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

keys were hanging in their pigeonholes, as if there were no guests. Bruno didn’t know much about the corporate entertaining business, but the economics of this auberge seemed odd. Maybe Sunday afternoon was a quiet time, the weekend clients gone and next week’s not yet arrived.
    Francette had changed into jeans and a sweatshirt, but she still wore stylish shoes. She carried what looked like a fashionable handbag which she put into the back of Bruno’s vanalong with a Louis Vuitton overnight case. She climbed into the front seat amid a cloud of Shalimar, which Bruno recognized because it was one of Pamela’s favourite perfumes.
    ‘I know you didn’t get on, but he loved you a great deal in his own strange way,’ he said.
    ‘I knew that, which is why I never hated him even when I despised him,’ she replied. ‘You don’t need to say anything else, Bruno. I’m not a child any more and you’re not trying to get me to follow through on my backhand. I’ve even worked out that it was you who paid for my tennis shoes when my mum couldn’t afford them.’
    ‘There was a special fund we had …’ he said vaguely, a touch embarrassed.
    ‘And you never asked my parents to pay their share of the petrol money when you drove us to matches with other clubs.’
    ‘Let’s get back to the present,’ he said. ‘You’re going to have to make a decision with your mum about staying on in the farm or selling it. At least you seem to have a good job now, and your mum’s not far away.’
    ‘Neither of us can drive and we have no car,’ she said. ‘And my own future is a bit vague.’ She lapsed into silence and remained unresponsive to Bruno’s attempts at conversation, except when they drove through St Denis and he asked if she wanted to call at the funeral home to see her father’s body.
    ‘No, thank you. And since we have no money he’ll have to go into a pauper’s grave or whatever it is you do for the poor.’
    They drove the rest of the way up to the plateau in silence, as Bruno wondered how a girl with a Louis Vuitton bag and wearing Shalimar could have no money. At the farm, she pausedonly to change from her high heels into a pair of cheap trainers from her bag and left him without a word. Five minutes later, he followed, knocked and let himself into the kitchen where mother and daughter were embracing. Francette was dry-eyed.
    ‘I told her,’ Francette said. ‘Thanks for bringing me here. We’d like to be alone now.’
    ‘If you want a lift to the funeral home or help with the arrangements, here’s my card with all my numbers. There is a death grant available which can cover the funeral expenses and I also have to post the death on the
Mairie
noticeboard, where we usually add the time and date of the funeral service, so let me know,’ he said. ‘Please accept my condolences, I’m sorry for your loss.’
    He’d wanted to ask her how she got the thick lip and how long she was planning to spend at her mother’s place and whether they’d like him to make some inquiries among other farmers about renting their grazing land. He’d have to go back at some point and all his questions could wait.
    Back in his office, he phoned the Mayor at home to tell him of Junot’s death, emailed to himself the photo of Athénaïs that Gilles had sent to his phone and printed several copies, each of which he put into a transparent plastic sleeve. He checked his emails and found a new one from Isabelle, sent from her phone, that said ‘Missing you and Balzac already’ and replied ‘We miss you too.’ On an impulse, he added: ‘Any information on Béatrice-Amélie Constant, currently managing the auberge at St Philippon for Count Vexin, gratefully received.’ He changed into the spare uniform he kept in his cupboard and headed out to his next task.
    The same shy maid met him at the doorway of the Red Château where he asked to see Madame de la Gorce. On a long oak table in the entrance hall was a tray with a number of envelopes, two of them addressed to Monsieur le comte de Vexin and two more to Lionel Foucher. One of the letters to the Count was from a firm in Paris named Gallotin, which reminded Bruno of something but he couldn’t place it. He was thumbing through his notebook to jog his memory when the maid returned.
    ‘Madame de la Gorce will be with you shortly and suggests you might wait in the library.’ She led the way through double doors and into a long room whose tall windows looked out