Martin Walker - The Crowded Grave

“Trying it out on approval,” she said. “I like the coffee it makes, but Bernard prefers the old way, stewed on the stove top. What brings you here?”

“The students who’re camping; are they all from the group that’s here for the archaeology?”

“They’d better be. That’s why they get the special rate. But they all had the right paperwork from the museum. Why, is there trouble?”

“I don’t know, but the Villatte farm was vandalized last night by some animal rights people. They let all the ducks out. There are no other strangers around, so I thought I’d better ask if you heard anything from the youngsters.”

“No, they keep to themselves, cook their own food down by that big tent they use as a living space. They don’t even shop here anymore, once they saw the prices are cheaper at the supermarket. They’ve been no trouble, except for the noise late at night, but you have to expect that.”

“It looks like more tents than people. Do they each have their own?”

“In theory, but you know what youngsters do. Most of them are paired off now and sharing.” The coffee machine made gurgling noises and started dripping coffee into the two cups Monique had put under the spout. She slid a sugar cube and a spoon onto his saucer and added a small biscuit wrapped in cellophane. “It’s like the United Nations here every Easter, Dutch and Polish and Belgians and English. I don’t know where Horst rounds them up. Some of them come back two and three years in a row.”

“There’s a Dutch girl called Katie or something like that. Do you know her?”

“She’s the one always wrapped around the big English boy. Her own tent’s empty now.”

“Mind if I take a look?” He finished his coffee.

“Official, is it?”

“Not yet, but it could be. You’d better come with me, keep an eye on me in case I try to walk off with her underwear.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you. Keep an eye out for anyone coming is what you mean.” She grinned at him. “Come on, then. Let’s go make a security check.”

Kajte’s tent was empty apart from a couple of plastic bags filled with clothes and some paperbacks resting on a flat stone. Teddy’s tent contained two sleeping bags zipped together into a double and two rucksacks aligned neatly side by side. Two towels hung from a thin rope strung between the two tent poles. He’d built a small shelf of a plank of wood resting on stones to hold a couple of tin plates and mugs, two toilet bags and what looked like textbooks. Bruno thumbed through some papers in a small briefcase, but from what he could make of the English they seemed mainly photocopies of articles from archaeology journals. There was nothing about animals. The rucksacks held only more clothing, and he found nothing more when he felt around the side pockets.

He was backing out of the tent, shaking his head at Monique when his phone rang.

“Monsieur Courreges?” It was a young woman’s voice, very brisk.

“This is the magistrate Annette Meraillon. I’m told a dead body has been found that I’ll need to see. I can be in St. Denis in thirty minutes. Where should we meet?”

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, and welcome to the Perigord,” he said. “You know the body has been removed by the Police Nationale and taken for forensic examination?”

“What? Without my seeing it in place?” Her voice had risen a notch.

“That’s something you’d better discuss with Commissaire Jalipeau, the chief of detectives. But I gather it’s quite routine, particularly when there’s a problem of identification.”

“We’ll see about that. I still want to see the site. Where will you meet me?”

“In front of the mairie in thirty minutes. I’m in uniform, so you can’t miss me, and you can park there. But you might want to bring some boots or walking shoes. It’s some way off the nearest road.”

“Right. Thirty minutes.” She hung up. Bruno looked at his watch. He had a little time, so he turned back to Monique.

“Can I take a look in the big tent, the one you called their living room?”

About fifteen feet square, with a peaked top and a large canopy, the main tent contained a couple of the picnic tables that the campground provided beside the barbecue stands. There was a small stereo-radio on one with a pile of CDs beside it, a five-liter box of cheap red wine and a pile of empty pizza boxes. On the other were cooking pots. Piled on a cloth beneath the bench were several boxes of vegetables and cereals and a dilapidated wicker basket containing some tools. Bruno noted a hammer and small saw, a couple of screwdrivers and a large pair of wire cutters.

A small blue Peugeot circled the roundabout too fast. It beeped its horn to deter a mother with two children in a carriage from setting forth on the pedestrian crossing before parking with a jerk across two of the marked spaces in front of the mairie. The front bumper stopped within an inch of Bruno’s leg. The young woman at the wheel in a gray woolen suit threw him a swift glance and then began collecting papers from a briefcase on the passenger seat. From down the street, he heard a siren. The Peugeot was freshly washed but far from new, with dents in the bumper and scratches on the rear fenders and the wide tires he’d only previously seen on cars used for race-car driving.

Bruno tapped on her window. “Your documents, please, mademoiselle.”

She turned from her papers and looked at him coldly. The sound of the approaching siren grew, and a blue gendarmerie van came into view, Sergeant Jules at the wheel.

“You’re Courreges, the village policeman, right?”

“Correct. You are illegally parked and about to receive a citation for failing to stop for a pedestrian crossing,” he said. He realized that this was the new magistrate, but the traffic in St. Denis was one of his responsibilities. He pulled out his notebook as Jules parked his police car behind the blue Peugeot, blocking its exit.

“You got her too?” called Jules, heaving himself from the car. “We clocked her at seventy-eight coming into town.” He began to fill out a speeding ticket.

“Meet our new magistrate,” said Bruno. “Annette Meraillon. Mademoiselle, this is Sergeant Jules of the gendarmerie.”

“Putain,” said Jules. “I’ve started writing it now. Can’t tear it up, they’re all numbered.”

“I’m sure Mademoiselle Meraillon believes that the law should always take its course,” said Bruno. “Where was she doing seventy-eight?”

“Going past the vet, just where the limit goes down from fifty to thirty. That’ll be three points off her license.”

“Plus the pedestrian crossing,” said Bruno. “That’s four. And the fines, not including the twenty euros for parking across two spaces.”

“If you two have finished,” the young woman said, “I’m on official business and have an appointment-with you.”

Jules and Bruno looked thoughtfully at each other.

“Urgent official business, mademoiselle?” Jules inquired.

“Of course.”

“Mademoiselle Meraillon wants to see a crime scene from which she knows the body has already been removed,” said Bruno. “It may be official, but it’s not exactly urgent. And I don’t know of any provision for magistrates to break the traffic laws when there is no crime in progress.”

“This is ridiculous-” she began, then came an interruption.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve got the stupid woman,” said Florence, putting the brake on her carriage. The two children sitting inside, safely buckled in, waved at Bruno. He waved back. Florence, the science teacher at the local school, kissed him quickly as he bent to say hello to the children. She put her hand on the roof of the blue Peugeot and looked in.