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

at the power of an intimacy that seemed all the stronger for the absence of the erotic surge he usually felt in her presence.

20
    Bruno was woken by the sound of an old and asthmatic motorbike coming up the lane. He felt the heat coming from Isabelle’s side of the bed, stretched out a hand and felt the material of his rugby shirt, soaked with her sweat. He checked his watch: it was just before seven, about the time he should rise, since it was a market day in St Denis. He rinsed his hands and face, slipped on a tracksuit and trainers and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on to boil. Balzac had evidently had fun with the newspaper he had put down, tearing it into shreds, and the puppy gazed proudly up from the wreckage at his new master. Bruno let him out of the front door and Balzac went to the nearest tree and urinated at great length. He seemed to be becoming house-trained already. Bruno shivered in the morning air. The mist was so thick that all he could see of the approaching bike was a dim headlamp growing stronger. He strode down to the corner where the lane turned into his property to ask the driver to turn off his engine before it woke Isabelle.
    ‘I’ve found her,’ came a half-familiar voice as the bike drew to a halt. ‘Now you’ve got to get her back.’
    The helmet came off and Bruno recognized Louis Junot,unshaven and looking as though he’d spent the night in a ditch. He seemed sober and there was no smell of drink on him.
    ‘It’s a bit early for a social call, Louis, and I’ve got to get to the market.’
    ‘It’s not a social call, it’s about getting Francette back,’ Junot insisted. ‘I know where she is. It’s just up the road, that fancy new hotel at St Philippon, the one with the helicopters.’
    ‘Did you speak to her?’
    Junot shook his head. ‘It was just something I found in her waste-paper basket, in her room. It was bundled up with wrapping paper from some gift, a card that said “See you in St Philippon.” So I went there last night and there she was, all dolled up like a ten-franc rabbit …’
    ‘She’s eighteen, Louis. She can do as she pleases.’
    ‘I’ve got to talk to her, Bruno, tell her it’s going to be different now. I haven’t touched a drop since you came to the farm, honest. Brigitte will tell you the same.’
    ‘Louis, it’s market day and I have to get to town. Meet me by the
Mairie
just after noon and we’ll go there and see if she’s prepared to talk to you. And now I’ve got to go. You need to get some sleep.’
    Junot’s mouth worked as if he were holding something back, tears or rage or just plain frustration.
    ‘Go on home, Louis,’ Bruno said kindly. ‘I’ll see you later.’
    Bruno watched him go for a moment and then went back inside to make coffee. As it brewed, he peeped into the bedroom where Isabelle was still asleep. He fed and wateredhis chickens and put out for Balzac some of Gigi’s left-over dog food that he’d never had the heart to throw away. He showered and dressed and left a note for Isabelle. He put out a fresh rugby shirt for her and clean sheets and headed into town.
    The Saturday market in St Denis was a modest affair, a fraction of the size of the big market on Tuesday. But on this Saturday before Easter it overflowed the arches beneath the
Mairie
and the town square and extended another fifty metres up the main street. The customers weren’t buying so much as ordering their lambs and capons and whole fish for the following weekend. The clothing stalls were doing good business as the farmers bought new shirts for the Easter feast. Busiest of all were the stalls selling seedlings of lettuces, courgettes and aubergines. It reminded Bruno that he’d better dig over his
potager
this weekend and get his summer vegetables started. His seedlings had been growing in his greenhouse for the past three weeks and it was time to transplant them.
    After his first tour of the market, Bruno went back to Alphonse’s stall and asked when he expected the widow who sold goats. About noon, he was told, and Alphonse gestured to a large cool box beneath his stall. Two long horns prevented it from closing fully.
    ‘The head’s in there, on as much ice as I could find,’ he said. ‘The last thing I want is the smell of dead goat turning away my customers.’
    Bruno went on to Fauquet’s for his usual coffee and croissant and a quick glance at the newspapers. He was relievedto find St Denis relegated to an inside