A Taste for Vengeance Page 2

  It should have been a joyful ride home on the team bus with the championship cup aboard but Paulette had handed the cup to Bruno without a word before stomping up the aisle to sit alone on a rear seat, where she leaned back and closed her eyes. She didn’t speak or take part in any celebrations, and that put a damper on the journey.

  Bruno took a call from the security desk at the airport. Monika Felder had not been on that day’s flight, nor had she booked it. She had, however, flown in the previous day on the same British Airways flight. Her passport had been recorded by the Police aux Frontières before she passed through customs. And she was booked to take the return journey to London Gatwick in a week’s time.

  “Do you want the photo?” Bruno was asked. He knew that surveillance cameras had been installed at more and more airports and access points, so he quickly agreed. He could check it against the image Pamela had sent. He thanked his old colleague, ended the call and found Pamela’s email with the attachment. He clicked on it, expecting the drab near anonymity of a passport-style photo. Instead, it looked like a studio portrait, carefully lit, of a strikingly lovely woman. She had blond hair, artfully arranged to flatter her face and her large, dramatic eyes. Her cheekbones were high, her smile alluring while sufficiently restrained for the European passport regulations, which forbade facial expressions. Even through the photo her complexion seemed to glow with that soft perfection that so many Englishwomen enjoyed. It was a compensation, Bruno assumed, for living in that damp and foggy climate. She was standing slightly sideways while looking directly at the camera, a pose that showed off her long, elegant neck.

  Bruno gave a low whistle of appreciation, thinking that anyone seeing a woman such as this would not easily forget her. That should make finding her much easier. His phone gave the double-beep sound of an incoming message. It came from his friend at the airport, and even the gray surveillance-camera image of the woman waiting at the passport desk could not conceal her beauty. She was the woman in the photo Pamela had sent.

  There could be any number of reasonable explanations for her failure to arrive as planned, Bruno thought. She may have missed the train, or decided to take a day off in Bordeaux, or been diverted by a sudden family emergency. Still, it was odd that she hadn’t called Pamela to warn of her late arrival. He called the English phone number that Pamela had sent him and heard the bland tones of a recording saying the subscriber was not available. He left a message with his own number.

  As soon as he put his phone away his thoughts turned to Paulette’s pregnancy, wondering whether she would be more forthcoming with him than she had been with Fabiola. If not, he began to think how he might learn the identity of the father of Paulette’s child and whether he should somehow let Paulette’s parents learn of their daughter’s condition. Legally, however, Paulette was no longer a minor, which meant she was entitled to her privacy.

  Bruno sighed as he contemplated the cheap brass cup sitting on the coach seat beside him, far less impressive and much less costly than the cup for the young men’s championship, which had been bought a generation earlier. Still, Bruno would ensure that it took pride of place in the club’s cabinet of trophies, despite the grumbles of the old guard, who could still not bring themselves to take the women’s game seriously. Perhaps the championship would change that but he doubted it. The old ways died hard in St. Denis and Bruno himself had at first questioned whether the girls should continue to play after puberty. It was the insistence of the girls that had converted him and made him increasingly proud of the young women he had coached. This should have been a day of triumph, but Paulette’s situation had cast a shadow. Bruno’s dream of watching her trotting out onto the pitch in the blue shirt of the nation at the Stade de France in Paris had turned hollow.

  How would her family react? If she were to have the baby, the family would have some decisions to take. But the real choice would have to be up to Paulette. Bruno grunted to himself, thinking that more and more frequently he was faced with situations for which the police academy had left him wholly unprepared.

  Perhaps he should consult his colleague Yveline, the impressive young woman who commanded the local gendarmes. An athlete who had been on the French Olympic field hockey squad, Yveline had taken a friendly interest in Paulette’s sporting prospects and she would have been at the match had she not been on duty. He’d visit the gendarmerie before going home. He could tell her about Pamela’s missing customer at the same time, and that thought reminded him that he should check with Pamela to learn if she had any news.

  As Pamela answered his call, he heard in the background women’s voices and laughter. It was the time when her pupils would be preparing the classic Périgord dinner they would be eating that evening.

  “What’s on the menu?” he asked her.

  “Blanquette de veau,” she replied. “Since we have one empty place there’s going to be lots left over if you’d like to come and join us.”

  “I’d love to but I need to see the rugby team home—you’ll be pleased to hear that they won the championship—then I have to check in with the gendarmes so I’ll call you after that to tell you if I can make it. Any news of your missing woman?”

  “Not a word. Did she land?”

  “Yes, but I’ve heard from the airport that she landed yesterday, not today. Could she have mistaken the date?”

  “No, she emailed me two days ago to confirm her arrival at Le Buisson today. The plane was scheduled to arrive at eleven this morning so I explained how to take the airport bus to the Bordeaux gare and catch the train at two. She had lots of time, enough to get some lunch at the station. I was to meet her at four. Maybe she simply wanted a day sightseeing in Bordeaux. Do you think something might have happened to her, a sudden illness, perhaps?”

  “I’ll check with the station,” he said.

