Bruno and the Carol Singers: A Christmas Mystery of the French Countryside Page 2

  Madame Lespinasse in the tabac said a young man very like that had bought a packet of Lucky Strikes. He’d then stood huddled and smoking in the shelter of her doorway, while the choir had been singing around the steps. And Mirabelle, the young waitress in Fauquet’s, said she had sold him a baguette when the crowd of choristers had come in for their warming drinks. Was that before Bruno had joined them? Could Bonneval have seen him counting the money with Pamela?

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He spent a while looking at the cakes and chocolates before he bought the bread. He looked like he was very cold.”

  Fauquet’s was L-shaped, with the counter for bread and cakes around the corner from the much larger café and bar. Bruno went to the precise spot where Bonneval had probably stood and found that he was hidden by a tall revolving cake stand. Through the array of chocolates and cream cake and fruit tarts, Bruno could see into the café where the choir had been sitting and where he’d opened the collection can.

  Back in his office, he called Hélène, the probation officer in Paris, and said, “He’s here. And I think he just committed a street robbery.”

  Bruno could hear Hélène’s sigh. “That means we can’t persuade him to come back and smooth things over. We’ll have to send him back to prison, and it’s such a damn waste.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was doing so well. I thought he was going to be the first prisoner that I’d really be able to help, to get a job, a place to live, to straighten out his life. And now he screws it all up, just before Christmas.”

  “What do you know about his family?”

  “His wife got a divorce while he was inside. She never visited him. I spoke to her once and she said she’d never take her boy to visit his dad in prison. It was awful because she broke with her own family too, to marry Bonneval. That’s why she decided to move out of Paris.”

  “Tell me what else you know,” said Bruno. “All I know is drug trafficking and smuggling.”

  “Her family’s from Lebanon and her brother was the kingpin, dealing Lebanese hash, a lot of it. The police and the customs people set up a joint operation and sent in someone under cover to make a big buy. Jean-Pierre was the fall guy. Then he refused to testify against the brother, which could have got him a lighter sentence. He probably wouldn’t even have gone inside.”

  Bruno was silent, thinking. In the background of Hélène’s phone he could hear laughter and jaunty music. It sounded like “Vive le Vent.”

  “Are you having a Christmas party there?” he asked.

  “Yes, it’s the last day before we close for the holidays. Actually, there’ll be a skeleton staff. We’re just having some cake and a few drinks. Then I’ve got to get home and pack to catch the early train down to Brive.”

  “If I can clear up this robbery business and get him back to you, could you—as you put it—smooth things over?”

  “Back to me where? In Brive?” She sounded alarmed.

  “I was thinking in Paris, but if you’re someone he trusts, maybe it could work if I got him to Brive.”

  “I might be the only one he trusts, except for his boy. Richard’s the most important thing in Bonneval’s life now; that’s why he wants to get straight again. Every time I see him, he talks about his son.”

  “What does he say?”

  “Oh, fantasy stuff, like teaching him to swim and taking him to soccer matches. He had a bit of an obsession about taking him fishing like his own father did with him. He said he’d taken him fishing once on the Seine and the boy had loved it.”

  Promising to call her cell phone if there was any news, Bruno hung up and took his van to the widow Madourin’s house. Knowing any juicy item of gossip would be all over town within a day, he simply told the widow that he had news from Miriam’s family in Paris.

  Miriam and her son were in a small sitting room with a sink and hot plate in one corner. They sat together on the small sofa, working on a book of Sudoku puzzles. Richard held the pencil. The boy had jumped up to shake hands when Bruno had entered the room, saying a polite “Bonjour, Monsieur Bruno.” Through the open door to the bedroom Bruno could see two single beds. There was a crucifix on the wall and beneath it a small TV, switched off. A small Christmas tree of silver tinsel was hung with chocolate coins wrapped in gold foil. A star of plastic crystal leaned precariously from the top.

  “Sorry to bother you, but I need to know if you have seen or heard anything from Jean-Pierre,” he said. “He’s left the hostel and the place where he worked. I’m pretty sure he’s come here.”

