The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

one with the
notaire
in Ussel. It’s boilerplate. All his French property goes to his nearest family, which means his brother and sister. He cites the Corrèze farm and a bank account. We’re still waiting for the British will. And we’re having trouble with Fullerton’s computer. A lot of stuff had been deleted and the files written over, so it’s not so straightforward to dig stuff out from the hard drive. We’ll have to send it to the specialists in Paris and that costs a fortune. Thisjob’s breaking my budget as it is. And we heard back from the phone trackers. Valentoux’s story about that disposable phone he bought holds up. It was switched on in Calais on the morning Fullerton was killed and the cellphone masts tracked it all the way down to St Denis. It looks like it was with him all the time and it hasn’t been switched on since.’
    ‘Murcoing could have taken it and used a different SIM card,’ said Bruno. ‘What about this guy in Bordeaux, Edouard? I asked the
juge
if I could go and interview him but he said he wanted the art squad brought in. Have they been in touch with you?’
    ‘Yes, two of their guys are going through Fullerton’s photos and the Arch-Inter customs forms; that also goes on my budget. There won’t be anything left for my salary at this rate.’
    Bruno rang off and turned to Fabiola. ‘Do you have plans for dinner or shall I make us an omelette?’
    ‘I’ve got plans, I’m afraid, but thanks.’ She coloured a little and changed the subject. ‘Whatever it is that’s on your mind, you know I’ll help if I can.’
    ‘I know. Maybe we can talk later. If you’re in a rush, I can rub the horses down.’ He carefully didn’t ask where she was going.
    She looked at her watch. ‘Thanks, that would help.’ As soon as they reached the stables, she darted into Pamela’s house, taking off her riding jacket as she ran.
    That gave Bruno time to do something that had been on his mind. Once the horses were settled and fed, he climbed into his Land Rover and took the road to the farther end of the commune, to the holiday rental cottage he remembered from his first year as the policeman of St Denis. He knew his district so well by now that he could have found it blindfold, andrather than let his thoughts dwell on Isabelle’s decision, he turned on Radio Périgord for the news, none of which concerned him, except for the final item.
    ‘Police are still searching for Paul Murcoing, said to be the chief suspect in the St Denis murder case of Englishman Francis Fullerton.
Juge d’instruction
Bernard Ardouin refused to comment on reports that Murcoing was believed to have fled to Spain. And finally, who was Paul Revere, and why is his coffee pot said to be worth as much as a hundred thousand euros? Coming up next, on Radio …’
    Bruno switched off as the
gîte
came into view, looking a great deal more battered by time than when he had last seen it. The roof was no longer new but the tiles had weathered to the soft red that typified the region, and the gravel of the drive and forecourt had turned grey. One gable end was now green with ivy and some badly pruned roses straggled around the door. A Volvo with Dutch licence plates was parked at the side of the place and a child’s bike lay on its side on the bumpy lawn. Ten years, no eleven, and hundreds of holidaymakers must have lived and eaten and swum and sunbathed here since his last visit, overlaying his own grim memories of the place when he had walked to the rear and seen blood on the tiles and those wisps of blood, hanging like red smoke in the water.
    Balzac had clambered forward from the back of the Land Rover and over the handbrake to sit in the passenger footwell. Bruno scooped him up and put him in his lap. Maybe at last he was on the way to finding some resolution of that case that had haunted him and kept him awake in the early hours, thinking how he could have handled it differently.
    Ironic, therefore, that his future nights would be troubledby the far more personal anguish at what Isabelle had done. He would try to understand it from Isabelle’s point of view as well as his own. He would argue to himself that it was Isabelle’s life, her body, her future, and that she alone was entitled to make the decision. The baby that had been aborted was the promise of new life, but for Isabelle it must have seemed like an almost mortal threat to the life she had planned for herself.
    But could she not have had the child