Martin Walker - The dark vineyard

He led Bruno across the still smoldering ground and around the side of the shed until they were upwind, where it was quieter. Inside the shed, a metal table supporting some charred machinery was still hot enough to spit as water dripped from what was left of the roof beams. Two smoking roof timbers thrust into the sky, perched on top of what looked like an old filing cabinet. Bruno caught a stink of burned plastic and rubber, and something else.

“Gasoline?” he asked.

“That’s what I think. We’ll send some trace evidence off to the lab in Bordeaux, but I’ll bet this was deliberate. If you go over to the far side of the field, you’ll smell it again. Somebody was thorough-he got the crops, the shed, everything. This is going to be a job for you a lot more than for me.”

“If it’s arson, it’s the Police Nationale,” said Bruno. It would be a good idea to seal off the phone booth in Coux to check fingerprints, Bruno thought.

“If it’s arson against crops,” said Albert, “it’s local. Some farmers’ feud or somebody’s been playing games with another man’s wife. And that means the Police Nationale won’t have the first idea where to start.”

Bruno nodded, peering at something in the shed that struck him as odd. “Albert, have you ever seen a filing cabinet and office stuff like that in a farmer’s shed in the middle of a field?”

“No. Looks like it could be a computer, though there’s no electricity up here. Maybe it’s an old typewriter.”

Bruno turned away and was walking across to the point where the charred crops stopped when an explosion came with a flat crunch. Light flared, and a rush of heat stunned him as he turned and saw Albert topple to his knees amid the debris of the shed, which was bright with new flames.

His forearm up to protect his eyes against the searing heat, Bruno ran instinctively toward Albert and grabbed him by the collar. Fighting down fear as he plunged into the flames that seemed hungry to engulf him, Bruno hauled Albert back. The fire chief’s legs dragged limply through the flaring wood of the shed, and his trousers were on fire. Once the two men were clear of danger, Bruno spread-eagled himself over Albert’s legs to douse the flames with the fireproof material of his jacket. And then the other firemen were there, spraying them both with foam from handheld extinguishers.

Ahmed hauled Bruno up and shone a flashlight into his face, shouting, “You okay?” while others tended to Albert. Bruno nodded, shook himself and rose a little jerkily to his feet, brushing away the thick foam that covered him.

“A bit scorched, but nothing serious thanks to that jacket Albert gave me,” he said. “What the hell was that explosion?”

“An aerosol; maybe a can of paint or kerosene. Some bastards leave an almost empty fuel container at the scene and close the cap. The vapor can make it go off like a bomb once it’s hot enough,” Ahmed said with a shrug. “Albert never should have gotten that close. We’d have carried on hosing it but we had to put water on the edge of the fire, stop it from reaching the woods.”

“My fault,” said Bruno. “I was asking him about the equipment inside the shed.”

Albert had been lifted to his feet and was shaking his head to clear it, flecks of the foam flying off from his helmet and jacket. Bruno asked him how he was.

“I’ll live to make a fool of myself another day. Some damn thing hit me on the ear,” said Albert. He put his hand up to the side of his head and it came away bright with blood. One of the firemen gave him a bottle of water; he drank deeply, then rinsed his mouth, spat and looked across at Bruno and nodded once. “Thanks,” he said quietly, handing him the water. Albert’s hand was trembling. So, Bruno noticed, was his own.

“How are the legs?” Bruno asked. His voice was hoarse, and his throat hurt. The thought of the gasoline and of the fire being set deliberately brought a surge of anger and a sudden sharp memory of the airfield at Sarajevo, the crunch of mortars and the screams of the men inside the armored car. Bruno had often wondered if he’d ever be able to go back into a fire. Now he knew, but he shuddered and took a deep breath to control himself.

“Not bad. I wear flameproof undertrousers, just like the race car drivers,” Albert said, his voice raised. He spoke quickly as the adrenaline rushed through his system. “I’m okay, just a bit dizzy from whatever hit me.”

More shouting erupted from behind them, and another fireman came running up.

“Hey, Chief, there’s a water main. The gendarmes just ran into a standpipe.”

Albert looked at Bruno and rolled his eyes. “Probably the first time our Captain Duroc ever found anything, and even then he had to run into it.”

They headed back to the road, where a jet of water was fountaining high from a broken standpipe and Fabien was doing something violent with a heavy wrench in the light of the only headlight on the gendarmes’ van that wasn’t broken. Captain Duroc could be heard shouting angrily at his men. Fabien gave a final twist of his wrench and the water stopped.

“We can use this now,” he said. “There’s not much pressure, but enough to damp down the embers.”

“Where’s that pipe going? Why isn’t it on my maps?” Albert demanded angrily, mopping at his bloodied ear with a handkerchief.

“Looks like it goes from the water tower to the microwave station. That’s Ministry of Defense, so they have a guard post,” said Fabien. “And this standpipe is here because they have another pipe going off to that shed and the field. Looks to me like there’s some fancy irrigation system installed.”

“Irrigation? Up here?” said Albert. “Somebody’s got more money than sense.”

“Funny that the one field that has its own piped water supply is the one that gets torched,” said Bruno. “You ever heard of this Agricolae?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the small metal flag he had plucked from the ground.

“No. Could be some experimental seed, I suppose, but I never heard of anything like that up here.”

They went back to the truck, where the elderly mayor, Gerard Mangin, stood patiently by the road. Behind him was a row of parked cars belonging to locals who had come to watch the excitement. The mayor stepped forward, smiled a greeting and shook hands with Albert and Bruno. A camera flashed. Philippe Delaron was recording the scene for the local paper.

“Not much to report,” said Albert. “The danger’s over, and there’s no sign of anyone hurt. Not even me, thanks to Bruno. There’s a burned-out shed, a field of crops destroyed and one broken standpipe. I have my suspicions about what started this, but we’ll have to wait for the lab report.”

“You mean the fire was set deliberately?”

“It looks that way, Monsieur le Maire. And I think that explosion you saw was of a gasoline can going up. Whatever it was, it could have killed somebody. Could have killed me, if Bruno hadn’t pulled me out.”

“I hadn’t realized this was so serious,” the mayor said.

“Now I’d better go and see about getting my guys back to the station. And, Bruno, I’ll take that fire coat back. Those things cost a small fortune.”

“Whatever they cost, they’re worth every centime,” said Bruno, shedding the coat. He turned back to the mayor. “There’s more to this than meets the eye. That field had its own water supply, and the shed contained what looked like office equipment. Not what you expect to find in a bare upland field in the middle of nowhere. I’ll have to inform the landowner, probably have to make a report for the insurance and so on.”

“Have you told the gendarmes about this?”

“Not yet. Captain Duroc is a bit preoccupied with the damage to his van. It appears they ran into a standpipe.”