  Miriam pulled Richard to her side. Bruno could see the boy had her large, dark eyes and full mouth and that look of the south about him.

  “We just had some tea,” she said. “May I offer you some?”

  He declined, but sat down in one of the two hard-backed chairs at the small table and said, “Perhaps you’d prefer to speak in private.”

  She shook her head and held the boy more closely to her. “No, I haven’t seen Jean-Pierre. But I had a strange call at the dentist’s office yesterday, someone asking for me. When I picked up the phone and said Hello, all I could hear was breathing. I’m sure it was him. Then I rang the place where I used to work, and he’d been there. They were supposed to say they didn’t know where I’d gone, but the woman who replaced me was new and didn’t know not to tell him.” She paused and then said, a little wistfully, “He was always good with women.”

  “He’s here, and he’s in more trouble,” Bruno said. “I’ve talked to his probation officer and we’re hoping to clear this up quietly. That means getting him to go back to Paris of his own accord. Can I count on your help?”

  “It’s all over between him and me.”

  Bruno said nothing, but raised his eyebrows and looked at the boy. Richard returned his gaze calmly and said, “This is about Papa. Has he come to see us?”

  “Your mother will tell you about it,” Bruno said. “And don’t forget I’m seeing you tomorrow morning. It’s the last practice before Christmas, nine o’clock at the stadium.”

  He gave Miriam his card, took her cell phone number and asked her to call if Jean-Pierre made contact, or if she saw him. As he drove to Pamela’s house to exercise the horses, he wondered where Bonneval would sleep that night. Bonneval now had enough money for a hotel room, but Sergeant Jules would already have alerted the local hostelries. There were barns enough in the area and most of them had straw. Some had animals whose warmth he could share, if he was prepared to risk discovery by the farmer. But Bonneval was a city boy, unfamiliar with barns or animals. Bruno decided that after dinner he’d check the bars and café.

  When he arrived at Pamela’s house, she was wrestling with what looked like a cannonball wrapped in muslin. He helped her take it out of the steamer and hang it from the thick beam above the kitchen sink, recognizing her famous Christmas pudding. A month earlier, along with Fabiola, Florence and her twins and Bruno’s friend the baron, he’d taken part in Pamela’s preparations. Each of them in turn had been required to stir the thick dark mixture. It had to be stirred from east to west, Pamela insisted, because that represented the direction the three wise men had taken to reach the stable at Bethlehem. The pudding contained thirteen ingredients, one for each of the apostles and one for Jesus. Bruno had asked which ingredient represented Judas, and Pamela had waved her wooden spoon at him and retorted, “Salt, of course.”

  Bruno was to bring the goose to the réveillon, the Christmas Eve supper. The baron was providing the wine, Fabiola was bringing the oysters and Florence and her children were in charge of making the paper crowns that everyone would wear at the table.

  “Do you think we might make room for two more?” he asked. “I was thinking that Miriam and her boy might enjoy the company.”

  “Good idea. I rather like her and since it’s Christmas …”

  Bruno rang Miriam from his cell phone as they walked out to the stables, where Fabiola was already saddling her mare, Bess. His face
broke into a grin as Miriam said they’d be delighted to come and what could she bring? Just some fruit juice or lemonade, he told her, whatever Richard would like to drink.

  As he rode out after Pamela and Fabiola, Bruno smiled to himself, thinking that the three of them looked like refugees, or maybe like Napoleon’s troops retreating from Moscow in 1812. Pamela had a big, brown woolen balaclava over her riding hat, and Fabiola had a thick scarf wrapped over her head and around her ears. Each of the usually slim women was bulky with sweaters and shawls, looking almost ghostly in the clouds of steam that rose from the horses’ breath. The field ahead of them was white with frost that crackled underfoot.

  “When it’s like this in Scotland, we say it’s too cold to snow,” Pamela said, nudging her mare’s sides to start a canter. The horses responded, eager to run. She led them up the familiar route to the ridge that overlooked the valley and the great bend in the river where St. Denis nestled beneath the hillside. They paused briefly to take in the familiar view that had been transformed by the frost and the swirls of mist that rose from the water.