  As the homebound bus drew into St. Denis’s rugby club, Bruno closed his phone. He had learned that no woman had been taken ill at the Bordeaux train station, or on the airport bus. The train had been on time. He climbed out to congratulate the team once more and waved them off in their various cars. He called Yveline, but she was off duty that evening. Finally he phoned Pamela to learn that she and her cooking school pupils were about to sit down to dinner.

  “The blanquette de veau looks perfect and I saved a place for you. We’re drinking that rosé from Château Briand that you like,” she added.

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 2

  Bruno rose early the next day to polish his boots and leather belt before his customary jog through the woods. His basset hound, Balzac, was running at his heels but then as usual became distracted by some interesting scent, pottered off and fell increasingly behind. Bruno was confident that he’d turn up at the end of the run. He knew he should be thinking of the special parade that was scheduled for later that morning, but his mind turned again to Paulette’s pregnancy. He’d have to wait for Fabiola to tell him the outcome of her meeting with the girl, although knowing Fabiola’s care for the privacy of her patients, he did not expect to learn much. He’d also have to call the ticket office in Le Buisson to see if there was any way someone there could check whether Pamela’s missing guest had boarded a train or even bought a ticket.

  The missing Monika had been the main topic of conversation at Pamela’s dinner table the previous evening. Bruno had arrived late, in time for the main course, and the introductions to Pamela’s clients had been hurried. There had been two middle-aged couples and three single women: two of them in their sixties and a fashionably dressed younger woman who was introduced as Kathleen. She was a journalist from one of the British Sunday newspapers, invited by Pamela to enjoy a free cooking course and write about the experience. She had prematurely gray hair, very well cut. Bruno guessed her to be in her mid-thirties and was told she was a keen horsewoman who would be joining the morning rides to exercise the horses.

 
Bruno’s English was now, thanks to Pamela, good enough to follow most of the conversation. But when Pamela explained that Bruno was the local policeman, he had to fend off a barrage of questions about Monika. Adult missing persons were not usually recorded until three days had passed since they were last seen, he explained. But since she was a foreigner who might not speak much French he’d be making an extra effort to locate her. He’d been grateful when Pamela had changed the subject to Bruno’s other role as one of the several chefs in the course.

  Bruno would be teaching them to make a pâté de foie gras and also how to get five separate meals from a single duck. The baron would be showing them how to make a stuffed neck of goose and then use it in a classic Périgord cassoulet. Ivan from the bistro was giving up his day off—for a fee—to demonstrate how his desserts were made—crème brûlée, tarte aux noix, pears poached in spiced red wine, sabayon aux fraises. This last, a dish of strawberries in a creamy custard, was a favorite of Bruno’s. Odette from Oudinots’ farm was taking them to find various kinds of mushrooms in the woods and then showing how best to cook them with veal. Stéphane was to demonstrate how he made his cheeses and yogurts. Julien was giving them a tour of the town vineyard and winery, and Hubert was giving them a wine-tasting session. Along with a tour of Bergerac vineyards and a couple of sightseeing trips to the Lascaux Cave and some châteaux, they were in for a busy week, Bruno thought. Pamela and her English friend Miranda had planned it well.

  Back at his cottage, Balzac was waiting patiently by the back door. Bruno showered and took special care with his shave before toasting the remains of yesterday’s baguette and sharing it with his dog while listening to the local news on Radio Périgord. The final item mentioned this morning’s parade, which would mark Bruno’s promotion in rank and the increase in his responsibilities. He took his dress uniform from the dry cleaner’s bag, dressed and checked his appearance in the mirror before heading to his office in the mairie. Usually his dog sat alongside him in the passenger seat, but Balzac sometimes laid his head on his master’s thigh, so today the hound went in the back of the van to ensure that Bruno’s impeccable uniform showed no trace of canine hair.

  As Bruno parked beside the mairie, he noticed two other municipal police vans were already there. From the window of Fauquet’s café, two cops in uniform waved at him. One was an overweight and untidy man who looked too old for the job, and the other a young woman in a uniform that looked at once new and rather baggy on her slim build.

  The man was Louis, the municipal policeman of Montignac, a small town farther up the Vézère Valley. It was wealthier than St. Denis, thanks to the thousands of tourists who came each year to visit the fabled prehistoric art in the nearby Lascaux Cave. Only eighteen months from retirement, Louis had twice to Bruno’s knowledge been reprimanded for being drunk on duty. He made no secret of his resentment that Bruno had been given the promotion that Louis felt was his due.

  The young woman was Juliette Robard, newly hired to replace the last policewoman of Les Eyzies, who had retired after being shot on duty. She had made a full recovery but had decided to take a safer job at the local mairie. Juliette was a new graduate of the police academy, a local girl who had given up a secure job as a ticket inspector on the regional rail service to be nearer to her mother, who had been confined to a wheelchair after a car accident. Since her father was a long-standing member of the Les Eyzies town council, Juliette’s appointment had been almost a formality. It had also been hurried through, to ensure that Juliette was securely in place before the reorganization of the municipal police, which would have required the new commander—Bruno—to give his approval to her recruitment.

