Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

per night each, say two thousand euros a week for the twelve weeks of the season, a bit less in May and September. You should get thirty thousand a year, less the cleaning costs and linens, replacement of furniture, repairs and taxes. Maybe twenty thousand a year, total.”
    “More than enough to pay off a loan from the bank, I think,” Bruno said, scribbling in his notebook.
    “That’s if you get full occupancy, which means you have to do some marketing,” she said. “And the owner has to do all the administrative work, the bookings and tax forms and accounting. If I had to pay someone else to do that, it would take half the profit. Why the questions? Are you thinking of going into business?”
    “No. But knowing these figures could be useful for a proposal that’s before the council.” Bruno checked his watch. “Great breakfast, Pamela, thank you. We’d better get going. I’ve got a meeting at the
mairie.”
    “Is this to do with that scheme Hubert was talking about last night over dinner?” she asked as they drove into Saint-Denis.
    “In a way.”
    “You realize that you don’t have to rent out the buildings as
gîtes
. You can always just restore them and sell them, each with a small garden, which is all that’s wanted by most of the people who buy second homes. So you take your profit and still keep the rest of the land. I assume that’s Hubert’s plan, to use the land to grow vines and to rent or sell the buildings.”
    “You make it sound like an easy profit.”
    “As long as people from England and northern Europe want to come down here to retire or just to vacation, it works fine. But if there’s a recession, or if those people fear that the value of their property might stop going up, it could all come to a screeching halt. That’s why I daren’t speculate in property. I’m no businesswoman, and besides, I like having my land. I couldn’t keep my horses without it.”
    No word from Isabelle
, thought Bruno as he scanned his e-mails. Did that mean it was really over? The ringing phone broke into his thoughts.
    “Monsieur le Chef de Police?”
said the calm voice on the other end. “Dupuy here. Fernando Bondino asked me to call and express his personal thanks to you for last night, along with his deep regrets. Apparently you took him to your home and looked after him when he was somewhat the worse for drink. He said that your behavior was above and beyond the call of duty. He wanted to thank you personally, but it seems you were in a hurry when you dropped him off. And of course I would like to add my own thanks for your kindness and forbearance.”
    “First he’s in a nasty bar fight where some windows got broken. Then he harasses a woman in the street late at night. That kind of behavior can’t go on. I hope he understands that.”
    “Most certainly. He doesn’t usually behave like that. It won’t happen again.”
    “If it does, he’ll spend the night in jail, whatever that may mean for Saint-Denis. Please make sure he knows that.”
    “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, and please remember that this project is not committed to Saint-Denis, not by any means.”
    “I hope that’s not a threat, Monsieur Dupuy. I still haven’t talked to the young lady whom Monsieur Bondino attacked last night about filing charges. If she does, the law would take its course.”
    “I know you’ll handle these matters in the best interest of Saint-Denis. But again, please accept Monsieur Bondino’s thanks and my own. I should add that he has written a formal letter of apology in which he expresses his heartfelt thanks to you, with a copy to your mayor.
Au revoir
, monsieur.”
    As soon as Bruno hung up, his phone rang again. “Bruno, it’s Brigadier Lannes. I need you at the gendarmerie right now. There’s a break in the arson case. Duroc’s made an arrest. A friend of yours, I gather.”

28
    From his perch on the window ledge, Duroc looked triumphant as Bruno was shown into his office. The place had been transformed. Even the obligatory portrait of the president of France had been taken down and leaned against a wall. Duroc’s photographs of himself in uniform at his promotion parade had been cleared away and replaced with a large cork bulletin board. It was covered with photos of the burned-out shed at the scene of the fire, lists of names and phone numbers and mug shots of the militants arrested at the research station. The brigadier rose from behind Duroc’s desk to