  “It looks like a different St. Denis altogether,” said Pamela. “Like a fairy tale, but one of those sinister stories from the Brothers Grimm; menacing forests and wicked witches.”

  She’d just been robbed, thought Bruno; she was entitled to feel that way. To him it simply looked like the same old St. Denis in a hard winter. Hector, Bruno’s mount, tossed his head in impatience until Fabiola shivered and set off again, leading all of them into a run along the ridge that became a joyous, warming gallop as they reached the firebreak through the forest.

  “Wonderful,” said Pamela as they rubbed down their horses in the stables and forked down fresh straw into the stalls. “Can you stay for dinner? Fabiola’s making spaghetti and there’s a chicken in the oven.”

  “I’ll have to go and see to Gigi and my own hens, but I can bring back some wine,” Bruno said. Gigi, his faithful basset hound, would be waiting for his return.

  “Good, that will give me time for a hot bath. And bring your dog back with you.” She gave him that slow smile that meant he was invited to stay for the night.

  He went out briefly after the meal to check on the town’s two bars that were still open and looked into the church and the likely doorways where someone might take shelter. But there was no sign of Bonneval, which worried Bruno. The sky was clear and the stars shining and brilliant. He paused to look up and picked out the familiar shapes of the Great Bear and Orion’s Belt, thinking that one day he’d treat himself to a telescope and study them more closely. But he’d do so in a kinder season of the year; it was the sort of night that could freeze a person to death. Bruno felt more than usually fortunate as he turned back towards the warm and loving bed where Pamela awaited.

  * * *

  The next morning the sky was overcast and pregnant with snow. A score of youngsters had braved the weather and jumped up and down in their tracksuits on the frosted field to stay warm. Richard, Bruno noted, was among them, although Miriam had already left for the dental office. Half a dozen unusually devoted parents huddled together in the stands to watch. Bruno greeted them all and brought from the back of his van some paper cups and two large thermoses. One contained hot chocolate for the boys and girls and the other was filled with his own mulled wine for the adults. He’d added half a bottle of homemade vin de noix to a bottle of red wine, a glass of orange juice and a large glass of brandy, and heated it all with two cinnamon sticks and a dozen cloves. The parents clustered gratefully around; Bruno’s mulled wine was famous in St. Denis.

  Leaving them to it, and hoping there would be a cupful left for him after practice, Bruno trotted onto the field. He carried a rugby ball under each arm. The cold meant he’d better keep the kids running. He lined them up beneath the goalposts and started them passing the ball to one another while running up and back the length of the field. Anyone who dropped the ball had to run around the grounds before they could rejoin the line. At one point Bruno noticed that Richard, his cold hands tucked into his armpits, had joined the long, trotting line of the droppers.

  Within minutes the youngsters were all glowing with warmth and a couple had shed their tracksuit tops. He moved the group into three lines, one behind the other, so that the gaps between each player were longer and the passes harder to keep accurate. Then he started them in line, each turning to slip the ball back to the player behind. For a change, he formed them into two scrums, their bodies bent and locked together as each team strained to push back the other. He finished with wind sprints, twenty meters flat out and twenty meters jogging, up and down the field. Finally, he sent them off to the two communal baths. The girls used the visitors’ changing room and Bruno the separate shower that was usually reserved for the referee and linesmen.

  Clean and glowing, and feeling better for the exercise, Bruno took a cup of his mulled wine and joined the parents. The youngsters helped themselves to the hot chocolate before lining up to wish him a happy Christmas. They were shuffling with excitement as Katrine, captain of the girls’ team, stepped forward with a small parcel, neatly wrapped in Christmas paper.

  “Where’s Richard?” she asked, angrily, and suddenly Bruno felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He had last seen the boy trotting around the field. “He’s supposed to hand over the card we all signed.”

  His mind racing with concern for the missing boy, Bruno’s jaw dropped in surprise when he opened the gift. It was an expensive bottle of Hermès aftershave that they wouldn’t have been able to find in the shops of St. Denis. He kissed them all on both cheeks in thanks, before asking Laurent, the boys’ team captain, to go and see if Richard was still in the showers. He looked at his watch. Miriam would be here at any moment to pick up her son. Laurent came back to report there was no sign of Richard, and none of the other boys could recall his joining them in the shower room.

