Peter May: Cast Iron

Soft sunlight washed over him as he stepped from the train and felt the air warm on his skin. Autumn was not yet so advanced in the south, and the plane trees on the road outside still held their leaves. Diners lingered over lunch beneath parasols on the terrace of the Hotel Terminus, and Enzo wished that life might be that simple for him, too.

He walked the fifteen minutes through town to the Rue Georges Clemenceau. The covered market opposite his apartment was shut for lunch and there were tables still occupied on the pavement outside the pizzeria. He glanced up at the red-brick facade of his apartment block with its brightly painted blue shutters, geraniums in late bloom cascading from flower boxes hung along the wrought-iron balustrades outside his windows. And he ached to hold Sophie in his arms. Comfort and reassurance in the certain knowledge that she really was his daughter.

But he was disappointed to find the apartment empty. He threw his overnight bag into his bedroom and pushed open glazed double doors to the séjour . Sunlight angled in from the square outside, and he saw the twin domes of the cathedral shimmering in the warm afternoon. He threw open the French windows to let in air and the sound of life from outside, and breathed deeply. When he turned back into the room, he saw the letter lying on the table. He recognised her handwriting immediately and crossed quickly to tear it open.

Dear Papa,

Sorry not to be here to welcome you back.  Bertrand and I decided to take an apartment at Argelès sur Mer for a week to profit from this lovely Indian summer we are having. The late-season prices were a real bargain and we couldn’t resist — don’t worry, Bertrand’s paying.  We’re right on the beach, so I’m bound to have a perfect tan for your birthday. We’ll be back in plenty of time for the party. Nicole’s promised to set things up in my absence. I’ve told her she can have the spare room. I hope that’s okay.

Love you,

Enzo groaned audibly. Nicole was the last thing he needed. And it was just typical of Sophie that she should decide to have a party, then disappear and let everyone else do the work. All his warm feelings towards her quickly dissipated. And his heart sank as he heard the door opening out in the hall. A familiar voice called, ‘Monsieur Macleod?’

He sighed. ‘Through here, Nicole.’

Her breasts preceded her as she emerged from the dark of the hall into the sunlit living room. Enzo blinked and tried not to look. She undoubtedly regarded them as her best asset and was never shy about displaying them. Today they were encased in a clinging, low-cut cotton top. Nicole was a large girl, of sound farming stock. She was endowed with what Enzo’s mother would have described as good child-bearing hips. She had a pretty face and long, silken brown hair that cascaded over broad shoulders, and was Enzo’s star pupil in the forensic-science department at Paul Sabatier University. Now in her final year, she had been an invaluable assistant to him in solving several of Raffin’s cold cases, particularly when it came to use of the internet.

Her face lit up when she saw him. ‘Monsieur Macleod!’ And she kissed him enthusiastically on both cheeks before standing back to look at him. ‘You’ve lost weight. Have you not been eating?’

‘Yes, Nicole. I’ve been eating. And drinking. And doing all the things you warn me against.’

She pulled a face. ‘Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to take care of you now. Honestly, I don’t know what Sophie’s thinking. A few good square meals and we’ll get you back up to optimum weight in time for your party.’ Nicole invariably saw people like farm animals in need of fattening. She twinkled. ‘Sophie’s got a little surprise planned for you, and we want you looking your best.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not staying, Nicole.’ It was a spur-of-the-moment thought.

‘Why ever not?’

‘I’ve started work on the next case.’

Her eyes opened wide. ‘The Martin girl?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s great. I can help!’

‘Nothing for you to help with yet, Nicole,’ Enzo said, and he saw her face fall. ‘I’m just about to call her parents and arrange to drop by and see them. And I might take the opportunity to visit some of the other locations involved in the case, primarily in Bordeaux. So I may be gone for a few days.’

‘I could come with you,’ she said hopefully.

He shook his head solemnly. ‘I wish you could. But Sophie’s relying on you to set everything up for the party...’ He held out open palms, indicating his helplessness in resolving the situation. ‘Sorry.’

Nicole glowered.

Château Gandolfo stood on a hilltop in rolling country just east of the small town of Duras, on the very edge of the Bordeaux wine-producing area of western France. The commune had its own appellation, Côtes de Duras, producing wines with which Enzo was unfamiliar. He was better acquainted with the reds of Saint-Emilion, just a few kilometres further west, but had to confess that the gently undulating hills and green forests of this stunning part of the Lot-et-Garonne were much more interesting than the endless fields of vines that shimmered in the distance across the Saint-Emilion valley.

He was in Aquitaine now, that whole slice of western France which had once been a part of England before finally being annexed by the French at the end of the Hundred Years’ War. The influence of the English was still apparent everywhere. In the names and the architecture, the religion and even the culture. As Enzo knew from his Scottish upbringing, it was not an easy thing to erase the pervasive traces of the English.

The single track that turned off the main road wound its way through trees in red, gold and yellow autumn splendour, deep into the hills, before Enzo took a steep chalk track that cut its way up the slope to the château at the top of the hill.

It had been dry for several weeks, and a plume of dust rose up in his wake. Impossible to approach without being seen. The château itself seemed comprised of three separate buildings, with shallow-pitched, red roman-tiled roofs. Two towers stood at one end, and Enzo assumed that they had originally been pigeonniers , providing nourishment for the fields from their guano, and meat for their owner’s table from a plentiful supply of pigeons. Four tons of meat a year, the average pigeonnier was calculated to produce.

The two storeys of the main building stood centrally between the others, its white stonework betraying a history of renovation and extension that probably went back centuries. Shutters were painted a faded blue, and half the building had been taken over by various vines and creepers that burned dazzling red and purple now, as summer transitioned to winter.

Enzo turned into a gravelled parking area near the lowest of the three buildings. A pergola stood on the terrace outside arched and glazed double doors, but Enzo couldn’t see beyond them because of reflections. The building itself had almost vanished beneath red and green creeper with white flowers.

As he stepped out of his carefully restored Citroën 2CV, a voice in perfectly accented English said, ‘That’s my office. Or used to be. It’s my den now — my escape from life.’ A chuckle. ‘And the wife.’

Enzo turned to see an elderly man walking down the tiled path from the main house to greet him. He was of medium height and build, unstooped by age as he extended a confident hand to shake Enzo’s warmly. Piercing blue eyes were set in a face that was tanned and deeply lined, contrasting starkly with the thick silver hair that grew in such abundance above it. He wore moleskin trousers that gathered around sturdy walking boots, and a quilted vest over a chequered shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He might easily have stepped straight out of a country estate anywhere in England.