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

us.’
    ‘What’s this list of names?’ Delaron asked, looking at the sheet of paper Bruno had given him.
    ‘The names of companies behind the two developments and their directors. You can see some overlap. I’m not going to spell it out for you.’
    ‘You give me one sheet of paper, but it looks like you’ve got a big file on this already,’ said Delaron.
    Bruno simply smiled at the young man, slapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘Good hunting.’ Then he turned and headed to the snack bar, looking at his watch and wondering how long Isabelle would take to reach the end of the tunnel. He paused outside the door. The figure sitting over a plastic cup looked slightly familiar. Bruno tried to subtract a decade and more from the man’s features and a few kilos from the plump waistline. He mentally replaced the neat tweed sports jacket and rollneck sweater with the scruffy denims and down jackets the journalists used to wear in Bosnia. He still couldn’t identify him. Then the guy looked up and Bruno realized it was the absence of a beard that confused him.
    ‘Gilles from
Libération
,’ Bruno said, pleased at the way his memory had summoned the name. He’d forgotten the surname, but not the slightly hooded eyes. It was Gilles who had written the piece that got
Médecins Sans Frontières
to take over responsibility for the safe house where Bruno and his squad had taken the Bosnian women they’d rescued from the Serb brothel.
    ‘Sergeant Courrèges,’ said Gilles, rising. ‘You wouldn’t recognize Sarajevo these days. There’s even a Starbucks.’
    ‘So that’s what we were fighting for,’ Bruno said. ‘I often wondered.’
    ‘I’m with
Paris-Match
these days and you can guess what brings me here.’
    Bruno nodded. ‘Right now is not a good time. I have a meeting and some forensic stuff to deliver and I’m already late. But here’s my card with my mobile number. When’s your deadline?’
    Gilles grinned. ‘No deadlines in these days of instant media. I’ll be posting stuff on the website every day.’
    ‘Quite a change, going from Sarajevo to Satanism.’
    ‘At least I’m working, and there aren’t too many journalists can say that these days. The Satan thing is a nice detail but that’s not what catches my interest. I want to find out who the dead woman was. That’s the real story.’
    ‘Would that mean you’ve got some kind of lead?’
    ‘Maybe, but it’s a long shot. As long as I get to keep the scoop for
Paris-Match
, I can guarantee you’ll be the first to know. I presume you still haven’t identified her.’
    Bruno shook his head. ‘She doesn’t seem to be reported missing anywhere in France, but we’re still checking. You’ve seen the photo we issued?’
    ‘Of course. Is there anything you can tell me that wasn’t in the papers? Anything from the autopsy?’
    He spoke a little too casually and Bruno’s antennae began to twitch. ‘Are you just fishing here, Gilles? You know better than that.’
    ‘Not entirely. But perhaps you could tell me if there’s anything that suggests she might have been in the States at some point?’
    Bruno studied him, remembering that Gilles had been agood man back in Sarajevo. Serious about his journalism yet casual about the danger, he’d never lost his sense of humour. ‘Strictly off the record, the dentistry looks like it was American.’
    ‘Aha,’ Gilles said, nodding as if it confirmed something. ‘Would that be cosmetic dentistry?’
    ‘It would. And so …?’
    ‘So I could be on the right track. Are you free for dinner later?’
    ‘Sorry, no. Maybe next week or Sunday night, if you’re still here.’
    ‘I’ll be here,’ he said, looking at Bruno’s card. He handed Bruno one of his own. ‘And I’ll call you tomorrow if I get anywhere.’

18
    Bruno drove like the wind, thinking of Isabelle doggedly following the tunnel. He cursed himself for agreeing to her demand to explore it alone, despite her lame leg. He had the map unfolded on the steering wheel before him, taking the risk of occasional darting glances as he tried to think how the roads knitted together outside his own commune. The river’s twists and the steep rising of the cliffs alongside forced the roads to take strange, illogical routes and confused his sense of direction. As the crow flies, the Gouffre was not much more than a kilometre from St Philippon, but by road it was more like six or seven.
    How could he have been so arrogant as not to check