Martin Walker: The Crowded Grave

“I know, it’s a forensics job. What does the brigadier want?”

“Apart from a welcoming glass of Monbazillac and some foie gras he hasn’t told me.”

“He can’t get that in Paris?”

“Isabelle told him he had to try my pate, so I have a cooler in the van with a bottle of Tirecul la Graviere, and a fresh baguette from Fauquet.”

“What year for the Tirecul?”

“The ’05.”

“That should do it. Call me when you’re done. We can have lunch, and I can tell you about the new nightmare that’s coming into your life. Her name’s Annette Meraillon, and she finished at the top of her class at the magistrates’ school in Bordeaux last year. She’s right up your alley. She’s a vegetarian feminist, and she spent her last summer vacation in Paris working for some rights group for Muslim women. She’s just been assigned to the subprefecture at Sarlat, which means she’ll be your new magistrate.”

“A vegetarian magistrate for St. Denis? They must be mad. What does she think about hunting?”

“She’s against it. She wants all guns out of private hands. Unless they’re Muslim women, I suppose. Remember that young inspector of mine in Bergerac, Jofflin? He met her taking a course at law school and said she didn’t even drink. Not a glass. And she’s going to hate foie gras, even yours. You’re in for a fun time with her, Bruno.”

As a municipal policeman employed by the mairie, Bruno seldom sought to bring prosecutions under criminal law. So he’d have a great deal less to do with the new magistrate than the gendarmes and the Police Nationale. But she could call on him to help her with local inquiries, take up his time and interfere endlessly in his business. Bruno had so far been lucky; for the past decade and more the main magistrate for St. Denis and the neighboring communes had been a genial fellow, a keen hunter and former chairman of the rugby federation for the Departement of the Dordogne. He was also a prud’homme of the Jurade de St. Emilion, which since the twelfth century had defined when the grapes should be harvested and had kept jealous guard over the branding iron which marked each barrel of the renowned wines of St. Emilion. These days it was an honorary role for local worthies and the occasion for some spectacular dinners. But it meant that he took his wine and the pleasures of the table and local tradition very seriously. Bruno could hardly imagine a more appropriate principal judicial officer for the region that saw itself as the gastronomic heartland of France. This new woman sounded as if she’d be very much less accommodating.

“There’s a chopper coming in, probably the brigadier,” said Bruno. “I’ll call you back if he’s finished with me in time for lunch.”

Bruno hung up and walked out of the courtyard and into the park where the commune of Campagne held an open-air antiques market every summer. For the first time he saw the newly erected wind sock and the big whitewashed circle, marked for a helicopter to land. He put his hand on his hat against the sudden rush of air as the chopper swooped in to flare for its landing on the marked patch of grass. Two tough-looking men in dark suits were the first out, one carrying a FAMAS submachine gun and frowning as he scanned the nearby hillsides, the second with his hand casually inside his jacket. He nodded into the darkness of the helicopter, and two more men appeared in the doorway. Bruno recognized the brigadier and watched him invite the other man to precede him. Trust the brigadier never to turn his back, Bruno thought.

Officially a senior officer in the gendarmes, but long attached to the shadowy Renseignements Generaux intelligence arm, the brigadier was now on the personal staff of the minister of the interior. Bruno had known him to be involved in monitoring militant ecologists, the extreme right, Asian gangs and networks that smuggled illegal immigrants. He had wide powers, a very loosely defined job and access to a helicopter whenever he wanted. Since Bruno was employed by the commune of St. Denis, the brigadier had no formal authority over him. The brigadier overcame this technicality by bringing a formal request to the mayor from either the prefect of the departement or from the interior minister himself for Bruno to be seconded on special duties. And if that failed to work, Bruno had few doubts that the brigadier would activate his army reserve status and have him conscripted.

Bruno felt a wary respect for the man. He had also been in command of an operation in which Isabelle Perrault, a woman with whom Bruno had had a truncated love affair, had been seriously wounded. She had been a police inspector when Bruno had met her, before being lured away to the brigadier’s staff in Paris. The brigadier had informed Bruno that a similar job awaited him in Paris should he choose to take up the offer. Bruno noted that the brigadier now wore the small red button of the Legion d’Honneur in his lapel. That was new. He wondered if it had been awarded for the operation to intercept a shipload of illegal immigrants when Isabelle’s thigh had been shattered by a bullet from an AK-47.

The man accompanying the brigadier was so tall that he had to stoop unusually low as they scuttled under the slowing rotor blades. As the stranger straightened up, Bruno saw a fit-looking man in his forties with thick and rather long glossy, deep-black hair and the kind of dark shadow on his chin that suggested he would have to shave twice a day. His mouth was thin, and his jaw thrust almost arrogantly forward. It would have been a cruel face, but for the alert way he looked around him and the easy smile he flashed when he saw Bruno.

“Bonjour, Bruno,” said the brigadier. “Meet Carlos Gambara, deputy head of counterterrorism for the Spanish Ministry of the Interior. For this particular job, he’s my counterpart in Madrid, but he’s going to be here for a few days before attending the summit. Carlos, this is the man I told you about, Chief of Police Courreges, but I think you can call him Bruno.”

“Summit?” asked Bruno, sketching a hasty salute despite feeling a little odd doing so while holding a plastic bag in his left hand and very conscious of the silent bodyguard standing behind him with a submachine gun at the ready. They’d probably want to search his bag. “In St. Denis?”

“A little summit,” said the brigadier, lowering his voice as the rotor blades coughed to a halt behind him. “The Spanish interior minister and our own will be signing a new cooperation agreement on Basque terrorism-intelligence sharing, joint staffing of a common office for cross-border liaison, joint firearms permits and rules of engagement. Now that they’ve killed one of our cops here in France, the gloves are off-”

“Sir, I’d rather you all moved inside,” interrupted the bodyguard, whose hand was still inside his jacket, though his eyes were on the hills. “It’s a bit exposed here. Don’t want you falling into bad habits.”

The brigadier nodded and gave a half smile to the man. A sign of a good unit, Bruno thought, when the bodyguard could tease the boss a little.

“Welcome back to St. Denis,” Bruno said, handing the brigadier the bag. “Isabelle told me you were hoping to taste some foie gras, and there’s some Monbazillac to go with it.”

“Very kind, Bruno. It’s been a long time since breakfast.” He handed the bag to one of the bodyguards. “Maybe we can introduce our Spanish friend to a real French casse-croute, once we’ve done the inspection.”

“The brigadier has told me a lot about your shared adventures,” said Gambara, stretching out a large hand for Bruno to shake as they walked into the shadow of the chateau walls. Bruno took that with a grain of salt; nobody could hear themselves speak inside a military helicopter. “In the name of my government, we thank you for your help.”