The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel (10 page)

“Thank you all for coming and for drinking such impressive amounts of this new wine of ours,” the Patriarch began, pausing with accustomed skill for the inevitable laugh. “I recall my old friend de Gaulle saying how impossible it was to govern a country with nearly three hundred different cheeses. I often wondered why he never spoke of the even-greater number of different wines we are lucky enough to make in this beautiful land of ours. And I’m only sorry that I did not have this vineyard when de Gaulle was alive to treat him to a glass of this wine that I’m sure he would have enjoyed. But I’m delighted that you are all here today and that you enjoyed our wine, and now I hope that you all enjoy your lunch and think about the large orders I’m sure you’ll be placing.”

Bruno joined in the applause, thinking what an accomplished performer the Patriarch had become. His speech had been short, amiable, and the reference to his old friend de Gaulle, now dead for nearly four decades, had subtly reminded his guests that in the Patriarch’s presence they were standing close to a heroic part of France’s history. As a piece of marketing it was masterly. Bruno could imagine the buyers going home to their wives and friends and recounting what the Patriarch had told them over lunch about de Gaulle and what a fine wine the old boy was making these days.

Bruno was about to get a plate and some food when his phone vibrated. It was Albert, the
pompier,
to tell him of another accident, a serious one this time with at least one person reported killed. Could Bruno get to the road by Imogène’s property as quickly as possible? Several cars had been involved, a crowd was gathering, and it was likely there would be trouble.

The blue light flashing on the roof of his Land Rover, Bruno drove as fast as he safely could, using the earphone attached to his mobile so he could drive and talk at the same time. Sergeant Jules of the gendarmes had just arrived on the scene and told him the
pompiers
were using their heavy equipment to cut open the side of a crashed car to free the injured children trapped inside. Their mother at the wheel was dead, and so was the young stag that had crashed through her windshield and into her lap. One of the large buses that replaced the local trains while they were upgrading the rail line was leaning perilously against a tree on the far side of the road, tilting with its wheels in a ditch. Two more deer were trapped beneath it, and another car had run into the back of the bus.

By the time Bruno reached the spot, the firemen had freed the two children, and an ambulance was racing them to the hospital along with the bus driver. The passengers, mostly unhurt except for a few cuts and bruises, were being ferried to the clinic in St. Denis by the gendarmerie van, and Dr. Gelletreau was working on the minor injuries. Fabiola had gone with the children in the ambulance.

One lane of the road had been cleared, sufficient for one car at a time to pass, but a carelessly parked line of cars was pulled off the road, people from St. Denis coming to the scene to offer help. But a knot of perhaps a dozen of them was arguing angrily with a lone gendarme who stood at the entrance to the lane that led to Imogène’s house. He had one arm outstretched as if to bar their passage. Bruno went to help him, asking one of his friends in the crowd to find out where the various bus passengers were heading. Then Bruno joined the gendarme, called for silence and said he needed volunteers to drive the passengers to their destinations. The bus had a sign on the windshield saying
SARLAT,
so most of them would be heading there or to Le Buisson or St. Cyprien, the two main towns on the route.

“
Putain,
Bruno, they’ll send another bus,” shouted Hervé, a hotheaded young man recently laid off from his summer job as a bartender at a campsite. “We want to go and sort out that daft cow Imogène.”

“Imogène can wait,” Bruno said firmly. “I have to get in touch with the man who’s just been made a widower and get him to the hospital to see his kids. Don’t stand in my way, Hervé, or you’ll regret it. Now go and see if you can help these people from the bus while I try and track this man down and give him the news that’s going to break his heart. He’s got to be the priority now.

“Justin,” he went on, turning to a hunting club friend. “I can count on you to find out who’s prepared to drive people to Le Buisson and which ones will go on to St. Cyprien and Sarlat.”

He turned his back on them, aware that they were dispersing, some volunteering their help to Justin. Bruno began dialing the car registry to get a name and an address for the owner of the wrecked Peugeot with the dead woman inside. Its license plate carried the digits 24, so he knew it was local. Within minutes he was calling a man named Michel Peyrefitte, a name he faintly recognized, and found him on a golf course near Périgueux. When he heard the clipped voice, familiar from the local Bleu Périgord radio station, he knew he was talking to the lawyer who was campaigning to be the candidate for the conservatives for the next election to the National Assembly. There was silence on the other end of the phone when Bruno gave him the terrible news.

“Your children are being taken to the Périgueux hospital by ambulance, monsieur,” Bruno went on. “Do you need me to arrange a car to pick you up and take you there?”

Somebody else, one of his golf partners, came on the line and said Peyrefitte had collapsed. Bruno explained and repeated his question.

“We have our own cars here, thanks, and we’ll leave now,” came the reply. “I’m his law partner. Can you tell me what happened?”

“It is not altogether clear, since other vehicles were involved, but his wife’s car was hit by a deer.” Bruno did not say that an antler had pierced the woman’s chest. The young stag had been so emaciated that it had almost certainly come from Imogène’s land.

“Does this have anything to do with the crazy woman with the deer who was in the paper this week?” the voice asked.

“I can’t say for sure, monsieur. It’s near her land, but this is a hunting area; hers aren’t the only deer around here. Shall I tell the hospital that you’re on your way? And is there anyone else you’d like me to call on your behalf, perhaps Madame Peyrefitte’s family?”

