slightly.
“I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” Bruno said innocently. “You asked me to come as soon as I could.”
“You’re in the shit this time,” Duroc said. Annette grimaced, visibly irritated by his coarseness in what she intended as a formal occasion. Bruno raised his eyebrows at Duroc’s remark but said nothing. Duroc looked down at Annette and stepped back, as if letting her take the lead.
“I’ve asked you here to inform you formally that I am initiating disciplinary proceedings against you on charges of unauthorized entry, obstruction of justice and incitement to riot,” Annette said, reading from a paper before her rather than looking at Bruno’s face. “I have signed an order to retrieve your phone records and have asked the mayor to suspend you from duty while these charges are pending.”
She lifted her head and looked him in the eye. “Do you have anything to say?”
“No,” said Bruno. “But I have some questions to clarify matters, and I’d like to have a witness present.” He turned back to open the office door and asked Sergeant Jules, who was standing suspiciously close to the door, to join them. Briefly he explained the situation and asked Jules to take note of his questions.
“First, which was the riot in question? Second, which were the premises I’m supposed to have entered without authorization? Third, I’d like a detailed account of the supposed obstruction of justice. Fourth, what was the mayor’s response? Fifth, have you informed the office of the minister of the interior of your attempt to suspend me? I should add that I’m currently attached to his staff, with the mayor’s approval. Finally, the sergeant here will kindly note that I freely give approval for my phone records to be examined. I have nothing to hide.”
“You know perfectly well which riot we’re talking about because you organized it,” Duroc snapped. “The unauthorized entry was Professor Vogelstern’s home. The obstruction of justice was protecting your damn farmers and aiding and abetting two students suspected of criminal damage to escape arrest by me and my men. I personally delivered the letter of request for your suspension to the mairie earlier this morning. We’ll see what the Ministry of the Interior has to say when we send them these charges.”
“So you haven’t talked to the mayor?” Bruno wondered how Duroc had learned of the help he’d given to Teddy and Kajte.
“We haven’t yet had a reply,” said Annette, in a voice that sounded a little uncertain, as if confused by Bruno’s reaction and Sergeant Jules’s presence.
Bruno pulled out his phone, speed-dialed the mayor and explained the reason for the call.
“Put this on speaker so that they can hear this as well as you,” the mayor said. Bruno complied and watched stone-faced as Annette and Duroc listened to the mayor.
“I have your letter before me and I reject the request,” said the tinny voice over the phone’s speaker. “Chief of Police Courreges has my full confidence, but I am writing to the head of the judicial office in Sarlat, Mademoiselle Meraillon, to say that this mairie has no confidence in you. We will in future withhold all cooperation with you and I formally request your transfer to a less demanding post. Were it not for your youth and inexperience I would have requested a formal disciplinary hearing against you. I have also written, Capitaine Duroc, to the prefect and to the general of gendarmerie in very similar terms. I should add that the subprefect has sent me a copy of the highly critical report he has filed on your unprofessional behavior in St. Denis yesterday.”
The mayor disconnected and Bruno closed his phone. Duroc’s face was white and Annette looked up at him nervously as his Adam’s apple began its usual dance.
“I think that covers everything, for the moment,” Bruno said. “But to save you some embarrassment, you might want to drop the charge about unauthorized entry. The owner of the house, Professor Vogelstern, entrusted me with a key some time ago, along with a letter asking me to inspect the premises in his absence and collect his mail and forward it to him in Germany.”
“So why did you ask the neighbor to let you in?” asked Annette, pulling a witness statement from the file before her.
“Because I wanted someone else present when I searched the premises, in the course of an investigation into his disappearance, requested by the curator of the National Museum,” Bruno said. “Anything else?”
“I’ll want to see this alleged letter,” Annette said.
“You’ll have a copy later today,” Bruno replied. “You will understand when I say that in view of the personal malice that I believe is part of these proceedings, I’m not prepared to entrust you with the original. You may, of course, make an appointment to come to my office in the mairie and examine the letter in my presence and the mayor’s. Might I also put on record that I request Mademoiselle Meraillon to recuse herself from this case on grounds of partiality and transfer it to a colleague.”