  Bruno felt neither surprise nor resentment. That was how these matters were arranged in the region. He had known Juliette since, as a teenager, she had been one of the pupils in his tennis classes. He liked her and thought of her as a levelheaded and shrewd young woman who would probably be a success in her new career. He appreciated Juliette’s cheerful disposition, and there was something both intelligent and kindly about her eyes that suggested she would make a fine colleague. Moreover, she spoke good English. Bruno thought this was becoming essential for any policeman in the Périgord, a region whose most important industry was now tourism. Louis spoke no language other than French.

  Bruno shook hands with Louis, kissed Juliette and gratefully accepted their offer of coffee. He was about to decline a croissant, but Balzac, who knew this café well, was giving him one of those appealing looks and Fauquet made the best croissants in the whole of the Périgord. And Fauquet had automatically brought one with Bruno’s coffee. Leaning forward in his chair so no crumbs fell on his uniform, Bruno enjoyed this sublime example of the pâtissier’s art and gave Balzac his usual portion.

  “Are you on good terms with your former colleagues on the railways?” he asked Juliette.

  “Yes, most of them,” she replied cautiously. “What do you want to know?”

  He told her of the missing Monika and asked whether it would be possible to find out if she had bought a ticket for a train from Bordeaux to any of the local stations in the last two days.

  “If she bought the ticket online from England, she’d have had to print it out and that would have been scanned by the inspector,” Juliette replied. “If she used her credit card to buy the ticket at Bordeaux station, there would be a record, but you’d need her credit card number and it could take a while. And we’d need to open a formal missing-person file to get around the data confidentiality regulations.”

  “Are there any less formal ways to get an answer more quickly?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she answered with a grin. “Give me the full name and details and I’ll check who was on the duty roster for all the stops on the Sarlat route for the last two days.”

  He gave Juliette the information and from his phone emailed her and Louis a copy of the photo Pamela had sent.

  “Why all the fuss about some foreign woman missing her train?” Louis asked.

  “The reason, Louis,” Bruno said, “is that tourism is now the biggest industry in the département and that means we make a special effort to be sure everything goes smoothly for foreign visitors.”

  Juliette gave him a playful punch on the arm and Louis grunted a reluctant assent, muttering something about not being quite up to speed with his new phone yet. Juliette, by contrast, was already speaking on hers, exchanging pleasantries with some former colleague and speaking in what sounded like technical terms known only to cheminots, as rail employees were known.

  “Both of our mayors are coming, along with Bossuet from the regional council,” said Louis, leaning forward and murmuring into Bruno’s ear. “I heard on the grapevine that Bossuet wanted to swear you in but your mayor insisted on doing it himself.”

  A recent study by the Ministry of Justice had determined that the local police forces needed more resources in computers, communications equipment and administrative support. Bruno had been one of the policemen surveyed in the study and his region had been picked for the pilot project to test the new system. Amélie, the young official who had conducted the survey, had strongly recommended that Bruno should lead the project. It meant that Bruno was being promoted to be chief of police of the entire valley, from Limeuil, where the Vézère River flowed into the Dordogne, all the way upstream to Montignac.

  After today’s swearing-in, he would be in command of Juliette and Louis, and a new administrative assistant, yet to be hired, who would occupy a disused storeroom beside Bruno’s office, along with new computers and a secure communications system. For Bruno, it meant many more responsibilities, a modest pay raise and the knowledge that he would spend much of his time driving back and forth to Les Eyzies and Montignac to coordinate his new team. He would have to learn how to get along with two new mayors and their respective councils and the Conseil Régional of the elected politicians who ran the département. For B
runo, the most uncomfortable aspect of the change was that he would no longer be answerable solely to the mayor of St. Denis.

  “The parade has been pushed back to eleven so we have some time to wait,” said Louis, with the sly look of a man with inside knowledge. “A little bird told me you might want to brace yourself for a surprise. And I don’t just mean a lunch, which is why it’s all been delayed. Some brass hats are supposed to be coming so we’ll be giving a lot of salutes.”

  Bruno’s heart sank. He had picked up a hint that the mayor was arranging something special. He had expected the swearing-in to be a formality, held in the mayor’s office and all over and done with after a few minutes. If lots of saluting was to be involved, it seemed likely to be grander than that. And now he had two hours to kill. He could go to his office to catch up on paperwork, but it would not be a good idea to abandon his two colleagues.

  “A friend of mine is pretty sure he saw your missing woman on the train from Bordeaux two days ago,” said Juliette. “He’ll be pulling into the station at Le Buisson on a change of shift and can give us half an hour.”

  “Let’s go,” said Bruno, rising. He caught himself and asked Louis if he’d like to come along. Louis gestured with his head toward some of his hunting friends at the bar and said he’d stay with them.

  They took Bruno’s van and pulled into the station parking area about twenty minutes later. Juliette led the way around the back and through an anonymous door into a corridor lined with offices. At the far end was what Juliette called the relief room, where the train staff could rest on their breaks or between shifts. It had two sofas, a large dining table on which someone had set out a chess set and a counter that contained a sink, a microwave oven and a coffee machine. Beneath the counter were a refrigerator, cupboards and a dishwasher. A small TV stood on a bookshelf half-filled with paperbacks, magazines and table games.