The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

be,’ he said. ‘We’ll see you about seven thirty. I have to exercise the horses first.’
    He rang off and climbed the old stone steps of the
Mairie
to his office, where he sent off his email and letter to the drama festival director and called Dougal at Delightful Dordogne to ask who else lived in the staff house with Murcoing’s sister. He was given three names and mobile-phone numbers. Two of the girls he knew from his tennis lessons when they’d been schoolgirls. He called the one he’d liked most, Monique.
    ‘I’m trying to find Yvonne Murcoing,’ he said, after the usual pleasantries. ‘She’s supposed to be at the house but there’s no reply.’
    ‘We haven’t seen her for a couple of days,’ Monique replied. ‘She left a note on the kitchen table saying there’d been a death in the family and she’d been called away. I’ve got her mobile number if that helps.’
    It was the same number that Bruno had been trying without success. ‘Have you met her brother?’ he asked.
    ‘Paul? Yes, he drops by from time to time, usually just to pick her up. They seem to be pretty close. She has a photo of him by her bed. We had a couple of takeaway pizzas here together, watched a DVD he brought. I went to bed after a bit. The film was too arty for me, something Swedish in black and white, lots of moody silences.’
    ‘Did you see him recently?’
    ‘Not for a few days but I’ve been out a lot. Shall I ask the other girls?’
    ‘Yes, please. Do you know if Yvonne has a car?’
    ‘She drives one of those little Toyotas, I don’t know what they’re called. It’s that grey-silver colour and it’s not here now. I know she gets it serviced at Lespinasse’s garage. He should have the registration number.’
    On the way back to the bar to pick up Valentoux, Bruno stopped at the butcher’s and bought a kilo of
aiguillettes
of duck. These were the long, thin strips of the finest meat that was left after the
magret
, the breast, had been removed. Too often ignored or left on the carcass to thicken a stock, Bruno loved them and planned to prepare them for dinner that evening. He had potatoes and the first of the strawberries under glass frames in his garden, lettuces, a lot of radishes and some early courgettes. Stéphane had dropped off some cheeses with the ham he’d been curing in salt since the ritual slaughter of the pig at the start of the year. That was all Bruno needed.
    There was no sign of Valentoux at the table outside the bar, but Bruno looked inside and saw him standing at the counter, a large glass of what looked like whisky in his hand as he thumbed through the bar’s copy of
Sud Ouest
.
    ‘I see what the festival director meant,’ he said, closing the paper with its front-page headline on the murder of Fullerton. ‘It’s only just hitting me, the knowledge that I’ll never see him again.’
    ‘Let’s get you back,’ said Bruno, and led the way to the Gendarmerie’s parking lot so that Valentoux could follow him home. Once back at his cottage, Bruno showed his guest around, gave him a towel, showed him the shower and guest room and suggested he get some sleep after his night in the cells.
    In the kitchen, Bruno filled a bowl with hot water and left it to warm. He poured a half glass of red wine into a flat-bottom dish, added salt and pepper and a crushed garlic clove and rolled the duck
auguillettes
in the wine. Then he took a large jar of old-fashioned mustard, thick with seeds, and put three heaped tablespoons into the emptied warm bowl. He added an equivalent amount of chestnut honey from a jar he’d been given by Hervé, one of the beekeepers who sold his wares in the St Denis market. He mixed the mustard and honey together, added the wine and the duck, and turned them until each of the
aiguillettes
was well coated. He covered the dish with plastic film and put it in the fridge.
    Out in the garden with his basket, he dug up a couple of his potato plants, picked radishes, strawberries and courgettes along with some spring onions. He took the strawberries and the onions into his chicken coop and plucked them there, leaving the green stalks for the chickens to fuss over. Back in his kitchen, he washed the vegetables, leaving them in the sink as he checked that he had sufficient flour for the
beignets
. He peeled and sliced the courgettes, added salt and laid themin a colander to drain. He was just washing up when a cleanshaven Valentoux entered the kitchen wearing a silk