The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

dressing gown and carrying the bottle of champagne that had been in his plastic bag.
    ‘That shower was just what I needed,’ he said. ‘I’d like to give you the champagne.’
    ‘Put it in the fridge and we can drink it this evening. I have some friends coming for dinner, including a fan of yours who saw some of your plays in Paris. The other guests and I will arrive smelling of horses since we have to exercise them. They’re due at seven thirty and we’ll eat about eight or soon after. I’m heading out again but I’ll be back after the horses.’
    ‘I love riding. I had to learn for a film I was in, a costume drama about Catherine de Medici. I’d really like to take it up again, but not today. I’ll get some sleep, if that’s okay. You’re being very kind.’
    ‘I hope you like dogs. Better prepare yourself to meet a very affectionate and even more inquisitive young basset hound puppy. He’s called Balzac and I’m supposed to be training him. I’ll bring him back from the stables where he likes to spend his days.’
    ‘Balzac’s a grand name for a dog.’
    Bruno dried his hands, picked up his cap and headed for his van. His first stop was Lespinasse’s garage, where the owner scooted out from beneath a Citroën
traction-avant
he was restoring to look up the registration number of Yvonne’s car.
    ‘Is there a problem?’ Lespinasse asked. A plump, jolly man who could still play a decent game of rugby, he wiped his hands clean with grease from a large open jar and then with a paper towel before turning to his files.
    ‘No, it’s her brother I’m looking for and I thought she might be able to help me track him down. You know their grandpa died?’
    ‘Old Murcoing? Yes, I knew him from when he had me up at the farm trying to fix his old tractor. It was a Porsche so he said it should run for ever. I bet you didn’t know Porsche used to make tractors. Here’s her registration number, a Toyota Yaris.’
    Bruno wrote it down, told Lespinasse that there would be a military funeral for the old man and stopped at the Gendarmerie just along the street to get Sergeant Jules to put Yvonne’s car on the watch list.
    ‘The magistrate was looking for you,’ said Jules. ‘I gave him your number but he had to get back to Sarlat. Nothing urgent and he said he’ll be back tomorrow.’
    ‘How’s the new boss?’ Bruno asked.
    ‘Anybody would be an improvement on Capitaine Duroc, but she’s only just got here. Too soon to tell but she’s very polite, still got the officers’ school polish on her.’
    ‘You’ll soon rub that off, Jules,’ Bruno said. ‘Anything else?’
    ‘Philippe Delaron was asking about that Englishman that was burgled. He said he’d looked him up on Google and he thought there might be a story in it. Apparently the Englishman’s a
milord
or something quite important. Delaron was a bit cagey about it. You know what he’s like when he’s after a story.’
    Bruno made a mental note to make his own check on Google and headed for the house where Monique lived, to see if Yvonne Murcoing might by chance have returned, but the place was empty. It had been a long shot but not far off hisroute to Pamela’s house and his spirits lifted and his mood mellowed as he drove up the familiar lane to the house where his puppy and his horse and Pamela all awaited. It would be, he told himself, an oasis of affection and calm after a long and frustrating day.
    Instead, he found a controlled chaos, a plumber’s van and a large truck in the courtyard from which came the unmistakable whiff of a problem with the septic tank. Pamela, in overalls and rubber boots, was sluicing out her kitchen.
    ‘Don’t come near me. I stink,’ she called, blowing him a kiss. ‘Antonio says he’s almost done.’
    Bruno nodded at Marcel, standing by the truck that was known locally as the honey wagon. Marcel had a steady business installing and emptying septic tanks all over the region, but somehow managed to shed the aroma of his trade in the evenings when he’d spend his time between Ivan’s bistro and the Bar des Amateurs. All that could be discerned in the atmosphere around him in the evening was the pungent smell of the cheap cigars he smoked constantly. And who, Bruno thought, could blame him, as the throaty sound of the truck’s pump signalled that the tank had nearly been emptied.
    A new gust of fumes drove Bruno to the stables, to be greeted by Balzac trying to scramble up his legs while Hector