Martin Walker: The Devil's Cave

‘Very good news, particularly if they agree to open the golf course to local people as well,’ Bruno said.

‘Good idea, I’ll raise it with young Foucher when he calls again.’

‘Would that be a young man with fair hair, dressed in white, accompanied by a dark-haired young woman?’

The Mayor looked surprised by Bruno’s knowledge. ‘That’s the man himself and the girl, a damn handsome couple. I didn’t know you were paying attention to these planning matters, Bruno.’

‘It wasn’t the planning aspect that struck me,’ Bruno replied drily. He knew the conversation would take a less agreeable turn as he recounted the story of the punt, the dead woman and Philippe Delaron’s inquiries about Satanism.

‘Why the devil can’t he just run the camera shop rather than dash around filling the newspaper with dirty laundry we don’t want washed in public?’

Bruno refrained from replying that as often as not the Mayor found ways to turn Delaron’s reporting to his own advantage. This was the moment for one of the Mayor’s occasional rants, and as long as Bruno was not the target he rather enjoyed them.

‘Satanism is the very last thing I want associated with this town. It’s quite the wrong image. Delaron must be made to see that. Tourists will stay away in their droves, and that will hurt his business as well as everyone else.’

Bruno wasn’t so sure. The more he thought about it the more he suspected that tourists might flock to a town associated with such sensational events. In any event the story was now out of their control. He told the Mayor of Father Sentout’s statement to Delaron.

‘Interfering old busybody,’ the Mayor snapped. ‘That priest should stick to his choir practice. Would it help if I rang the editor?’

‘Knowing journalists, it would probably make it worse. But I’ll go and have a word with the priest. Once they read the story in Sud-Ouest all the other reporters will be calling him. The suggestion of suicide might help.’

‘I’m not sure that will work,’ the Mayor said, shaking his head. ‘Exorcism has always been one of Father Sentout’s interests. He even did a couple of them around here, driving out devils from some poor mad soul. He told me he’d taught exorcism when he was a tutor in the seminary up in Dinan. I suspect he’s been aching for another chance to try it. No, you won’t find it easy to talk our priest out of his latest brush with the devil.’

Before he left, Bruno mentioned the anonymous letter and said he’d drive out to Junot’s farm.

‘Junot’s a drunk, just like his father,’ the Mayor said, looking at his watch. He rose from his desk and put on his jacket. ‘Excuse me, but I have to pick my wife up from the hospital at Sarlat.’

‘Nothing serious, I trust?’ Bruno liked the motherly woman who spent much of the year knitting socks and scarves to hand out to the Mairie staff at Christmas.

‘No, Fabiola said it was just some routine tests.’ The Mayor held the door to let Bruno out. ‘Good luck with Junot. He’ll never make that farm work now they’ve cut the subsidy for sheep. Do what you can, Bruno. But keep it discreet.’

Bruno started at the supermarket, but learned that Francette no longer worked there. She’d left a couple of weeks earlier, claiming to have a new job. That was all the manager knew. Bruno asked Michele, the veteran cashier, but neither she nor anyone else seemed to know what the new job might be nor where. But apparently she had looked a different girl when she handed in her notice, with new clothes, new hairstyle and make-up and a more cheerful manner.

‘One of her friends said she was in love,’ Michele told him. Bruno was directed to the staff room where two of Francette’s friends were enjoying coffee and a cigarette. Neither one knew anything about the boyfriend, except that he was not from St Denis, and they confirmed that Francette hated her father and had complained regularly about him.

Before he left, Bruno asked if the supermarket sold black candles, big ones. The manager said he’d never heard of them, nor did he know anywhere that sold them, but he gave Bruno the number of the main distributor for candles in the region, based in Sarlat. Bruno sat to take a coffee at the small restaurant beside the supermarket and dialled. He learned that large black candles were speciality items and always imported. He was given the Paris number of the main importer, and from them got the names of four stores, two in Paris, one in Lyon and another in Marseille.

‘Apart from the theatricals, that is,’ the voice from Paris went on. ‘We have a regular order from Gallotin, the big theatre supplier. They supply the film industry and the Opera and the Avignon festival, all the main events. That’s the biggest market for things like that.’

Bruno made a note, finished his coffee and checked his watch, thinking he’d have time to visit the Junot farm before lunch, when his phone vibrated. It was J-J, chief of detectives for the Departement and a good friend, asking for a briefing on the dead woman.

‘Sorry I didn’t call back earlier,’ J-J said. ‘I was with the new Procureur de la Republique , seems a real live wire. He’s from Lyon but keen on rugby so you’ll get on fine with him.’ With wide powers to define the scope of criminal inquiries and to appoint juges d’instruction to lead investigations, the new Public Prosecutor could make J-J’s life a misery. The last Procureur had been close to retirement and content to let J-J run his own show.

Bruno strolled back to the Mairie to pick up his official van, and was surprised to see a small procession of a dozen or so townsfolk crossing the bridge ahead of him. They were in single file except for two of them at the front who carried poles bearing hand-made posters. One read, ‘Homes for Locals, Not Tourists’. Catching them up, Bruno saw a number of familiar faces, some of them regulars from other demonstrations over the years. But he was surprised to see Gaston Lemontin carrying the other poster, which read ‘The People Say No’.

Lemontin had for years been the quiet deputy manager of the local bank. Married, with grown children who had moved away, he lived with his wife in a remote but pleasant home overlooking the river at the far end of the commune. As he recalled this, Bruno began to guess the nature of the demonstration. He also recognized two of the people filing along behind as neighbours who lived down the same side road as Lemontin.

‘What’s this about, Gaston?’ he asked, in a friendly tone. ‘It would have been a courtesy to let me know, in case I have to do something about the traffic.’

‘There aren’t that many of us, Bruno, more’s the pity. We’re just here to deliver a petition to the Mayor,’ the banker replied. ‘We’ve got over a hundred signatures. The Mairie will have to listen to us now. Here, why don’t you sign it?’

With what was now a practised gesture, Lemontin whipped out a petition form and pen from his shoulder bag. Bruno took the form, but ignored the pen and began to read. As he’d suspected, the petition was against the plans for the holiday village that the Mayor had mentioned earlier that morning. According to the petition, the golf course would waste water, the need to provide roads and sewers would raise the town’s taxes and no environmental assessment had been done. The banks of the river would be at risk, and it would make it even harder for local youngsters to afford homes of their own. There were far too many holiday homes in the region anyway, without adding more places that would be empty most of the year.

Bruno agreed with a lot of that. But he also agreed with the Mayor’s focus on the jobs, taxes and tourist trade the development would bring to St Denis.