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

that the priest and the Church were wrong. He seldom thought much about faith and he liked his religion to be traditional and simple. But of one thing he was convinced; if
le Bon Dieu
was half as wise and merciful as they said, then he would want dogs and horses in heaven.
    He led Hector from the stable with Bess and Victoria ambling behind on the leading rein. It was rare for him to ride alone. Usually he rode with Pamela, who owned the house and stable and had taught him to ride. Still known to most of the town by her first nickname as the Mad Englishwoman, she had become a popular figure in St Denis, where people thought of her as Bruno’s girlfriend. Bruno would not have put it like that. He thought himself fortunate to be invited on occasion to share Pamela’s bed. But she had made it clear that after a failed marriage back in Britain, she had no desire for any permanent relationship. And now she was back in Scotland caring for her mother after two devastating strokes, and Bruno had no idea if or when she planned to return.
    Fabiola the doctor, Pamela’s tenant in one of the gîtes that she normally rented to tourists in the summer, usually accompanied the morning and evening rides. But when Bruno hadtaken Brigitte Junot to the clinic Fabiola had explained that she’d have to be on duty this evening since she’d missed the morning surgery.
    Bruno swung himself into the saddle and up the familiar lane from Pamela’s house toward the bridle path up to the ridge. Pamela’s two horses were a little older and slower, so Bruno guided Hector up the slope to the ridge at a gentle walk. Only once did his horse toss his head in a moment of impatience. Hector was accustomed to his evening gallop.
    At the town clinic, Fabiola had simply ignored Bruno’s inquiry about her absence in the morning, and steered Brigitte straight into the consulting room while Bruno was told to wait outside. After twenty minutes, Bruno had been summoned inside to be told that Junot’s wife had two cracked ribs, suffered in a fall she insisted was an accident, and in no circumstances would she testify against her husband. Fabiola had been cool and businesslike with Bruno, warm and sympathetic with Brigitte. But she had asked Bruno to make regular visits to the Junot farm to ensure that no such ‘accident’ took place in the future.
    Bruno had driven Brigitte home, where Junot was waiting at the farmhouse door. He came down to help his wife out of the passenger seat and lead her inside. A long stretch of land alongside the vegetable garden had been ploughed and tilled. The potatoes had been planted. Bruno followed them inside, and saw that Junot had cleaned the kitchen and set the dinner table for two without wine glasses. A jug of water stood on the table, alongside a small jam jar containing some freshly picked wildflowers. Bruno went to his van, took Junot’sshotgun from the back, and hung it again on the pegs on the wall. ‘You’d better have a hunting licence for my next visit,’ he said. Then he left them alone.
    He thought he had done the right thing in taking Brigitte back and Fabiola had seemed to agree, but Bruno wished he could have talked to her at greater length. He trusted his own instincts but he had come to rely on Fabiola’s professional judgement when it came to medical and family matters. Her disappearing with some vague reference to a private patient was quite out of character, so Bruno sought another explanation. He wondered if some mutual friend had developed an illness too grave to be made public. It couldn’t be the Mayor; he had seen him that morning. What of those tests on the Mayor’s wife? Or Sergeant Jules at the Gendarmerie, whose rubicund face always seemed just a few more
p’tit apéros
away from a coronary. He grimaced; this was foolishness. Fabiola would tell him when she was ready.
    Where the trees began to thicken into a forest, Bruno slowed the horses and dismounted. A wide firebreak was cut into the trees. Its smooth turf reminded Bruno of the fairways he’d encountered on those days when the Baron had tried to teach him to play golf. It had become a favourite spot for a brisk gallop. Today he could see a solitary rider standing silhouetted in the notch the firebreak made on the horizon, perhaps a kilometre away. He undid the leading reins from Bess and Victoria before climbing back into the saddle. Now the horses could go at their own speed, and Hector lengthened his stride into the run