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

to walk away from the deal. Wanting to save something from the wreck, the council agreed.
    ‘Oh yes, one more thing,’ Lemontin added. ‘The new company, Pardaillan Investments, had some of the same directors as Gondrin and our own Mortemart Investments. They made out like bandits, and they’ll still own the land when the lease runs out. All they paid was the initial cost of the land, and the Mayor helped them get it for a song.’
    ‘Have you shown these pictures and your file to our Mayor?’
    ‘He refuses to see me, and when I got Antoine to show him the file as a councillor, he said it was all speculation and St Denis would make sure its own legal contract was watertight. That’s what Thivion thought.’
    ‘What are the names of the directors that they all have in common?’ Bruno asked, reaching for Lemontin’s notepad and pencil. Lemontin read the names out from a photocopy of a legal document.
    ‘Lionel Joseph Foucher and Eugénie Marianne Ballotin and then a lawyer in Luxembourg.’ Bruno had expected as much. ‘But they’re just fronting it. There’s an investment trust behind it all called Antin, again based in Luxembourg and it uses a Swiss bank so I can’t find out who owns Antin.’
    Lemontin pushed the file across the desk to Bruno. ‘Take it, I have copies.’
    ‘Did you try and get any of the newspapers interested in this?’
    ‘I spoke to Delaron, but he said he only did picture stories and I didn’t know who else to ask.’
    Bruno opened the file and leafed through to find a photocopy of a letter from the
Mairie
of Thivion. He punched the number into his phone and rang, keeping his eyes on Lemontin. When the call was answered he asked for the office of the
police municipale
, was put through and introduced himself.
    ‘Bruno Courrèges,’ came a hearty voice down the line. ‘I remember you from the rugby team at the police college. Bernard Laprade, I played fullback.’
    Bruno vaguely remembered a beefy type with a vast repertoire of bad jokes and rugby songs. They exchanged a few pleasantries and then Bruno explained the reason for his call.
    ‘You want to know what happened?’ His voice was so loud that Lemontin, who could not help but listen, began to smile sadly. ‘We got screwed, taken for a bunch of bumpkins by these city slickers with fancy suits and a big white sports car which I imagine we paid for. All we got in return is a bunch of bloody North African kids and a lot more shoplifting.’
    ‘Do you think your Mayor would say the same to my Mayor?’ Bruno asked. ‘We may have a similar deal in the offing, and from what you say we could do with a warning.’
    ‘My Mayor would shout it from the rooftops if he could. He tried to get our deputy to raise it in the National Assembly but these guys seem to have a lot of political pull. Our lawsuit got nowhere.’
    *
    Bruno had been a policeman too long to swallow a story, even one as well documented as Lemontin’s, without checking the other side. He needed to talk to Foucher and Eugénie, but first he had to find them, and Béatrice’s hotel was the place to start. The property was screened from above by a row of poplar trees, which gave way to the beginning of a gravel drive guarded by two tall iron gates mounted on weathered stone pillars. The drive wound down to the terrace where he had found the Baron drinking with Foucher and the Count. In the mostly empty car park he was surprised to see one car he recognized, Fabiola’s battered Twingo with its medical centre sticker stuck to a corner of the windscreen. Could this be her mysterious private patient?
    The windsock of the helipad sagged emptily as he walked around to the main entrance. He was greeted by an elegant young woman in a black silk suit, cut to emphasize her cleavage. She introduced herself as Cécile. He gave his name and rank and asked for Madame Béatrice. Bruno realized the suit was some kind of uniform when Béatrice arrived, wearing the same elegantly revealing outfit. She gave him a warm smile, offered him a drink and led him to the terrace. Another young woman, clad in the same black suit, arrived within moments with a flute of champagne for her and the glass of mineral water he’d requested.
    ‘How different you look with your clothes on,’ Béatrice said, with a teasing glance. ‘I hope this is a social call.’
    ‘I’m afraid not. I’m on duty and hoping you can tell me where to find Monsieur Foucher, Lionel Foucher. He washaving a