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

Bruno said. ‘He looked a bit familiar but I can’t recall where I’ve seen him before.’
    ‘I’d have remembered that girl,’ Antoine said with a wink. ‘Legs all the way up to her shoulders. Nice car, too.’ He finished his drink and led the way to the small beach, past the trailer whose racks were already filled with canoes. He would pile his clients into his battered Renault Espace and then attach the trailer to tow the canoes to Les Eyzies or St Léon or even as far as Montignac, where they could paddle downstream with the current. A row of red canoes had been turned upside down and placed just above the beach. A hose and brush suggested Antoine had been washing away the dust of storage to prepare them for the new season.
    ‘Get that one launched,’ he said, pointing to the largest canoe, one that could easily fit half a dozen people. It was made of a tough and rubberized red plastic that could survive repeated scrapings over the pebbles of the shallows. It looked almost unsinkable, with big flotation chambers at bow andstern and others serving as seats in the middle. ‘I’ll get some rope and a hook to tow the thing in.’
    Bruno took off his boots and socks, his uniform tunic and trousers, put on a life jacket and hauled the canoe down from the beach to the shallows. Motorboats were forbidden on the river and it was too narrow for sailboats, so canoes were the only option. Some fishermen carried battery-driven electric motors for small outboards that could just about take them upstream when the currents weren’t too strong. The sand that Antoine shipped in every spring to cover the mud of his beach was still fresh and felt pleasantly cool under Bruno’s feet, but the river itself was cold. It could not have been a pleasant dip for the young man with the sports car.
    Antoine fixed one end of his rope to a bracket on the bow and Bruno took the rear of the canoe so Antoine could handle the hook. They pushed the canoe knee-deep before clambering in. The current here was quite strong and they had to paddle steadily just to stay near the beach. Antoine dug his paddle deep and set a brisk rhythm to take the canoe upstream, explaining that he’d need some time to fix the tow and didn’t want to drift back. The punt had looked close to sinking anyway. It must have been forty years since anybody had punts on this river, so it would be old wood. Already waterlogged, it could slip beneath the surface at any time.
    As the crow flies, they were no more than a few hundred yards from St Denis. But from Montignac upstream down to Limeuil below them, where their river flowed into the bigger Dordogne, the Vézère took a series of long oxbow bends as it meandered across the fertile valley. These were the watermeadows that used to flood each springtime and autumn when the river rose, creating the vast wetlands that had attracted the ducks and geese that had made this region a paradise for hunters and for the foie gras they produced. Now the river had been largely tamed but the waterfowl had stayed. And with each springtime flood, the river carved more deeply into the banks on the outside of each bend so the loops became larger ever year.
    ‘There they are again,’ said Antoine, pointing at the entrance to his campsite where the white sports car was turning in from the road, Dr Gelletreau’s big old Citroën lumbering along behind. The girl waved. ‘Determined bugger, ain’t he? And with that car, I don’t think he’s coming here looking for a place to pitch a tent.’
    Bruno briefly lifted a paddle in acknowledgement of the girl’s wave as the car disappeared behind the hedge and headed for the parking area. He tried to match Antoine’s experienced strokes as they drove the canoe forward against the river’s flow. On any other occasion, it would have been a pleasant excursion, the sun dappling the water as it filtered through the budding leaves of the trees along each bank. To their left loomed the high white limestone cliffs that dotted the valley with caves. Many were filled with paintings, testaments to the artistic skills of the people who had lived here tens of thousands of years ago. Others still showed traces of the medieval fortifications where men and women had taken refuge against the marauding English.
    ‘There it is,’ called Antoine, not turning round, but kneeling up in the bow and picking up the coil of rope he had prepared.‘Just keep us going straight and try to bring her