The Coldest Case by Martin Walker (mobi reader android txt) 📕

‘I can probably find it if you tell me what this is about,’ Joe said, steering Bruno to a chair in the courtyard and then going into the kitchen to bring out two glasses and a murky bottle of his own eau de vie. At least it was better than his wine. He poured out two slugs and Bruno explained about the DNA, the dead soldier in Mali, his half-sister and their mother’s best friend.

‘I want to get a feel for the place where the killing happened, try and bring it into focus in my mind,’ Bruno said. ‘And then I’d be grateful if you would come with me and talk to the people who ran the campsite at the time. I know their son who runs it now, but the older ones are just acquaintances. Maybe they might recall something.’

‘Do you have any photos of these two girls who stayed at the campsite?’

‘I can get them.’ He pulled out his mobile, called J-J, and asked him to email the wedding photos of Sabine’s parents to his phone.

‘They aren’t very good, a wedding photo of one of the girls, with her demoiselle d’honneur.’

‘Maybe you should talk to Philippe Delaron, see if his father left any copies of the photos he took of the félibrée. It was a big affair for St Denis and the Mairie paid old Delaron to take photos of the entire event, for local press and for the town records. The Mairie made an exhibition of the photos that was very popular and Philippe’s dad made a small fortune selling prints of people. Find those old photos and you might find the girls and their boyfriends.’

Bruno sat up, excited to hear this. ‘That would be terrific, if they still exist. But when Philippe closed the camera shop I think he cleared out a lot of old stuff so he could rent the place out. Still, it’s worth a try.’

His phone gave a double buzz, the sign of incoming email. He opened the attachment and saw the wedding photo. He zoomed in with his fingers to get a close-up of the bride and her maid of honour and showed it to Joe, who first went inside for his reading glasses.

‘Pretty girls,’ he said, squinting. ‘You would think I’d remember them but it’s been thirty years and there were a lot of people at that félibrée. I can’t say they ring any bells but let’s go down to the campsite and into the woods.’

They took Bruno’s van, Balzac grumbling at his usual place on the passenger seat being usurped, parked at the busy campsite and Bruno went into the office to greet Hilaire, the owner, explain his mission and to ask if Hilaire’s parents were around. He was told they’d be at home. Hilaire promised to call them and say Bruno would be coming to see them.

Joe led the way to the back of the campsite which looked full at this time in the holiday season, to be confronted by a sturdy fence and thick hedge. That was new, he observed. In his day it had been more of a token boundary of wooden posts with two planks nailed between each post, easy to climb in or out. They walked back to the entrance and around the side and then up the wooded hillside, Joe moving like a man thirty years younger despite the undergrowth.

‘Ten euros a night per person these days, even with a tiny tent, so I imagine there’ll still be people camping sauvage and finding a way to sneak into the dances,’ he said when he paused for breath and looked around, as if hoping to see landmarks.

‘We were up here often enough at the time, you’d think I’d remember . . .’ he said, and then his eye caught an outcrop of rock and headed for it and paused at the small and soggy hollow below it. ‘The stream trickled through there, that’s why the ground is damp. But I don’t see where it goes out. It just seems to disappear into the ground.’

‘It’s a hot summer,’ said Bruno, wiping his brow and the back of his neck.

‘Worse than hot,’ Joe said. ‘It reminds me of the canicule, that heatwave back in ’03 when so many old people died in the cities. But I can’t think when I last saw a stream just disappear, and this little bog is about the only damp spot I’ve seen. Look, tiny footprints in the mud, voles and mice looking for water. And the undergrowth is all dry as a bone.’

They clambered up another slope beside the rock, hauling themselves on young trees that wouldn’t even have been saplings thirty years ago, and came to an overgrown bank. A large scoop had been taken, or perhaps dug out of it, a place that was now filled with dry bracken. That was another sign of drought, thought Bruno. Bracken normally didn’t die off until the autumn.

‘That dip in the ground is where we found the body,’ Joe said, pointing. They walked along the face of the bank for perhaps twenty metres and came to a sheltered, flat stretch of grass, maybe six or seven metres square. Against the bank was a small ring of stones enclosing charred earth and ashes. Bruno noticed that the ashes were dry but there had been no rain for weeks.

‘Looks like that fireplace is still being used,’ he said. ‘It’s a good job they sheltered the fire. It wouldn’t take much to set all this dry stuff alight.’

Joe nodded and pointed to a square patch where the grass was paler. ‘Somebody had a tent there very recently. Nice to know the old traditions don’t change. I remember J-J going all over this area with metal detectors. All he found was an old tin opener and a camping spoon.’

Bruno went back to the spot where the body had been found, clambered up onto the top of the bank and looked around, trying to imprint the scene