The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

tough guy and I’m the understanding one, or what?’
    ‘Probably,’ grunted J-J. He was flicking through a file of spreadsheets. ‘If this goes on much longer it’s going to eat up ten per cent of my investigation budget for the year. And with the new cuts there’s no reserve fund. Christ, look at the overtime for the plain-clothes guys at the funeral, a complete waste of money.’
    This was no time to say ‘I told you so,’ thought Bruno. Instead, he reminded J-J how many burglaries had been cleared up from the haul at the Corrèze farm. And he was dubious about Edouard’s protestations of innocence over the antiques trade. The website of the showroom in California had shown a lot of antiques and Edouard’s office seemed to be the place that organized the shipping. The art squad concentrated on the high-cost items like old master paintings, Impressionists and the treasures that would win them headlines, rather than the bulk trade of moderately priced antiques and lesser paintings that had been Fullerton’s speciality.
    ‘How are things between you and Isabelle?’ J-J asked, closing his file and thrusting it into the overstuffed briefcase at his feet.
    ‘Over,’ said Bruno.
    ‘That’s what you always say, but she keeps coming back.’
    ‘Not any more. She’s moving to Holland to join Eurojust, has her interview Friday but it sounds like a formality.’
    ‘
Putain
, and I’ve just about persuaded the Prefect to let her take my job when I retire. I was hoping to get her down here before the election and all the backstabbing starts at her Ministry. You’ve heard the rumours about that?’
    ‘No, but I know what I’ve read in the papers. And who knows how the election will turn out? If this lot get re-elected, there’ll be no change.’
    ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Even his own party is just looking for an excuse to get rid of this minister of the interior. He’s a liability. And this new super-agency he’s set up is a menace. That’s why I want Isabelle out of it before the shit hits the fan.’
    Bruno seldom talked national politics, partly because his interest was limited and partly because he reckoned there wasn’t that much difference between the parties. He remembered some graffiti he’d seen: ‘It doesn’t matter who you vote for, the government always gets in.’ But he’d rather talk politics than talk about Isabelle. The wound was still fresh.
    ‘What worries me is that every time I raise it with her, she says she doesn’t want to come back here,’ J-J went on.
    ‘I think she means it,’ Bruno said, when it was plain that J-J was waiting for him to respond.
    ‘She’s under a lot of strain,’ said Josette from the driver’s seat. It was the first time she had spoken. ‘She was crying in the ladies’ room the other day. It’s not like her at all.’
    Bruno felt her cast an accusing glance at him in the rear-view mirror. He turned his eyes away to look at the countryside flashing by the autoroute. Josette had put the magnetized bluelight on the roof and they were doing a hundred and eighty. At this speed, they’d be in Bordeaux in less than an hour.
    When they reached the Pont d’Aquitaine, the great bridge over the river, J-J made a courtesy call to his
Police Nationale
counterpart in the Gironde
département
to explain his presence in the city. The
juge d’instruction
had already telephoned, J-J was told, and if any assistance was required Bordeaux would be happy to help. Josette’s satnav system directed them to the plush suburb of Caudéran, and then to the most exclusive area of all where the gardens backed onto the Parc Bordelais. Bruno and J-J exchanged glances and J-J rubbed a finger and thumb together to signify the price of such a property as the Peugeot pulled up in the driveway of the distinctly grand
maison de maître
where Edouard lived and kept his showroom.
    ‘Very tax-efficient, home and showroom in one,’ grumbled J-J. ‘I dislike the little
pédé
already.’
    ‘Stop it, J-J,’ chided Josette. ‘You aren’t allowed to say that kind of thing anymore, not even you. You know I’m supposed to report it.’
    ‘See what I have to put up with?’ J-J sighed, and hauled himself out of the car and up the wide steps to the double doors. A discreet brass plaque on one of the columns that flanked the doors read Arch-Inter.
    ‘Commissaire Jalipeau and Chief of Police Courrèges to see Monsieur Marty,’ he announced, loud enough for the echoes