who drowned in Arles, Inspector?” he said.

  “An arrest was made this afternoon in that matter,” Sauvageot replied.

  “Who did you arrest?”

  “I didn’t arrest anyone,” Sauvageot said.

  Burke wondered if they were getting any pleasure from the semantics. It was getting harder to stay calm, but he managed it.

  “Who has been charged in connection with that homeless man’s death?”

  “Since the information is public, it was an individual who has a history of violence, especially toward homeless people,” Sauvageot said.

  “And he just went over and drowned that man?”

  “It appears something triggered his anger and he took it out on the homeless guy who just happened to be alone and vulnerable.”

  Burke felt sad. The homeless man had likely endured years of grief. Then someone comes along and drowns him in a puddle in a city park on a stormy evening.

  He looked at Sauvageot.

  “And there’s no connection between this man and the vintage races or, for that matter, with Bosco Yablonski?” Burke asked.

  “None.”

  “So, one murder has been dealt with, but two others are still being investigated,” Burke said. “Do you expect something violent to happen in the last race? I’ve seen flics everywhere. This is normally a nice, quiet, little market town in the middle of Provence, but you wouldn’t know it if you drove into it. Lots of people, but lots of flics, too.”

  No response.

  “If Bosco Yablonski wasn’t involved, would either of you be here?” Burke asked.

  He noticed how Sauvageot instantly stiffened at the comment. Côté, though, showed no change of expression.

  Neither said anything.

  “If there’s some kind of task force in Vaison, why isn’t Inspector Jean-Pierre Fortin here, Sergeant?” Burke asked Côté. “When I saw you yesterday, I thought he might be in town since I talked with him about all this Yablonski stuff just before the Nice race.”

  “Good ice cream,” Côté said, finishing her cone and then rubbing her lips with the back of her hand. Then, still looking placid, she added: “Inspector Fortin has other cases he’s involved with. And we’re out of time here.”

  She nudged Sauvageot who nodded. The pair then turned and started to walk up the street in the direction of the Vaison police station.

  Burke stood there, suddenly feeling exhausted and more than a little frustrated.

  He was just getting in their way. And he was probably wasting his own time. He was just a small-time blogger who had stuck his nose into police business a second time.

  And it wasn’t paying off.

  For anyone.

  Chapter 54

  Burke stayed downtown, collecting his race package by the starting area across from the Tourist Information Office.

  Then he texted André Rousseau, suggesting they meet in the Old Town square by the fountain. He hoped his friend would get the message before driving to the gîte. It would be pleasant to share a meal at one of the cafés o
verlooking the fountain.

  A minute later, he had his answer. Rousseau texted that he was getting gas not far away from Vaison, was ahead of schedule and would gladly meet Burke by the fountain in one hour.

  Burke texted he’d be at the seafood café right opposite the fountain.

  “See you soon,” Rousseau replied.

  Burke took a table for two by the front of the café’s terrace and ordered a pastis. The server asked if Burke was interested in any hors d’oeuvres since it was too early yet for dinner. Hungry from his day’s efforts, Burke ordered salt cod purée, a classic Provençal appetizer.

  The pastis came quickly and Burke mixed it with some water. He took a sip. Perfect. Most North Americans in his experience hated the licorish drink, but he had developed a taste for it after years in France.

  Then he checked his emails. Most were junk, but then he saw a strange one slugged “Be careful” from an address he didn’t recognize.

  He opened it and the world around him disappeared:

  “So you think you know what is happening with the vintage races. Be careful. It could be the ruin of you.”

  It was clearly a threat. But why was someone targeting him?

  Burke punched in a reply, asking who was behind the email and what did the message mean because the wording was vague.

  He hit SEND. A moment later, it bounced back, saying the sender’s email account was no longer in service.

  Burke was puzzled about the email. How had some stranger found his email address? Then he remembered it was listed at the bottom of every one of his blogs.

  He went online and checked the website where his blog was featured.

  And there he read a note from the editor – obviously François Lemaire – that said Paul Burke would be covering the final of four vintage bike races in Vaison-la-Romaine.

  “Read Paul Burke for the latest developments in the troubled series of old-time bike races. If anyone knows, our blogger Paul Burke does.”

  Burke cursed under his breath. Lemaire was promoting the newspaper group’s connection to the races – and Burke’s involvement. That was standard practice these days but, in turn, it seemed that had prompted someone to contact Burke with a warning.

  Burke remembered Hélène’s request that he stay out of trouble and how he had promised to do so.