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The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

Titel: The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6) Kostenlos Bücher Online Lesen
Autoren: Martin Walker
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The guy’s dead. I think we might have a murder.’

4
    There was still no sign of the Gendarmes when Bruno parked his van on the rough grass beside Albert’s red emergency vehicle. A rather battered silver Renault Clio stood beside it. In front of the cottage on a small patch of gravel was a blue Ford Transit, its side and rear doors open to reveal an empty interior. It carried English registration plates and a small GB plaque on the rear bumper. Beside it lay a lumpish shape, two men standing over it. One was Albert and the other was a stranger, carrying a plastic bag.
    The house behind them was like many others in the district, with a red tile roof in the shape of a witch’s hat and walls of light-brown stone that turned in the sun to the colour of honey. Wooden shutters hung on the windows, painted the usual pale grey that had become ubiquitous after the French navy sold off its vast stocks of paint very cheaply. To one side was a small barn and to the other a pocket-sized swimming pool, flanked by two cheap metal chairs that needed a new coat of white paint. A couple of empty flower pots waited for the geranium season. The front door was open to show a floor of terracotta tiles. There were no personal touches, no patch of herbs or vegetables, no children’s toys. It was a
gîte
, a farmhouse cheaply restored and transformed into a holiday rental.
    ‘Salut, Bruno,’ said Albert. ‘This is Monsieur Valentoux from Paris, who called us. The silver Clio belongs to him. He was going to be staying here with the dead man.’
    ‘Monsieur,’ said Bruno, noting the pale, drawn face as he shook hands with Valentoux. He caught the smell of vomit, saw a patch of it by the rear wheel of the blue van. There were more spatters on the front of Valentoux’s jeans and on his shoes, leather trainers that looked expensive. His hair was short with blond streaks and he wore a dark blue scarf around his neck, tucked into a cream shirt that Bruno guessed was silk.
    ‘I put a cradle over the head,’ said Albert, looking down at the body. It was covered by a fireman’s red blanket and draped over something at one end. Bruno kneeled down and lifted a corner of the blanket and saw a spindly metal framework, rather like the ones he put over his winter seedlings.
    ‘It’s from my garden,’ Albert explained. ‘I was picking it up from my sister and it seemed like a good idea to cover him up. He’s been dead for some hours. It’s not a pleasant sight.’
    ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ said Valentoux. He raised his head to look at Bruno. ‘I couldn’t even tell you if it’s him.’
    ‘Perhaps the fire chief could help you to your car, Monsieur,’ said Bruno, waiting until they left before uncovering the battered shape that had once been a human head. Blood had pooled beneath and behind the man’s head. Bits of shattered bone and teeth stood out from the pool. The face was unrecognizable as human, the features savagely, perhaps deliberately, obliterated.
    Bruno closed his eyes and tried to concentrate, forcing himself out from shock and back into professionalism by trying to think what weapon might have done this. Perhaps an ironbar, he told himself. He opened his eyes and looked at the rest of the body. One hand was blood-smeared and swollen, as if he might have tried to protect himself. The other hand looked to have been professionally manicured, the nails buffed and polished. An open and empty black leather wallet with brass reinforcements on the corners lay between the dead man’s thighs.
    Assuming the body was male, the dead man had been wearing khaki slacks and boat shoes without socks, a plain black T-shirt and a denim jacket. Only the jacket collar bore signs of blood, which suggested he had been knocked to the ground and then the head battered as he lay. His attacker must have stood over him, probably straddling the body, and then applied backhand and forehand blows to the head. That was the only way Bruno could interpret the way the blood had spattered. They had experts on that, these days, at the
Police Nationale
.
    He replaced the blanket over its cradle, rose and took out his phone to call J-J, chief of detectives for the
Département
, and peered into the blue Ford as he waited for J-J to pick up. As usual, he got the recording, left a message and then sent J-J a brief text message.
    On the floor by the passenger seat was an empty packet of crisps, some sandwich wrappings and a British newspaper, a
Daily Telegraph
with

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