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

this afternoon. And since the school director is an old chum of the Brigadier, I’m under orders to stay on for a reception and dinner afterwards.’
    ‘Am I supposed to know about that?’ There was a teasing note in his voice, disguising the disappointment he felt at her disappearance for the evening. But he was surprised that Isabelle was so open about her plans.
    The
Ecouteurs
were the listeners, a secret arm of the French state that monitors phone calls and emails plucked from the airwaves. Massive computers selected certain messages containing pre-programmed trigger words that were then checked by human ears. Naturally, they listened in languages other than French. The English-language school for the
Ecouteurs
was located in a hideous nineteenth-century château up the valley, taking advantage of the many native English-speakers in the area. For the same reason, the German-language school for the
Ecouteurs
was in Alsace, the Italian in Nice and the Arabic schools were in Marseille, Toulon, Paris and Lille.
    ‘Since I’m hoping you’ll give me a lift there, it wouldn’t be much of a secret. Besides, the Brigadier has renewed your security clearance.’
    ‘Does that mean he’s planning to dragoon me into something again?’
    She shrugged. ‘Are we going to stand here on the station platform all day or are you taking me and Balzac to lunch?’
    ‘Lunch,’ he replied.
    ‘Good, I’m dying for some good Périgord food again and I think we’ve given quite enough of a show to the lady behind the lace curtain.’ She waved gaily at the window.
    Bruno turned to look and saw the curtain twitch as someone pulled quickly back. Damn! He’d forgotten that after they left the ticket office unmanned, the cash-starved rail system had sold off the station as a residence. News of their embraces, and of Bruno’s new dog, would be common knowledge by the time they finished lunch.
    Isabelle plucked a thin black leather lead from her pocket, attached it to Balzac’s collar and limped off with her cane towards Bruno’s venerable Land-Rover, an inheritance from a dead hunting friend. Bruno picked up the dog case, Isabelle’s case and her laptop bag and followed on somewhat clumsily behind.
    ‘And over lunch, you can tell me about your local witches’ coven or Satanist cult or whatever it is,’ she said, settling herself in the passenger seat, the puppy in her lap, and turning to look at him with the gleam of mischief in her eye. Her voice sounded affectionate, Bruno thought, but suspected he was about to be teased.
    ‘I did enjoy reading
Sud-Ouest
on the internet yesterday,’ she said. ‘At least you can be relieved the Brigadier’s interest in your latest case is purely for his own amusement. However many enemies of the French state he tracks, he doesn’t yet include the Evil One among their number.’
    ‘Knowing your boss,’ said Bruno, ‘he could have Satan on the payroll already.’

12
    As so often with Isabelle, Bruno felt he was swinging between elation and gloom as he turned off the main road to park outside the
collège
. He was despondent that Isabelle had said casually as he dropped her off that she would be spending the night at the hotel that had been booked for her by the
Ecouteurs
. On the other hand, she was staying for the weekend. Better still, she had jumped at the chance of accompanying him the next day on his visits to the possible launch sites for the punt. And her presence in St Denis had been sufficient to entice Commissaire Jean-Jacques Jalipeau, head of detectives for the region and known to all as J-J, to join them for the day. Isabelle had been J-J’s star Inspector and his favourite colleague until she was tempted away to Paris to join the staff of the Minister of the Interior.
    It was not just the renewed presence of Isabelle in his life that explained the lump in Bruno’s throat. It was also the small bundle curled up asleep on the passenger seat beside him. Since Gigi’s death, he’d wondered whether any dog could ever replace him, but Bruno had already been surprised by the delight he found himself taking in the new puppy, even after a few hours. He’d almost forgotten the endearingclumsiness of young bassets and the way they tripped over their own long ears. It was impossible to look at one without smiling, and Bruno heard himself chuckle as he gently picked up the dozing dog.
    Balzac, he thought, was an inspired choice for a name, a constant reminder that he should