He put his hat on his head, turned and marched out, Sergeant Jules following behind and closing the door on Duroc’s office. When Bruno reached the main entrance, he felt Jules pluck at his sleeve and beckon him to follow. He led the way across the road and into the Bar des Amateurs. Jules ordered two coffees, unbuttoned the breast pocket of his uniform and took out a folded sheet of paper.
“We’ve got them both by the balls,” Jules said, unfolding the paper so that Bruno could see it was a photocopy of his charge book, with its carbon of the original speeding ticket that he’d written against Annette.
“He’s sweet on her, so Duroc fixed the ticket. The copy that should have gone to the main office was never sent, and Francoise is prepared to swear that she saw him take it out of the box of outgoing mail and tear it up. We’ve got the evidence that the speeding ticket was issued, which means that she as a magistrate is in trouble because she hasn’t paid it. And Duroc faces an internal investigation and that could mean a court-martial.”
“Did Francoise really see him tear it up?” Bruno asked. “She’s never liked him.”
“Francoise is straight as an arrow. She wouldn’t lie about this. She’s also made a sworn statement that she saw him do it, and I’ve got a copy.”
“I presume she dated the statement, so you can’t sit on it too long before doing something about it,” Bruno said.
“I can say I was making inquiries about it. We’ve got a few days. It’s your call, Bruno. Either I can report this to the internal investigations branch and get them both in trouble, or you can use it to make them drop these crazy charges against you.”
Bruno shook his head. “It’s gone too far for that, now that she’s sent the letter to the mayor and he’s filed his own complaints in return. This inquiry’s going to go all the way. Besides, if I tried to use it discreetly, Duroc would know that you and Francoise were both conspiring against him. He could make your lives a misery and you’d have no comeback. I think this is one of those times when justice has to take its course.”
Back in his office, after briefing the mayor, Bruno called Pamela’s home. Fabiola answered and said Pamela was packing her suitcase and was taking the afternoon train to Bordeaux from Le Buisson for a flight to Edinburgh. Bruno checked his watch. He could leave at two and take Pamela to the station. That gave him a little time.
He went to the dusty registry of the mairie, a long, thin room lined with shelves and filing cabinets, to look up the copy of Jan’s carte de sejour in the mairie ’s registry. All foreigners, even citizens of another European country who had the right to live in France, had to file registration papers. Jan Olaf Pedersen had established residency in the commune in December 1985. His date of birth was September 1942, in Kolding, Denmark, and there was a photocopy of his passport in the file. Jan’s taxe fonciere and taxe d’habitation and water bills were paid on time. The registration papers for his company were up-to-date, and there was an avis from the conseil general for Jan to be an approved instituteur external, authorized to demonstrate and teach technical skills outside of school premises. He had married Juanita Maria Zabala, a French citizen born in Perpignan, in May 1993, years before Bruno had arrived in St. Denis. Bruno reflected that he’d been in Bosnia on the day Jan had married, as a member of the UN force that was keeping Sarajevo airport open.
Everything was in order as Bruno scanned the slim file, but as he dragged his thoughts back from those days of living in a bunker and sheltering from the Serbian artillery barrages, his eye went back to the wife’s name, Juanita. And Joe had said something about her talking about the Basques. He went to the office, checked his watch again and called Joe at home.
“Joe, that woman who married Jan, the blacksmith. You said you remembered her talking about the Basques. Do you remember her name?”
“Anita, but she talked about human rights for everybody, Bosnians, Rwandans, Palestinians. She was always taking up collections and getting people to sign petitions. A heart of gold but a pain in the neck, if you know what I mean. She was the sort of woman you admired, but you ducked when you saw her coming.”
“It’s just that she’s listed as Juanita in the registry, and I’m interested in any Spanish connections.”
