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

the murder took place, and Sergeant Castignac, our liaison with the gendarmes.’

‘And what have the gendarmes to do with this?’ the lawyer asked.

‘They helped disinter the body and examine the scene of the murder, and Sergeant Castignac has unearthed their contemporary reports. She has also assisted in our research into the St Denis félibrée, during which we believe the murder occurred. You recall the félibrée, Monsieur Bazaine?’

‘My client has no recollection of the event,’ said Pierre.

‘Despite the photographic evidence that he was present and in the company of the murdered man, and all this confirmed by contemporary witnesses,’ J-J said calmly, taking his seat and opening a bulging file that Henri was eying with some concern. Bruno suspected that J-J had padded it with pages of less than relevant material.

‘Photographs that were obviously concocted long after the event,’ Pierre shot back. ‘I shall ask the court to rule against their being admissible as evidence.’

‘How fortunate then that we have some living witnesses, one of them a successful businesswoman of unquestioned probity who has identified him,’ J-J said.

‘You mean that harpy you launched at us in the corridor?’

‘Harpy?’ J-J raised his eyebrows. ‘Tut-tut, Pierre, such outrageously sexist terms discredit you. I’m appalled to hear you speak that way about a woman who obviously cherishes some tender memories of your client in his younger days. I think you should apologize to Sergeant Castignac here.’

‘I fear the woman must have mistaken me for someone else,’ said Henri, the first time he’d spoken. He had a harsh, almost hoarse voice but his face was expressionless. ‘I have no recollection of her.’

To Bruno, who had trawled through so many photos, this was evidently the same man. His hair colour and eyes, the set of his mouth and jaw, his height and build, all matched those of his younger self. And as Bruno studied him, he noticed that his ears were unusually large and set very close to his head, something that also matched the photos he had picked out.

‘May I see your identity card, monsieur?’ J-J asked, raising a hand when the lawyer made to object. ‘We can hardly eliminate your client from our inquiries if we can’t verify who he is.

‘Henri Thorez Bazaine, born October fifteenth, 1968, in Belleville, Paris,’ J-J read aloud as he copied the details onto a sheet of paper in the file before him. He looked up and said casually, ‘Thorez is an unusual name. Would it have any connection to Maurice Thorez, the old Communist Party leader?’ There was no response from Henri. ‘Ah well, Belleville used to be the heart of the Red Belt even though these days it’s become very trendy and gentrified, I’m told. What was your address there?’

‘I was raised in a municipal orphanage named for Paul Lafargue, on the Rue Jean Jaurès,’ Henri said.

J-J asked for the name of each school Henri had attended, primary, collège and so on. Henri had not gone to a lycée, which would have put him on a university track. Instead he’d attended a vocational school, learning general construction and electronics, and had been an apprentice with the works department of his local Mairie in Paris. J-J asked for more details: how long he’d been an apprentice; who were his teachers and who supervised his work; how much he was paid by the Mairie; when and why he’d stopped working for the Mairie and so on.

‘Are you sure all this is necessary?’ the lawyer asked.

‘One never knows what is and isn’t relevant until we check,’ J-J replied blandly. ‘And now, Monsieur Bazaine, can you tell us where you were in the first days of July of 1989?’

Henri looked at his lawyer who shrugged. ‘I don’t recall exactly. It was too long ago. Probably hitch-hiking somewhere in central France, heading for the vineyards to get some work picking grapes. I was aiming for the Bordeaux region but got a lift to Bergerac so that’s where I stayed.’

‘The first few days of July would have been a couple of months too early for picking grapes.’

‘I earned some money washing cars for tourists on the quayside until it was time for the harvest. I worked with a guy called Gérard Follet and we’re still friends. These days he runs half a dozen automatic car washes in Bergerac and Sainte Foy and he remembers working with me.’

‘One of our witnesses, a farmer near Vergt, recognised you from the photo in Sud Ouest. He distinctly recalls you and your friend Max picking strawberries with him on his father’s farm in the last week of June. Is he making it up?’

‘Must be mistaken identity,’ said Henri. ‘I never knew a guy called Max. But I can understand people making mistakes if this Max was around the area with a guy who looked like me. And I accept that there’s a resemblance from the photos in the newspapers. But that’s all it is, a resemblance from three decades ago.’

‘I think we’re finished here, Monsieur le Commissaire,’ said the lawyer. ‘My client came here voluntarily, answered your questions and very generously accepted that he bears a resemblance to your suspect. We conclude that you and your witnesses have all made an honest mistake and that should be the end of the matter.’

‘Not so fast, Pierre. Naturally, we’ll have to check out some parts of your client’s story and I find it hard to believe that so many witnesses have all made the same mistake. Bruno, do you have any questions for Monsieur Bazaine?’

‘Yes, one or two. The first one was where you performed your military service.’

‘I was excused for medical reasons as asthmatic. The illness still troubles me. What else?’

‘Your work as a wine consultant surprises me,’ Bruno added. ‘It’s very unusual to be a professional oenologue whose own vineyard mainly makes cheap wines for a co-op. How do you explain that?’

‘That’s not the only wine I make,’ Henri retorted, clearly stung by Bruno’s mocking tone. ‘And it’s not as easy as you might think to make