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

on, occasionally tossing in replies as a distracted owner might throw sticks for a dog kept too long indoors. Yes, the auberge seemed a very pleasant place. Certainly there was a good future in hotel work. Indeed, it could be a worthwhile career. And yes, in Bruno’s experience they usually came home eventually; blood was thicker than water. But the dreams of a bored, unhappy child, Bruno thought, could be stronger than either.
    That was a reply he kept to himself, as he recalled two images from that morning. One was of a woman staring into the camera as she sucked some stranger’s fingers. The other was of a different woman, grief-stricken as she stared at the semi-frozen head of a goat and called it Ulysses.
    She should never have sold him, Alphonse’s friend told Bruno when they met at his market stall. She could have managed without the money. But the Arab Monsieur had been so polite and so embarrassed, explaining that hispregnant wife craved a dish from her Kabyle home, a broth made of ribs of goat. No, she had never seen the Arab Monsieur before; he had come to her in Sarlat market and said he had heard she might have a goat for sale.
    His hair was dark and his skin sallow and he might have had a moustache. The one feature she remembered with precision was that he wore beautiful brown brogue shoes, highly polished. He had come to her farm in a large black car with a small trailer. He had paid cash, in new notes.
    What day had the Arab Monsieur come to the market, Bruno had asked. On Wednesday, when she was selling her cheeses in the covered market. He had come out to the farm later that same day. The story of the woman in the boat had been in the newspaper that morning. To dream up the hoax in the cave and to arrange the purchase of a goat within hours was impressive, Bruno thought. In other circumstances he might have found it admirable.
    ‘Has Francette been there all this time?’ Junot’s voice brought Bruno back to the present.
    He shrugged. ‘I didn’t even know she was there until you woke me up to tell me.’
    ‘At least she’s not far from home. Even if she stays, she can come back to visit.’
    ‘They have to leave home some day,’ Bruno said, and then realized that Junot had never left. He had stayed on the farm he’d inherited and probably expected that some day Francette and her children would take over the property in their turn. But even here in the Périgord where the farming tradition was strong, fewer and fewer people remained on the land.From what he recalled of Francette, she did not seem likely to take over a failing farm.
    ‘Is this a social call?’ Béatrice asked, walking briskly into the reception area after he presented himself to the black-suited Cécile at the reception desk. ‘I’m afraid we’re still clearing up after a busy evening.’ She looked at Junot, still dressed in the grimy poacher’s garb he’d been wearing when he turned up at Bruno’s cottage that morning.
    ‘No, Madame,’ Bruno said. ‘Monsieur Junot here, from St Denis, believes his young daughter, Francette, is staying in the hotel and would like to speak with her and assure himself that she’s well. I think he’s hoping to persuade her to return home, but I’ve told him that will be her decision.’
    She gave Junot a cold look. ‘So this is the man who beats his wife and daughter?’ Bruno felt rather than saw Junot’s fists clench and put a firm hand on the man’s arm.
    ‘I think it would be a courtesy to allow Monsieur Junot to see his daughter and satisfy himself that she’s well,’ Bruno said.
    ‘Might it not have been a courtesy to phone in advance to arrange a convenient time?’
    Bruno pulled out his own phone and showed her the log. ‘I made two calls to you this morning, Madame, as you can see. It’s not my fault if your phone is switched off.’
    She dropped her eyes as if trying to look embarrassed. ‘I apologize, but it’s been a busy morning. Would you mind if I’m present when you see Francette? No? In that case, please come through to my office.’
    Pausing to tell Cécile to let Francette know her presencewas required, Béatrice led the way through the reception room to a small but well-appointed bar with a wood-lined alcove beyond that smelt of expensive cigars. A side door led to a large open-plan office where two black-suited young women worked at computers, and a further door gave way to Béatrice’s own room, where a modern desk and chair perched on