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

house.
    ‘No, he’s playing on her sense of guilt over her mother. If there had been children, he’d have used them and their need for a father as well as a mother. As things are, he’s made sure that whatever happens, she’ll be unhappy. If she stays with him for her mother’s sake, she’ll be miserable. If she refuses him and comes back here, she’ll feel she’s letting her mother down.’
    ‘What can we do to help her?’ There had to be a way.
    Fabiola sat back and looked at him fondly. ‘You’re a strange person, Bruno. I’ve never known anyone so sure that there has to be a solution to everything, if we can only find it. As a doctor, let me tell you that for some things there is no cure, that usually the only solution is the lesser of two evils.’ She put down her fork and laid her hand on his arm to reinforce her words. ‘In this instance, we must do nothing except let Pamela know we’ll support her in whatever she decides to do.’
    ‘And now,’ she said, with an abrupt shift in mood, ‘you can tell all about the latest news of our devil-worshippers.’
    ‘What?’ Bruno had been thinking of Pamela, and Fabiola’s sudden switch plunged him into a different world. ‘What latest news?’
    ‘Didn’t you hear the radio? About the cave? About Philippe?’
    Bruno shook his head, and felt a flare of anger at Philippe Delaron, but also at himself. He should have made more effort to track down the photographer, rather than just going to the shop.
    ‘Philippe was on that magazine programme they have after the news on Périgord-Bleu, saying there’d been another Satanist thing, in the big cave this time, like a Black Mass with a goat’s head. I thought you’d have known.’
    ‘I knew, all right,’ he said, wondering whether he should call the newspaper direct and tell them their new devil story was a fraud. No, he owed it to Philippe to tell him first; he might even have an explanation. And there were the boys to consider. ‘I even know how he faked it.’
    Rather than looking shocked, Fabiola chuckled as she forked up more spaghetti. ‘Serves them all right for being so damn gullible.’

15
    Bruno had arranged to meet J-J and Isabelle at Fauquet’s café for breakfast. First to arrive, he borrowed Fauquet’s own copy of
Sud-Ouest
. A photo of the blackened Madonna from inside the cave took up the whole front page. The headline read:
The Devil Rides Again in St Denis
. Inside were two more pages, with pictures of the goat and the candles. The pentagram defacing the image of the church window had been given a page to itself. Father Sentout had been interviewed again, and quotations from some Satanist website advised following one’s sexual desires, whatever one’s orientation. That seemed little more than an excuse to reprint the photo of the naked woman passing under the bridge.
    ‘Can I buy that copy from you?’ a stranger asked, as Bruno folded the paper and pushed it back along the counter. ‘In the
Maison de la Presse
, they’ve sold out. I’ll pay double.’
    ‘Not mine, it belongs to the café,’ he replied. ‘Where are you from?’
    ‘Limoges,’ came the reply. ‘We heard about it on the radio and came down. Do you think they’ll print some more?’
    Bruno shrugged and went out to the terrace to wait for the others, noticing for the first time the unusual numberof cars with number pates that did not carry the digits 24, which showed they came from the
Département
of the Dordogne.
    ‘Busier than market day, and it’s not even eight o’clock,’ said Fauquet. He had laid aside his chef’s hat and was putting the summer chairs and tables onto the terrace. Usually he didn’t do that until well into May. ‘Say what you like, Bruno, this Satan stuff is good for business. I’ve got an extra batch of croissants in the oven already.’
    Isabelle arrived first, limping slightly with her cane, and demanding to know what Bruno had done with Balzac. He explained that he’d left the puppy in the stables with his new friend Hector. Then J-J appeared in his big Citroën, looking for somewhere to park. He made two tours of the square before leaving it at the kerb with a big
Police Nationale
card inside the windscreen. They ordered croissants and coffee for Bruno and Isabelle, and the same for J-J plus the full breakfast of
tartine
and jam and orange juice.
    ‘I had further to come,’ he explained, after enfolding Isabelle into his bulk and planting smacking kisses on