wounds. But you were informed as soon as it happened. I took the farmer’s statement and faxed a copy to your office in Sarlat. It’s not my fault if you don’t check your in-box.”
As soon as he said it, Bruno knew that the last sentence had been a mistake. After all, she had called him to apologize.
“I’ve been hearing from Capitaine Duroc about the way you operate,” she said, her voice crisp. “He told me that you’re always taking the law into your own hands, looking out for St. Denis and the mayor first. You’re not going to get away with that with me.”
“It’s St. Denis that pays my salary,” he said, irritated that she was listening to a fool like Duroc. Then, making himself speak normally, he asked, “Where are you now?”
“I’m in St. Denis, at the campsite, waiting for this Dutch girl to turn up so Duroc can arrest her. I’d have thought you wanted your precious foie gras farmers protected. Does this shooting involve the same farmer?”
“No, they went for another farm. But this one’s a prominent member of the local hunting club, which includes the mayor and the subprefect, so he has some well-placed friends.” Bruno felt that he at least owed her the warning that this could get complicated. Any local magistrate would understand that kid gloves were required. But Annette was not local, and worse still she was inexperienced, not knowing the importance of personal networks and friendships in country areas.
“The hunting club has legal insurance so you can be sure he’ll be well defended,” Bruno said. “You’d better handle this by the book.”
“And you’d better understand that I always handle things by the book,” she said briskly. “But if he’s wounded somebody, then your farmer’s going to be in very serious trouble, whoever his friends are. I’m going to call Duroc.”
“If you do, warn him that the Police Nationale have already taken the case. They won’t take kindly to the gendarmes butting in. You’ll find all the details in Maurice’s statement, and there’s a copy with Sergeant Jules at the gendarmerie, who also has the gun. I took it in there this morning when the farmer voluntarily surrendered it. He has a hunting license so the gun is legal. If I were you, I’d wait until I’d checked the statement and wait to see if anybody has called in with a gunshot wound. Otherwise you could be bringing a case with no victim.”
“I don’t need a victim. I’m the magistrate and I know the law. And I’m not impressed by local worthies trying to bend it.”
“Very well.” He gave it one more try. “Please remember this looks like your first case in your new district. For your own sake, you’d better make sure it’s a success. I’ll call you as soon as I know whether any of the local doctors have seen anyone with shotgun wounds.”
“I’ll expect your call.”
She hung up, leaving Bruno staring at his phone and asking himself how he could have handled Annette so badly. Could he still try to resolve this case amicably when the magistrate was on the warpath? It sounded as if Annette was now prepared to drop everything and focus on the shooting. He called the baron’s mobile and found him still with Maurice and Sophie. The mayor had already been and gone, and Louis Pouillon, the retired magistrate, had just arrived. Could he get them all over to the Villattes’ farm, where Bruno would join them shortly?
Telling the baron that he planned to try settling the affair without formal charges, he asked him to warn Maurice and Sophie that he was going to bring two young students to apologize for all the trouble they caused. Then Pouillon took the phone.
“Bruno, I have the statement and I’ve looked at the scene,” said the retired magistrate. “I think we’ll be fine. I can tell you there’s no way that this would have led to any charges in my day.”
“I’m not sure your successor will take the same view. That’s why I want to get everyone together and agree no charges will be brought by anyone. I’ll be bringing the two culprits, a pair of foreign students, and they are going to apologize and pay compensation for the ducks.”
“That makes sense.”
“It might not make sense to the new magistrate, or to Capitaine Duroc. You remember him?”
“The big one from Normandy with the Adam’s apple? I remember him always trying to boost his arrest record, trying to file charges that I’d then have to drop.”
“I expect him to turn up at Maurice’s farm any minute with the new magistrate, so I suggest you all follow the baron to another farm, the Villattes’ place, where these two young fools did mischief the other day. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”
11
They had stopped briefly at the florist’s, where Kajte had used her debit card to buy two imposing bouquets. The moment he saw Sophie clucking and fussing like a mother hen over the limping Dutch girl, Bruno felt confident that his plan might just work. Her youth and good looks were half the battle with the men, and Teddy helped when he said that he hoped this incident would not mean he would be unwelcome on the rugby field. Responding instantly to Sophie’s genuine good nature, Kajte managed to display the combination of humility, apology and grace that was required to win over the less gullible Sandrine. Pouillon and the baron quickly announced their satisfaction at this solution, and the flowers and the compensation money helped seal the deal. The baron went out to his car and returned with a bottle of his homemade vin de noix to toast the agreement.
Bruno checked his watch and declined. He and Carlos had a number of families of Spanish origin to visit, a chore that Bruno felt would pay few dividends, but he wanted to be able to report it done at that evening’s security meeting. He’d see J-J at the meeting and tell him the attacks on the farms had been resolved. Annette, Bruno hoped, could be left to Pouillon. The important thing would be to keep Maurice and the students away from Duroc and his insistence on formal arrests. Maurice and Sophie agreed to stay at the Villatte place rather than go home, and the baron suggested that Kajte and Teddy come back to his small chateau.
“Is this how you usually work?” Carlos asked, after leaving his rented car at the hotel in Campagne and squeezing his long legs into the modest space of Bruno’s police car.
“Depends what you call work,” Bruno said. “My job is to take care of local matters that don’t need the Police Nationale or the gendarmes. It’s better when we can settle things among ourselves. That’s the way Joe taught me to operate, and it seems to work. We’ll start with him because he knows everybody.”
Joe’s farmhouse was in a small hamlet just beyond the outskirts of St. Denis. Over the years, he had converted some of the barns and outbuildings into houses for his children and his nieces and nephews, the children of his elder brother who had died in the Algerian War. Now well into his seventies, Joe still tended the largest vegetable garden in the district and a small vineyard, while his wife ran a modest clothing store in St. Denis.
Bruno led the way into the familiar courtyard with the long table where Joe held court at the obligatory Sunday lunch for his extended family and whichever friends he happened to meet and invite at the Saturday market. Joe’s elderly hunting dog, Coco, stirred from dreams of rabbits to sniff Bruno’s trousers and give his hand an amiable lick. Bruno tapped the small iron bell that hung from the side of the kitchen door and let himself in, smelling the woodsmoke from the fire that Joe kept burning until the first of May. White haired but spry, Joe put down his pipe and looked up from his examination of a seed catalog to greet his successor and to shake hands with Carlos.
“There was one Basque family, but they moved off to Argentina or somewhere just after the war. I can think of only two families that still speak of being Spanish in anything but the most sentimental way,” said Joe, once Bruno had explained the reason for the visit. “And the youngest one left in the Garza family is almost as old as me.”
“ ‘Garza’ is a Gallego name,” said Carlos. “They come from Galicia in the far northwest. Even without the age factor, they’re not likely to be involved with Basque affairs. How about the other family?”
“The Longorias,” said Joe, pouring out three glasses of his vin de noix without asking if anyone wanted a drink. He reached into a sideboard behind him and pulled out a bowl of olives and another of nuts. “I don’t know where they came from, but they’re proud of what their family did in the civil war. Anarchists, if I remember right. When I was a kid they told stories of how they used to be miners and used sticks of dynamite instead of hand grenades.”
“Dinamiteros, they were called, from Asturias,” said Carlos. “They were the shock troops of the Republic. But
