The Devil's Cave: A Bruno Courrèges Investigation (Bruno Chief of Police 5)

and offshore places like the Cayman Islands. There’s even a Lebanese connection.’
    It all sounded a bit too sophisticated for St Denis, Bruno thought. ‘Well, all this can be sorted out at the next council hearing. Have you got any councillors on your side?’
    ‘Only Alphonse,’ Lemontin said glumly. Alphonse was the local Green, an elderly hippy who had come to establish a commune in the hills above the town at the end of the Sixties. ‘I know, he’ll support anything. Or oppose anything, more likely. I can’t say I’ve ever voted for him and I’m not sure I would even now.’
    ‘He’ll still be listened to,’ Bruno replied, noting that Alphonse hadn’t bothered to turn up for the demonstration. ‘Besides, a lot of people think highly of Alphonse, and I’m one of them. Do you want me to take that petition inside for you?’
    ‘No, I want to put it into the Mayor’s hands, but then I have to get back to the bank. I’m on an early lunch break.’

4
    The Junot farmhouse had one of the best views in the valley, a privilege it paid for with thin, infertile soil and by suffering the chill winds that swept the high plateau in winter. Built in the boom time of the 1880s when the new wonder crop of tobacco had brought prosperity to the Périgord and a sharp rise in the population, it had seldom prospered since. Sheep and goats were the only livestock that could thrive on the tussocks, thorns and bracken. Generations of Junots had hauled up topsoil from the valley to build a sheltered vegetable garden to feed the family on turnips, beans and potatoes. A very modest living could be scratched from the place with hard work and determination. Louis Junot seemed capable of neither.
    Bruno paused at the crest of the hill, looking at the tiles that had fallen from the farmhouse roof and not been replaced, at the broken fencing and the weeds in the garden. More weeds choked the half-dozen rows of spindly vines, and Bruno winced at the thought of the sour wine that Junot would be making. It was probably all he could afford. There was hardly any chopped wood left on the terrace. Any decent farmer up in these hills would have at least another winter’sworth of firewood in hand. The ducks and chickens looked healthy enough, but they were traditionally the responsibility of the farmer’s wife and the source of her pin money.
    His problem, however, was the husband. Louis Junot was known to drink, and was no doubt capable of violence, but so far the only justification for his arrest was an anonymous letter, which was not enough. Without a complaint from his wife, Bruno had few options. Before coming he had checked the list he kept in the office of those who’d paid for that year’s hunting permit. Junot’s name was not on it, so any evidence of hunting – even for rabbits – would justify Bruno in making an arrest. That would be a last resort and the Mayor had asked him to be discreet. His first task was to assess whether the beating was happening; the second to see if the wife would testify; the third to issue a warning. It was one of those tricky moments of policing when Bruno had few cards to play.
    Bruno heard the sound of hammering and a curse from the barn below the house. He saw a curtain twitch at the window by the door to the house. Junot’s wife had seen him coming, but she took her time answering the door and opened it just a crack. She knew him from open days at the tennis club, watching her young daughter play and mixing with the rest of the mothers as their children attacked the refreshments afterwards. But still she eyed him with suspicion as he removed his hat, smiled and asked if he could come in.
    ‘What for?’
    ‘I have some questions I have to ask you.’
    ‘What do you mean, questions?’ She had opened the doora fraction wider and he saw a bruised cheek and a black eye.
    ‘Questions about a written complaint we’ve received,’ Bruno said. ‘Either I come in and ask you about them or we’ll have to take you and your husband to the Gendarmerie.’
    It was not a threat he liked to make, but he had to. All anonymous letters were supposed to be filed, and the Inspectorate of Police had the right to read them and demand why a case had not been pursued. Wife-beating had become a prominent issue and Bruno could be in trouble if the Inspectors thought he were ignoring complaints.
    ‘I’ll get Louis,’ she said, opening the door with reluctance.
    ‘It’s you I need to speak to