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

long way back to Pamela’s house.
    An hour later Bruno was in his kitchen with the chicken he’d bought, peeling potatoes with a small heap of chopped garlic beside him, when his phone rang. It was Fabiola, calling from the medical centre.
    ‘I exercised the horses,’ he told her.
    ‘It’s not that. I ran a blood test on Louis Junot. He had so much alcohol in him he couldn’t have walked, let alone ride.’
    ‘He was an alcoholic so he’d have had tolerance. How much did he have?’
    ‘Just over three. That means zero point three per cent alcohol in the blood. He’d probably have been unconscious.’
    ‘So you’re sure he couldn’t have driven?’ Bruno knew that this was six times the legal limit in France.
    ‘Yes, and absolutely not with a motorbike, he’d have had no balance.’
    ‘So the crash was faked?’
    ‘I wouldn’t go that far but it’s certainly suspicious. I’ll call the pathologist in Bergerac but you’d better alert J-J and the
Procureur
.’
    If she wanted the prosecutor alerted, she must be pretty sure, Bruno thought to himself.
    ‘Will do, but will you call me back when you’ve talked to Bergerac, because I’ll need to say it’s their finding. You know how fussy the
Proc
’s office can be.’
    Bruno rang J-J’s mobile to alert him but had to leave a message. He’d wait for her next call before informing the
Procureur
. He finished the potatoes, peeled some shallots, set the table for two and lit the fire. Back in the kitchen, he opened a can of beer, drank half of it and then used an opener to punch some more holes in the top of the beer can. He took a large chunk of butter and began working it with a knife and mixing in the chopped garlic. He added some fresh rosemary from his garden and then began pushing the buttery mixture under the skin of the chicken as far as he could reach. He used the remainder to coat the inside.
    Bruno had already put the giblets on to simmer with somechopped carrots and celery, an onion, peppercorns and water. He’d skimmed it after ten minutes and left it to reduce naturally. He checked his watch; Gilles would arrive soon. He sealed the neck of the chicken with half a lemon and held it in place with a skewer. He turned on his oven, setting the gas at 180 degrees, and put the half-filled beer can into the centre of the roasting pan. Then he carefully impaled the chicken vertically on the can, tossed some duck fat into the pan along with the sliced potatoes and left it to roast.
    He was opening a small jar of his own foie gras when Fabiola called again to report that the pathologist had confirmed her finding on the alcohol level and she was going down to Bergerac to attend the autopsy. This time he called the office of the
Procureur
in Périgueux and left a message with the clerk on duty.
    Balzac had been prowling the kitchen and looking for the source of the wondrous smells, so once he’d turned out the foie, Bruno wiped the inside of the jar clean with a piece of bread and handed it to his pup. When Balzac had finished, Bruno took him out to the chicken coop, and with a firm hold on the excited dog he sat with him in the chicken run to get him accustomed to them. The ducks were the first to come up and examine the new arrival, and then came the chickens, pecking at the carrot tops and potato peelings he brought out. Bruno stroked Balzac and spoke to him quietly, restraining him each time he tried to squirm out of Bruno’s hand, until he heard a horn sound from the lane and he went out to greet the journalist.
    Gilles came with a bottle in each hand, one of Black Labelscotch and the other a bottle of Château Nenin from the Pomerol, a wine well above Bruno’s usual price range, even for special treats.
    ‘If we drink all that you won’t be driving back,’ Bruno said. He had not remembered Gilles being much of a drinker.
    ‘We’re not going to drink it all, but think of it as a delayed celebration that we survived Sarajevo. There were times I was so hungry I’d have eaten that little dog of yours,’ said the reporter, as Bruno led the way inside. ‘But here’s my real gift to you.’
    He handed across a faxed copy of a dental chart.
    ‘That’s the proof of identity you need. Your dead body is Athénaïs de Bourbon.’
    ‘Françoise-Athénaïs, to be exact,’ said Bruno. ‘A relative identified her from the cropped photo you sent me.’
    They ate the first course of Bruno’s foie gras and then Bruno insisted that Gilles join