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

museum in Les Eyzies, where Clothilde had promised to show her the exhibition of Elisabeth Daynès’s skulls. Bruno put the hat box on Clothilde’s desk and invited Virginie to open it.

‘This is what I was hoping for when I first saw the exhibition,’ he said as Virginie displayed the extraordinarily lifelike head she had made of Oscar’s original skull.

‘This is why I think your work is so good,’ he added, pulling from his briefcase one of the photos of Max that Yves had put together from the various snapshots taken at the félibrée three decades earlier.

‘Virginie refused ever to look at this photo, saying it would influence her work, but you can see the likeness is uncanny,’ he told Clothilde. ‘It’s manifestly the same man.’

He used his phone to take a photo of Clothilde, Virginie and the skull and sent it off to Elisabeth in Paris. He sent her a copy of the composite photo of Max so that Elisabeth could see how close a likeness Virginie had achieved with the skull. Clothilde asked Virginie what had happened to her nose.

‘Just an accident,’ Virginie replied. ‘It got broken but it’s not serious and it doesn’t hurt. The doctor at the police station gave me a painkiller.’

Clothilde glanced at Bruno with a raised eyebrow but tactfully left it at that. She praised Virginie’s work and suggested she might like to look round the rest of the museum and visit the workrooms, usually off-limits to the public. Clothilde’s colleagues were hoping to hear Virginie describe the reconstruction procedure over lunch and then take her to some other of the local sites. Bruno was just wondering whether he should explain to Clothilde what Virginie had been through, when she said eagerly, ‘Yes, please. I’d really like to learn more about these prehistoric people.’

‘We thought you might like to see the original Cro-Magnon site where the first skeletons were found a hundred and fifty years ago, and then the Abri Pataud. Bruno has a tendresse for the young woman whose skull was found there,’ Clothilde added.

‘That sounds great,’ Virginie said, while Bruno marvelled at the resilience of youth.

‘I’ll be back to pick you up around five,’ Bruno said. He left Virginie at the museum and drove back to St Denis to tackle his emails and paperwork. He settled Balzac in his office and then briefed the Mayor and told him of Virginie’s arrival, then checked on Albert’s fire report. There had been a serious blaze that morning in the woods east of St Cyprien, starting in a section that had been clear cut a few months earlier, leaving a tangle of dry branches and twigs on the ground. It was the first time Albert had called in the water-dropping aircraft. Getting the blaze under control had required the fire engines of St Cyprien, St Denis and Sarlat, plus a hundred volunteers. Bruno opened his window and leaned out over the balcony, looking towards the east, wondering if he might see the smoke, but the warm winds from the south would be taking it north towards Montignac.

Why did everything have to happen at once? he wondered. The fires, J-J’s obsession with Oscar, the attack on Virginie, Balzac’s puppies, the Belleville Mairie, the Dresden orphanage and the mysterious offer of the Rosenholz material to the Elysée: they seemed to be rolling in on him like so many storm clouds. And what on earth did one cook for a vegan? He smiled at himself, knowing he could always relax by thinking of menus. He would make a cold summer soup to begin and beignets de courgettes which he could serve with tapenade de tomates instead of the usual aillou. For the main course he could make the kabocha pumpkin dish that Ivan’s new Japanese girlfriend had offered in Ivan’s bistro. He’d seen the pumpkins on sale in the bio store. And citrouilles rôtis a la sauge et aux noix – roasted pumpkin with sage and walnuts – was a classic French dish, with shallots, parsnips and potatoes in the roasting pan alongside. He’d remove a portion for Virginie so that for the others he could add slices of cabécou goat cheese which would slump in the heat of the vegetables. He’d serve it with a salad of thinly sliced heirloom tomatoes of different colours from his garden, drizzled with oil; followed by pêches au vin rouge.

He had everything he needed in his garden except for the pumpkins and parsnips. He was about to make a quick trip to the local bio shop when the phone rang. It was Isabelle.

‘Two bits of news. Despite General Lannes’ objections, the Elysée wants to go ahead with the lawyer’s deal; his client gets immunity in return for the Rosenholz material. And my colleagues in Canada have come up with some dynamite.’

Isabelle explained that her contact in Canadian security had sent a colleague based in Quebec City, accompanied by a uniformed policeman, to visit Loriot. They told him they were investigating a Canadian connection to Henri Bazaine at the request of the French police and asked him about the payments to Bazaine. Loriot became uncomfortable and said it was for consulting on different grape varieties and on techniques for mass marketing and box wines. Then they asked why had he paid Bazaine so often when immigration records showed that he’d only visited Canada once? What kind of consultancy was this? Loriot became even more uncomfortable and said he wanted a lawyer. Then they asked about the fake French ID that Loriot had used when he first came to Canada, noting that it could invalidate the Canadian citizenship he’d later acquired. When he remained silent, they played the trump card, asking if he’d ever heard from Jacques and Sylvie Lefort of the Dresden orphanage.

‘At that point Loriot broke down,’ Isabelle said. ‘They arrested him for making false statements on his citizenship application, suggested several more charges that could be brought and now Loriot’s lawyer is trying to reach a deal.’

‘What kind of deal?’