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

With a rhythm so smooth Bruno felt he could carry a full wine glass without spilling a drop, Hector galloped on, his breathing easy and not a fleck of foam at his muzzle. The trees on his right gave way to wooden fences and parkland. A car park and the road loomed ahead. Hector slowed his pace, knowing that his run was ending, and Bruno sat back in the saddle and turned to see Eugénie lumbering up at a heavy canter, at least fifty metres behind. Bruno was patting Hector and telling him what a fine horse he was when she finally drew rein alongside.
    ‘Is that horse of yours for sale?’ she asked.
    ‘Never.’ He shook his head in emphasis.
    ‘Well, thanks for the run anyway, and guiding us up that track.’ She dismounted, took a silk scarf from around her neck and used it to wipe her mare’s muzzle, murmuring to her and stroking her neck to thank her for the ride. She turned and looked up at Bruno. ‘I can find my way back from here.’
    ‘Very well,’ he said, not moving. ‘The track to Les Eyzies is marked but I’d take it easy if I were you. Your horse is blown.’
    Again came that pause before she replied. ‘Yes, I know, and she’ll need a good rubdown when I get her back. But it was worth it for that gallop.’
    Bruno turned Hector’s head to take the high road back to the stables at Pamela’s house.
    ‘I was told that you’re an important man in these parts,’ she called as he faced away from her. ‘You could help our project or hinder it. Is that true?’
    He turned in the saddle and looked down at her, disconcerted by her remark. ‘I’m not sure what you’re asking. I’m just a village policeman. I’m not influential, and even if I were, your project is not my business. It’s for the council to approve or not.’
    ‘That’s not quite what I heard,’ she insisted. ‘I ought to be lobbying you for our project, but I think I’d rather just get to know you.’
    ‘Where do you live?’ he asked, wondering what she meant by that.
    ‘Where I can, while making the money to live where I wish,’ she said. There was neither humour nor coquetry in her voice, simply a statement of fact.
    ‘When you say
our
project,’ he asked, ‘do you mean you and Foucher, or you and the Count?’
    He felt her scrutinize him coolly before she turned and swung back into the saddle.
    ‘The Count has the money and Foucher does the paperwork but the idea for the holiday village was mine,’ she said. ‘I have a share of the project, probably less than I deserve. But I’m still determined to make it work.’
    Her horse plodded wearily away, and as he watched her leave Bruno pondered what business his friend the Baron might have in this project. He was the main landowner inthe commune, so it would probably be some land that they needed, and once he realized they needed it he’d charge them a pretty price. It could even be the Baron’s old dream of having a golf course nearby, rather than having to drive to Siorac or Périgueux whenever he wanted a round. Bruno resolved that he’d simply ask his friend over a quiet drink; the Baron was not much of a man for secrets.
    It was the darker end of twilight by the time he got back to the stables at Pamela’s house. It was becoming tiresome, this daily commute between his own place and hers. When she’d first flown off to Edinburgh to take care of her mother, they had both assumed she’d be away for only a few days and he’d been happy to agree to move into her place to take care of the horses, her Bess and Victoria as well as his own Hector. But the moving back and forth was becoming a logistical nightmare as he ran short of clean shirts and underwear and made late-night runs to look after his chickens.
    A light flared in the stable yard as the door to Fabiola’s gîte opened and the young doctor stood silhouetted in its frame.
    ‘
Bonsoir
, Bruno. Have you eaten?’ she called.
    He walked across, kissed her in greeting and confessed that he was starving and had been thinking about getting a pizza or a
croque-monsieur
from Ivan’s bistro in town.
    ‘I’m cooking and I made enough for two,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
    ‘Your mother’s risotto again?’ he asked, teasing. Fabiola was perversely proud of her limited cooking skills, and boasted that she had learned only one dish from her mother.
    ‘No, my father’s fondue, it’s the best comfort food I know,’ she said. Fabiola had a complicated family. Her mother was half Italian and half French,