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

jams and confits for someone else’s honey, or for their fresh trout from the river. And I prefer cheese made by people who really know what they’re doing, like my friend Stéphane whom you’re about to meet in the market.’

After enjoying Fauquet’s croissants and some of his gossip about the strange business of J-J and the reconstructed skull, Alain and Rosalie joined Bruno on his tour of the market. They bought some cheese from Stéphane, Mara des Bois strawberries from Marcel and fresh foie gras from the stall of the Lac Noir farm. When Marcel asked why he was in civilian clothes, Bruno explained that his cousin’s visit was the reason. After briefly showing them his office, he waved them off on the road to Lascaux, then set off in his Land Rover in the other direction for Bergerac.

Henri’s vineyard, Le Clos de Bazaine, was south of the city, mostly on the plain. But part of it was on rising ground on the far side of the road that ran along the flank of the north-facing slope dominated by the tall towers of the castle of Monbazillac. Despite the conical roofs that topped the towers, the place looked like a medieval fortress until one was close enough to see the Renaissance windows. Bruno drove slowly past the entrance to Henri’s traditional farmhouse with its outbuildings and barns. One of them must be the chai where he made his wines and another where he stored it.

Henri’s vineyard looked old-fashioned to Bruno’s eye. Well-drilled rows of vines, separated by strips of mown grass and gravel, were all of the same height and bulk. That meant the vineyard wasn’t organic. Bruno wondered just how many chemicals Henri used to get that disciplined but unnatural effect. Few of the Bergerac vineyards looked like this any more as more and more winemakers joined the organic revolution. He glanced up the slope, where most of the vines straggled and looked wilder, as nature intended. He wondered whether Henri’s better wines came from these slopes, although they would have little protection from the chemicals that were pumped over the vines on the flat side of the road.

Outside Henri’s farmhouse were a dusty Toyota Land Cruiser, a Mercedes saloon that looked new and an older Renault Twingo. Bruno parked in the entrance to a farm lane and kept an eye out for the grey Renault Sabine would be driving. His phone buzzed.

‘Is that you, Bruno?’ came her voice. He explained where to find him. She had just turned off at Gardonne, on the main road from Bordeaux to Bergerac. She’d be with him in little more than five minutes. While waiting he tried to work out how best to handle the coming confrontation. It would have to be fast, just a simple and friendly question about his wine to ensure the real prize, a chance for Tante-Do to get her eyeballs on him. She should stay by the car while Yves and Sabine knocked on the front door and Bruno tried the barns in case Henri might be there. He’d better stay in the background since Henri might possibly remember him wearing police uniform at the wine fair in St Denis.

When Sabine’s car arrived, Bruno waved her down, got into the back seat and explained his plan. They drove into the courtyard and parked. Sabine and Yves walked slowly to the main door while Tante-Do leaned against the car. Bruno tried the barn on the left, which had double sliding doors, slightly open. He squeezed through, calling out Bazaine’s name, and saw that this must be the chai. Six tall stainless steel vats stood on one side, four on the other, everything spotlessly clean. There was no reply to his calls. A locked door on one side of the barn had a glass panel and seemed to lead into what looked like an empty office. He went across to the other barn, which was locked, before walking back to the car. Yves and Sabine were still waiting at the front door until it was opened by an overweight young woman with short blonde hair, who said, politely and loud enough for Bruno to hear, ‘We don’t take visitors here at the vineyard.’

‘We heard from Hubert de Montignac in St Denis that you make a very good reserve wine and we’d like to buy some,’ Sabine said. ‘He told us you only sold it here.’

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Bazaine?’ said Yves, smiling and with a hand outstretched. ‘We’ve come here specially because Hubert told us your wine was worth the trip. Is Monsieur Bazaine here?’

‘Sorry, but we don’t—’ she began and then a tall, well-built young man with fair hair appeared behind her.

‘I’m Monsieur Bazaine the younger and my sister is right,’ he said. ‘We don’t sell from here, only from the cooperative, and you can find our wines in most supermarkets.’ He began to close the door.

‘Excuse us for interrupting your day,’ Sabine said in friendly tones. ‘But it’s not the co-op wine we want, rather your special reserve. Perhaps your father could help us. Is he here? Monsieur de Montignac told us your father was very proud of his reserve.’

‘We’re all proud of it,’ said the young man. ‘Dad’s not here right now.’ He paused, looking uncertainly from Yves and Sabine to Tante-Do and Bruno waiting by the car. Then he seemed to make a decision. ‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey. Just wait here a moment.’

He ducked back inside, leaving his sister on the doorstep, and Sabine asked her brightly, ‘Are you a winemaker, too?’

‘I’m learning,’ she answered curtly. Her brother reappeared, a bottle of red wine in his hand. He thrust it at Sabine and said, ‘Here, sorry, we’re busy, but this is the wine.’

‘How much do we owe you?’ Yves asked, pulling out his wallet.

‘Ten euros will do it,’ said the young man, and almost snatched the note from his hand, pulled his sister back and began to close the door.

‘If it’s as good as