  Bruno swiftly organized three search parties: one for the showers and changing rooms; another for the stands and the storerooms beneath them and a third to look through the trees and shrubs around the rugby field. He checked the road outside and sent those parents with cars to patrol the nearby streets, while he called Sergeant Jules at the gendarmerie. No cars had been reported stolen. There were only three roads out of town, and Jules could post a man at each one. Bruno then called Marie at the Hôtel de la Gare and asked her to let him know if a man and boy appeared at the railway station.

  There was still no sign of the boy when Miriam arrived on her bicycle. Feeling sick with guilt that he had not watched the boy more closely, Bruno led her to one side to explain that he was sure Richard was with his father. She should go home and stay there, in case the boy turned up.

  Miriam took the news stoically, but shook her head at his suggestion. “I’ll call Madame Madourin. She can phone me if he arrives there. I’m going to search the town.” She looked at Bruno solemnly, as if about to say something more. He braced himself for a tirade, but she bit her lip and rode off. Whatever blame she’d been about to fix on him, Bruno thought, he deserved it.

  Thinking hard, he packed up the thermoses, locked the stadium and showers and drove down to Antoine’s campground, which was closed for the winter. The canoes Antoine rented to tourists were all filed neatly on the racks and covered with tarpaulins. Antoine was in his hut, a glass of Ricard at his elbow and the smoke from a Gitane curling up from his lip. The windows were steamed up from the warmth of the ancient iron wood stove. He was puzzling over his accounts, probably working out how far he could cheat the taxman, when Bruno came in and explained what he wanted and why.

  “It’ll be really cold,” said Antoine. But he wrapped himself up in an old army greatcoat and hitched his trailer to Bruno’s van. They loaded a canoe onto the trailer, took some paddles and a plank of wood and set off for the railway bridge. Bruno could not see Bonneval and his son getting farther than that.

  Attached by a rope to Antoine’s hand, the canoe skittered over the thick ice by the
bank when they launched it. Bruno took the plank of wood and laid it over the ice, which began to break as Antoine climbed across and into the bobbing canoe. Bruno followed, just managing to keep his feet dry, but already feeling the cold biting through his sneakers.

  The paddling warmed them, although Bruno’s legs and bottom were freezing from the chill of the water, separated from him by just a thin layer of plastic. Where the current was slow, their paddles broke through the thin sheet of ice that was already forming. Snowflakes began to drift down. Antoine shrugged off his overcoat, laid it beneath him and then kneeled on it to paddle.

  “Did you never see those cowboy films?” he shouted over his shoulder. “The Indians always paddled like this. Otherwise your legs freeze.”

  Bruno shrugged off his life jacket and used that. Within moments his thighs were aching and his knees sore, but he felt less cold. He was struck by the way the ducks seemed to take pleasure in running from the bank to glide over the ice. They cackled in what sounded like laughter as they slid across to the channel of clear water the canoe left in its wake. Then they used it as a runway to take off, to soar over their heads and circle and then to float back and land in the clear water.

  Bruno dragged his eyes from the ducks to scour the empty banks. There were no fishermen and no sign of life, except for the discreet splash of an otter slipping into the shallows where the current had prevented ice from forming. The fields and hill to each side gleamed with the whiteness of fresh laundry, and on the prow of the canoe the snow was beginning to settle. Pale gray skies, white fields and ice—their red canoe offered the only splash of color in this wintry riverscape.

  “Is that them?” asked Antoine as they rounded the wide bend that led to St. Denis.

  Bruno squinted against the pale light and saw a bulky shape beneath the town bridge. It took him a moment to focus and identify Bonneval sitting on a wooden box with his son on his lap, holding the fishing rod. Bonneval’s arms were around the boy. He was wearing his father’s black hooded jacket. As Antoine steered in toward the quayside, Bruno pulled out his phone and called Sergeant Jules to say he could recall the other gendarmes. The boy was found.