Read Online The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6) by Martin Walker - Free Book Online
Authors: Martin Walker
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began slicing the salmon at the big round kitchen table. Glancing up from the sink, Bruno could see Pamela’s swimming pool and a corner of her grass tennis court, whose lumps and dips persistently frustrated his attempts to roll them smooth. The vivid green of late spring covered the slope that rose to the woods and the ridge that looked down on St Denis.
‘Shall I collect some mint?’ he asked. Pamela had introduced him and Fabiola to the British custom of eating mint saucewith lamb. ‘Not today,’ she replied. ‘We’re trying something different, something a little magical.’
She laid the slices of salmon onto the plates, black pepper and fresh lemons beside them, and began to slice the big round loaf of Meyrals bread she had bought on the way back from Bergerac airport. Then she took from her bag a small dark jar and chanted in theatrical tones: ‘Rowan tree and red thread, keep all witches deep in dread.’
‘My mother used to say that every time we had rowan jelly,’ she said. ‘The rowan tree is meant to be good magic, you find it often in churchyards. We used to bring a bough of rowan indoors on Good Friday to keep away witches and the dark forces. And my father liked to squeeze a little rowan juice into his gin and tonic. Made into jelly, it goes well with lamb, so I brought some for you to try.’
The potatoes and the haricots were bubbling in their saucepans as Pamela put a meat thermometer into the lamb and pronounced it done. She left it on the stove top to rest, took off her apron and ushered them to table.
‘Welcome home,’ said Bruno, pouring out the white wine.
‘And welcome to you both,’ she said, clinking the glasses and giving the good news that her mother’s estate was now settled and her financial future looked reasonably secure. Her worst fears had not been realized; her mother had not left everything to the Battersea Dogs’ Home or some charity that rescued old donkeys. She would be able to stay in St Denis with her friends and her horses and never have to see her ex-husband again.
‘So this is a very good day,’ Pamela declared, and turned to Bruno. ‘And now I want to hear all about this murder.’
‘You mean that under English law someone can bequeath their property to anyone they like? In France it has to go to the family heirs.’
‘Yes, I know, it’s part of your
Code Napoléon
. But come on, let’s hear about the murder.’
The bare facts were easily told. But it was hard to describe the growing scepticism of Yveline the new Gendarme and J-J. Valentoux had gazed at them helplessly when they asked him to prove he had not killed Fullerton the previous day. The man was clearly in shock, still stunned by the sight of his friend so brutally killed and now aghast at the further stress of hostile questioning. He had insisted that he’d been at home in his Paris apartment overlooking the Buttes Chaumont on the previous evening, reading the manuscript of a new play. He had no visitors, had seen nobody and so could not prove that he had not driven down to St Denis, murdered the Englishman, driven back to Paris and then returned in the morning to establish an alibi. He was taken to the Gendarmerie for questioning and detained overnight under
garde
à
vue
.
‘If it’s not him, we have nothing, no clue, no motive, no idea of a suspect,’ J-J said. Bruno replied that short of fingerprints or DNA evidence, they could not even be sure the dead man was Francis Fullerton. J-J had nonetheless asked Bruno to call the British consulate in Bordeaux while he sent a query to the British police through the usual informal channels.
‘Two gays, they have a quarrel, crime of passion,’ J-J sniffed. ‘That’s the working hypothesis, although I suppose whatever trendy young magistrate gets the case will say I’m prejudiced.’
‘Not if Yveline says it first,’ Bruno grinned. ‘Anyway, you are prejudiced. We both know that.’
‘That goes for most cops my age,’ J-J
‘Shall I collect some mint?’ he asked. Pamela had introduced him and Fabiola to the British custom of eating mint saucewith lamb. ‘Not today,’ she replied. ‘We’re trying something different, something a little magical.’
She laid the slices of salmon onto the plates, black pepper and fresh lemons beside them, and began to slice the big round loaf of Meyrals bread she had bought on the way back from Bergerac airport. Then she took from her bag a small dark jar and chanted in theatrical tones: ‘Rowan tree and red thread, keep all witches deep in dread.’
‘My mother used to say that every time we had rowan jelly,’ she said. ‘The rowan tree is meant to be good magic, you find it often in churchyards. We used to bring a bough of rowan indoors on Good Friday to keep away witches and the dark forces. And my father liked to squeeze a little rowan juice into his gin and tonic. Made into jelly, it goes well with lamb, so I brought some for you to try.’
The potatoes and the haricots were bubbling in their saucepans as Pamela put a meat thermometer into the lamb and pronounced it done. She left it on the stove top to rest, took off her apron and ushered them to table.
‘Welcome home,’ said Bruno, pouring out the white wine.
‘And welcome to you both,’ she said, clinking the glasses and giving the good news that her mother’s estate was now settled and her financial future looked reasonably secure. Her worst fears had not been realized; her mother had not left everything to the Battersea Dogs’ Home or some charity that rescued old donkeys. She would be able to stay in St Denis with her friends and her horses and never have to see her ex-husband again.
‘So this is a very good day,’ Pamela declared, and turned to Bruno. ‘And now I want to hear all about this murder.’
‘You mean that under English law someone can bequeath their property to anyone they like? In France it has to go to the family heirs.’
‘Yes, I know, it’s part of your
Code Napoléon
. But come on, let’s hear about the murder.’
The bare facts were easily told. But it was hard to describe the growing scepticism of Yveline the new Gendarme and J-J. Valentoux had gazed at them helplessly when they asked him to prove he had not killed Fullerton the previous day. The man was clearly in shock, still stunned by the sight of his friend so brutally killed and now aghast at the further stress of hostile questioning. He had insisted that he’d been at home in his Paris apartment overlooking the Buttes Chaumont on the previous evening, reading the manuscript of a new play. He had no visitors, had seen nobody and so could not prove that he had not driven down to St Denis, murdered the Englishman, driven back to Paris and then returned in the morning to establish an alibi. He was taken to the Gendarmerie for questioning and detained overnight under
garde
à
vue
.
‘If it’s not him, we have nothing, no clue, no motive, no idea of a suspect,’ J-J said. Bruno replied that short of fingerprints or DNA evidence, they could not even be sure the dead man was Francis Fullerton. J-J had nonetheless asked Bruno to call the British consulate in Bordeaux while he sent a query to the British police through the usual informal channels.
‘Two gays, they have a quarrel, crime of passion,’ J-J sniffed. ‘That’s the working hypothesis, although I suppose whatever trendy young magistrate gets the case will say I’m prejudiced.’
‘Not if Yveline says it first,’ Bruno grinned. ‘Anyway, you are prejudiced. We both know that.’
‘That goes for most cops my age,’ J-J
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