Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard

I was going to take a look when you arrived.”
    “I’m sorry about your three years’ work, monsieur.”
    “Thank you. Let’s go over to the lab. That’s where the equipment is.”
    “Just one thing,” Bruno added. “These crop varieties you were working on, were they genetically modified, the controversial stuff that people protest against?”
    “Of course. That’s why it was all kept confidential. And we made real progress with some of the soybean strains up there.”
    “How many people here at the station knew about this project?” J-J asked.
    “Just about everybody, I imagine. All the scientists and technicians, and the men who did the actual farming. They’re all aware that this is confidential. We were told not to discuss it even with our wives.”
    “So altogether, ten or fifteen people?” J-J said.
    “Fourteen. And I have no reason to question the loyalty of any one of them.”
    “I’ll need their personnel files and a room here for my team. It will be more discreet here than back in town.”
    “Okay,” said Petitbon. “I suppose you’d better take this room. I can always make do over in the lab. And now let’s see what the webcam can tell us.”
    Fixed under the eaves of the shed, the webcam showed nothing until the digital timer displayed 3:02 a.m. Then the first sign of distant movement began on the western edge of the field. At 3:06 there was more movement on the northern edge, and then the camera seemed to shudder.
    “That could be the intruder trying the door,” said Petitbon. “It was locked, but from the way the shaking goes on and gets violent, I suspect the door was forced.”
    At 3:09 came the first faint glow of light, very close, and then a sudden flare of flame. The webcam stopped transmitting at 3:18.
    “Well, at least we have the time frame,” said J-J. “Can you make a copy of that footage for my forensics team? They may be able to enhance it, get something from that bit of movement. But if you ask me, whoever was spreading that gasoline knew exactly where your webcam was and what it did, so the first line of investigation will have to be whether this was an inside job.”
    “Just one more thing,” added Bruno. “Do you have any more of these web cameras?”
    Petitbon nodded. “Yes, we monitor some other crops.”
    “Well, I think you’d better put them up around here, around the offices and the greenhouses. Whoever burned your crops may want to come back and finish the job here at the research station.”

4
    After three fruitless days of interviewing the staff of the research station, Bruno was relaxing in the barber’s chair for his monthly haircut when the call came from Nathalie, the cashier at the wine shop of Hubert de Montignac. Listed in the
Guide Hachette des Vins
as one of the finest such
caves
in France, it was one of only three businesses aside from the vineyard itself to offer every year of Château Pétrus from 1944 to the present. For Bruno, who understood that a great part of the law’s duty was to uphold the grand traditions of France and of Saint-Denis, the
cave
was close to being a shrine. He leaped from the barber’s chair, forgetting for the moment Baptiste’s flashing scissors, tossed aside the smock that covered him and thrust his official hat upon his half-shorn locks. Pausing only to put the magnetic blue light on the roof of his van, he roared off.
    Nathalie had not been very precise about the nature of the emergency, saying only that there was trouble and he had better come quickly. It took Bruno less than three minutes to force his way through the usual traffic jam at the small roundabout by the bridge and into the courtyard of Hubert’s sprawling single-story barn. Despite the ivy and flowers that tumbled from various old wine barrels, it was not, Hubert admitted,the most impressive of entrances for an establishment so renowned. But then, Hubert liked to explain, he spent his money on the contents rather than the showcase. He also spent his money on his appearance, cultivating a countrified English look with tweed sports jackets and Viyella shirts, knitted ties and handmade brogues that he bought in London on his sales trips.
    Bruno saw the usual mix of cars in the courtyard, Mercedeses and BMWs, Citroëns and Renaults and Peugeots from all across France. His eye lingered on a green Range Rover with British plates. For a devoted hunter who too often found himself hauling the carcass of a deer through long stretches of