The Coldest Case, Martin Walker [famous ebook reader txt] 📗

Bruno and slowed to a halt at the gap in the trees towards the bridle trail that led down to the village of Bigaroque. Bruno smiled inwardly as he prepared himself for Pamela’s inevitable teasing. Every time they came this way she liked to remind him that the history of the district was almost as much British as French. Pamela claimed that the village had been named by the English in the Middle Ages when they had controlled south-western France. Bigaroque, she argued, had been called Big Rock from the rocky outcrop that dominated the bend in the river that led to Le Buisson. Bruno even thought it might be true.

They dismounted to walk their horses across the bridge, and then cantered through the valley, flanked by fields of maize planted too close together. Bruno tightened his lips at the thought of the quantities of fertilizer and underground water required by this form of intensive farming. It was one of the aspects of how Brussels ran Europe’s agriculture that infuriated him. He counted himself as a good European but there was a monstrous gap between the rhetoric of Brussels about the need to alleviate climate change, and the harsh reality of their policies on the ground. But soon after they dismounted again to cross the bridge at Limeuil, they were passing, on the far side of the river, the vineyards that were run by the town of St Denis. Here his mood eased at the knowledge that these grapes were now being farmed organically. They took the railway crossing that led to St Chamassy and then the trail back to Pamela’s riding school, which gave them one last brief gallop before it came into view.

At the stables, they removed the bridles and saddles and rubbed down their horses before filling their water troughs and mangers, the dogs waiting by their own food bowls until they were fed. Pamela and Fabiola went indoors to shower and Gilles and Bruno stripped to the waist and sluiced themselves in the stable sink. They each kept towels and clean sweatshirts in the stables. With their hair still wet, they patted their horses goodnight and led the dogs to the main house. Gilles paused at Fabiola’s car to take from a coolbox a bottle of red wine from the vineyard of Court-les-Mûts, their special cuvée called des Pieds et des Mains whose grapes were trodden by human feet in the traditional way. Bruno nodded his approval and then his phone vibrated. He saw it came from Claire at the kennels and answered at once.

‘Bonjour, Bruno,’ she said. ‘Carla is getting ready to go into labour sometime tonight. I think your Balzac will be a daddy by tomorrow morning.’

‘That’s wonderful news,’ he said, laughing with joy as he spoke. ‘Is there anything I can do? Would you like me to come up to help?’

‘No, it’s me she’ll want alongside and it’s not her first litter. I checked with the stethoscope and all the pups are doing well. I think I heard nine little heartbeats. I imagine she’ll have them in the small hours so I’ll send you an email rather than wake you up.’

‘When can we come and see them?’

‘You can come anytime but I’d rather keep Balzac away for the first couple of weeks because Carla will get nervous. Some sires can be tricky. I’m sure Balzac will be well behaved but I want to keep Carla calm. And don’t worry, you still get first pick of the litter, and from the heartbeats she’ll have enough pups for you to have two.’

‘Just so long as they’re all right, and Carla, too, although you know I still prefer to think of her as Diane de Poitiers.’

‘How could I forget?’ she laughed. ‘Do you use her pedigree name because you’re a bit of a snob or do you have a thing for royal mistresses?’

Bruno laughed in return, more in delight at the coming of Balzac’s pups than at Claire’s teasing. ‘It’s the royal connection, of course, nothing but the best for Balzac. And you know I’m not as much of a fan of Carla Bruni’s music as you are. Thanks for the news, my regards to Carla-Diane and call me any time if you need anything.’

Bruno instantly called Isabelle, his old flame, whose gift to him Balzac had been, and who had accompanied him to the mating earlier in the summer.

‘Bruno, good to hear from you but I’m in a meeting . . .’

‘It’s just to say that Diane de Poitiers is going into labour. Balzac will be a father by the morning. I’ll hang up.’

He just heard a whoop of joy and the words ‘That’s wonderful’ as he closed his phone, wondering what the others at her doubtless high-level security meeting would make of that. Knowing Isabelle, she’d probably share the news with them anyway. He paused a moment before going into the house to join his friends. He’d always thought that one pup should go to Florence’s children. They adored Balzac and on her teacher’s salary there was no way that Florence would be able to afford a basset hound and he couldn’t think of a better home. But a second pup was more complicated.

He could probably get a thousand or fifteen hundred euros for a pedigree pup but he had no intention of doing that. He did, however, feel an obligation to the Mayor, who had given him his first basset, Gigi, from one of his own litters. The Mayor had never replaced Gigi’s mother when she died and Bruno knew from his affection for Balzac that he missed having a dog in his life. It would also mean that Balzac would be in the same town as his two puppies. But since the Mayor had not found a new dog, did that mean that at his age he didn’t really want one? His friend the Baron had said as much after the death of his own dog, a gigantic dogue de Bordeaux. Bruno felt