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

he might have taken on the name when he married to please Mathieu, God rest his soul. And now can you tell me why you’re so interested in Henri Bazaine? It certainly can’t be because of his wines.’

‘Sorry, but at this stage, I can’t tell you. When I can, let’s sit in this room, enjoying a decent bottle, and I’ll give you the full story from its beginning here in St Denis. In the meantime, I’m afraid I have to swear you to silence.’

‘There you go, wanting me to swear again,’ said Hubert, smiling. ‘After that tasting glass, let’s have a proper glass together of this wonderfully refreshing Riesling while the world outside bakes in the heat. And you can tell me how seriously we should take this sudden alarm over forest fires.’

12

Bruno could not explain the instinct that told him not to alert J-J to his discovery, or at least not yet. It was partly because he was far from sure that he had the right man. He’d have to see if the family name had been formally adopted and if he could find his original surname. Also he wanted to get his own sense of this possible murderer, to look into his eyes and see how much of Hubert’s story he could discreetly verify. The last and most cogent reason was that Bruno felt that he shouldn’t alert Henri that the police were on his track. Someone with the nerve to commit murder, to keep it to himself for three decades, to marry and create a new life for himself and build an apparently successful business, was not a man to be trifled with. And of course, even if he had been Tante-Do’s lover and Max’s friend, he might still be innocent of the killing.

In the meantime, he could do his own research. Back in his office, where a bottle of Hubert’s Riesling now lay in the Mairie’s fridge alongside the crayfish, Bruno fired up his computer. He rubbed his hands together and began by searching for the vineyard’s website. It was disappointingly thin. Unusually, it did not seem to welcome visitors for tastings and there were none of the usual vineyard photos, family histories, press reviews and price lists. The place seemed deliberately to be running under the radar. The police data bank showed no criminal record for Henri Bazaine, just some minor speeding offences. He hadn’t accumulated sufficient penalty points to put his driving licence in danger.

The website of the Conseil Interprofessional, the overall administrative body for the Bergerac appellation, was more helpful, showing that it was now a relatively large property for the region with forty hectares of vines, more than double the size it had been twenty years earlier. For somebody making wines mainly for the co-op, where prices were low, that was unusual. Most successful vineyards in the region depended on the higher prices they could command for premium wines like Monbazillac or Pécharmant, or by gaining a reputation for their better wines through winning medals and prizes.

By contrast, there was more to be found on Henri’s father-in-law, the late Mathieu Bazaine, in a newspaper obituary. He had been a local councillor and served one term as Mayor of his commune. His family vineyard had been devastated, like so many others, by the great frost of 1956 when the temperature had been so cold for so long that the vine roots had died. Mathieu had returned from serving in the Algerian war to rebuild the vineyard, becoming active in the cooperative and producing cheap wines for the new supermarkets. He had also been on the board of the local Anciens Combattants, the veterans’ association. That was interesting, Bruno thought. He had contacts among them.

He called the Baron, another Algerian war veteran, who laughed at the mention of Mathieu’s name.

‘He was a fainéant, a real poser, always turning up at Remembrance Day parades with his medals. He spent his entire time in Algeria working in the motor pool at the big base in Oran, never on what I’d call real active service,’ the Baron said. ‘Certainly, he never saw combat. He spent most of his time wooing the very plain eldest daughter of a rich pied noir, married her and then used her dowry to rebuild his vineyard here. She must have been at least ten years older than him and obviously on the shelf. Her family must have been grateful to get her married off. He inherited a small place from his dad, just seven or eight hectares. But when Algeria became independent in ’62 all his wife’s family came to France and put more money into the business, doubling the size of the place.’

‘How well did you know him?’

‘Well enough to have lunched with him a couple of times at Anciens Combattants events. I think I even dandled his little girl, Mathilde, on my knee once, and I recall one ceremony when she came along with him dressed like she was going to her first Communion. She was no beauty, just like her mum. But she got herself a good man who did wonders for that vineyard.’

‘Did you meet him?’

‘Just at the wedding. I think I was only invited because Mathieu wanted to get close to my father, who was president of the Société des Gastronomes de France. We were both invited and my father said I should go, just to show the flag.’

‘Are you at home?’ When the Baron said he was, Bruno asked him to stay there and drove directly to the old chartreuse that he knew so well. He found his friend mowing his extensive lawn and showed him the composite photo of Henri that Yves had prepared.

‘That’s him, sure enough, a good-looking guy,’ the Baron said. ‘I think his name was Henri. I could never work out what it was he saw in little Mathilde, except maybe for the family vineyard. Still, I gather the marriage has lasted, which is more than you can say