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

‘That’s right, but he’s getting out in a year or so, getting married and moving somewhere near here to start a new life as a teacher.’

He kept his voice cheerful, not mentioning that the key to the new life that Alain was hoping for was settling down with Rosalie to raise a family, something that Bruno increasingly feared would never happen to him. Listening to Isabelle’s voice made it all the more poignant.

‘You’ll like that,’ she said. ‘I remember thinking when we met him for lunch that day how close the two of you were, how much of a childhood you’d shared. So if we can’t enjoy Paris together this weekend, let’s plan one when this business with Rosenholz and with Oscar is all over. Promise?’

‘Promise,’ he said, thinking of her apartment just off the Boulevard Voltaire and recalling breakfasts in bed and later a light lunch by the Pont Ste Marie and taking the Metro to her favourite museum. She had shared it only with him, she had said; the Marmottan by the Bois de Boulogne, home to the paintings owned by Monet’s family. ‘I’ll count the days.’

‘Me too, and please send me lots more photos of the puppies.’

With the sound of a kiss, she ended the call. Bruno sat immobile for a long moment, hoping as he so often did, that there might be a crack in the wall that kept them apart; her craving for Paris and the promise of a glittering career, and his for the peace of the Périgord, his horse and dog, his home and his garden, and the embracing sweep of the Vézère as the river wound its way through the gentle hills and ancient caves around St Denis. But she would no longer be the vibrant, ambitious Isabelle if she came back here and he would no longer be Bruno if he left.

He took a deep breath, climbed out of the van and strolled halfway across the bridge to look down at the river. He could never remember having seen it so low, its flow feeble, its sandbanks filling more than half its width. He went back to the van and took out the crayfish, cheese and fish stock. They’d be spoiled if he didn’t put them into the fridge at the Mairie while he went through his paperwork before going home to cook.

He turned, looking across the square at the Hôtel de Ville, standing on its thick stone pillars, and known to all as the Mairie rather than by its formal name. The familiar noticeboard carried its usual announcements of forthcoming events, from the anglers’ competition to the bouquinistes, the old books sale, from the Noir Vézère, the annual book fair of polars, as the French called crime novels, to the vide-greniers – the jumble sales. It was when he thought of the foire des vins that suddenly the gods of memory smiled upon him.

With a start he suddenly remembered that it was under those same arches that he’d seen an older version of the young Henri in the photographs. It had been at a foire des vins, two or three or perhaps four years ago. The man had been standing behind a stall, selling his own wine. Had Bruno tasted a glass or two? He could not remember, but he distinctly recalled the face, the light cotton jacket the man was wearing over a black T-shirt, his height and his heavy build.

Bruno raced up the stairs to his office, took from the printer the enlarged photo of Henri and put the food into the fridge. He got back into his van and drove the five hundred metres to Hubert’s wine cave, thinking he had not a moment to lose. He burst into the store, ignoring the greetings of ‘Bonjour, Bruno’ from the staff, went behind the counter and barely knocked before thrusting his way into Hubert’s private lair at the back.

‘Bruno, what a pleasant surprise, but why the rush?’ Hubert asked. ‘I’m just about to taste a charming Riesling I have high hopes of. Do join me.’

Bruno ignored this and pushed the photo at him. ‘This man’s a winemaker, he was at one of our foire des vins. This photo was taken thirty years ago but do you know him?’

Hubert put the photo under his desk lamp and donned the spectacles he was too vain to wear in public. ‘I’m pretty sure it’s Henri Bazaine. Mostly he makes a run-of-the-mill Bergerac from an old family property near St Laurent les Vignes. He married into it, as I recall, and almost all the wine he makes goes to the cooperative. It’s all that most of his wine is fit for. But you know winemakers and their little vanities. He makes a small amount of a reserve red wine which is pretty good, not as good as he likes to think but certainly very drinkable. I’d like to offer some here but Henri likes to sell his special wine privately. He’s a bit of a recluse, lets his wife and son and daughter do most of the marketing. He likes to stay in the chai and the vineyards. Why do you ask?’

‘Are you sure?’ Bruno asked, the urgency almost painfully evident in his voice. ‘Would you swear to it?’

‘I don’t know about swearing but it’s him all right. I think he was from Alsace originally and came down here for the vendange as a student, picking the grapes all over the Bergerac to earn a bit of money. He caught the eye of old Mathieu’s pretty daughter, Mathilde, and soon a baby was on the way. Mathieu grumpily consented to the marriage and took him into the vineyard. Of course, if Mathieu had any sons, it would have been a different story. But the marriage worked out well, it must be thirty years ago or so.’

‘What’s the name of the vineyard?’

‘Le Clos Bazaine, the old family name.’

‘And that’s his name, too?’ Bruno asked. ‘That’s quite a coincidence.’

‘I think