Saying briskly that they would make their own calls and go directly to the hospital, Peyrefitte’s partner gave a distracted word of thanks and hung up. Bruno let out a long breath. This meant trouble, a prominent lawyer and politician with a dead wife and injured children in a dramatic accident in a region where most people were already hostile to Imogène. He called the mayor to inform him and was still speaking when he saw the first of several flashes from Philippe Delaron’s camera. Delaron was now working full-time as a newsman for
Sud Ouest.
His family’s camera shop was closed, a victim of the technology that had put cameras onto every mobile phone, but he still did portraits and weddings on his days off. His photos taken, Philippe approached Bruno, notebook at the ready. Bruno gave cautious replies to Philippe’s questions as another ambulance arrived to take the dead woman away. It was followed by Lespinasse’s tow truck, which slowly began to haul the crumpled Peugeot from the ditch.

“Have you got a name yet for the dead woman?” Philippe asked.

There was no reason for Bruno to delay; the next of kin had been informed. “Madame Monique Peyrefitte,” he said. “I just spoke to her husband, Michel. He’s heading to the hospital to see his kids.”

“The political guy?” Philippe asked. Bruno nodded, and Philippe whistled softly in surprise before turning away to phone his news desk.

Bruno went to Lespinasse, who said a special vehicle would be needed to haul the bus from the ditch. His own truck simply wouldn’t have the power. Bruno clambered into the empty bus, bracing himself against the slope, and checked behind and under the seats to ensure that all the passengers were out. Then he leafed through the sheaf of papers in the compartment by the driver’s side, found the number of the operator and called with the news. A young woman on the switchboard said she’d have to call her boss, but she knew of no spare buses available. The key was still in the ignition, so Bruno took it, checked that the luggage compartment was locked and called the operator’s number again to say the company should apply to him for the keys, but he wanted the bus towed away forthwith. He left his mobile number and climbed gingerly from the vehicle to see that the mayor had arrived.

“Philippe just told me it’s Peyrefitte’s wife and kids,” the mayor said. “He’s putting out the news on Bleu Périgord right now, so I’d better call the prefect. Anything else you can tell me?”

Bruno explained about the shuttle service he was organizing for the passengers and that he should get to the clinic to see what he could do for the people being patched up by Dr. Gelletreau. He’d learned from the firemen that there had been a couple of broken limbs and several cracked ribs.

“And there was a nasty moment when a group of hotheads wanted to march up the hill to confront Imogène,” Bruno went on. “I managed to deflect them for the moment, but that won’t be the end of it.”

“Can’t say I blame them,” said the mayor. “If I weren’t the mayor, I’d be tempted to join them.”

“You might be tempted, but you wouldn’t do it. You know we can’t have people taking the law into their own hands,” said Bruno. “We can’t leave her alone up there; we’ll have to try to get her out before night falls. Once people get into the bars and word spreads and they start drinking, they’re likely to talk themselves into going up that hill with cans of gasoline and matches and burning her out. If it were just our people from St. Denis, we might be able to calm things down, but with the news on the radio and that story in the paper this week, we’ll have half the hunters in the
département
heading this way.”

“It’s the deer they want, not her. I’m a bit surprised we haven’t heard volleys of gunshots already.”

“Everybody’s still a bit chastened by the deaths, but that won’t last,” said Bruno. “I’d better go up to see her while you talk to the prefect.”

“And what do you do if Imogène refuses to leave?”

Bruno shrugged. “I’ll have to be very persuasive.”

“That won’t work, and you know it. I’m not having you sitting up there trying to stop a mob,” said the mayor. “There is another way. Dr. Gelletreau could declare her insane and a danger to herself. Then we could legally take her to a hospital overnight for observation and get a court order in the morning. It’s not pleasant, but it could save her life. Have you got a better idea?”

Bruno shook his head. “You’d better clear it with the prefect. If you go to the clinic and arrange matters with Gelletreau, I’ll go up to the house and talk to Imogène. She might listen to me.”

“Good luck. I’ll call you from the clinic when I’ve seen Gelletreau.”

As Bruno drove up to her house, there seemed even more deer in the woods and standing unconcernedly in the lane than there had been at his last visit. They were probably shunning the area by the road with the noise and people. When Imogène opened the door and gave him a challenging look, he heard classical music from the radio in the room behind her.

“Bonjour, Imogène. You might want to tune that to the local news,” Bruno began. “You and your deer are making headlines. One just killed a woman on the road below your house. Her two children and a bus driver are on their way to the hospital.”

“Oh, no.” Imogène’s face was stricken. She brought a hand to her mouth. “Can I go down and help?”

“It’s all under control. But if you go down there, there are people who want to tear you limb from limb. You’re in danger.”

“Nonsense, Bruno. Were any of my deer hurt?”

“Three dead, one of them with his antler in the heart of the dead woman. She’s the wife of an important man, a politician. You can’t remain here; people are out for your blood. Do you have any relatives or friends you can stay with?”

“I’m not leaving. Is this just a trick to get me out of here so you can send the hunters in to slaughter my deer?”

Bruno shook his head in despair. “Listen to the radio, Imogène. I’m not fooling around, and nor are the people down on the road. I already talked some of them out of coming up here, and it wasn’t easy. There will be more, and they are angry. For your own safety, I need to get you out of here.”

She gazed at him levelly for a long moment and then said, “I don’t have anywhere to go, and even if I did, I’m not leaving my deer.” But she then went back into the house, leaving the door open, and began tuning the radio to listen to Bleu Périgord. Bruno knew of only one friend who might be prepared to take Imogène in. He looked up Raquelle’s number on his mobile, called her and explained the situation. She agreed to put Imogène up for a few days.

“All right, I believe you,” said Imogène, turning away from the excited news reports on the radio. “This is tragic news, but you can’t blame the deer. People have to learn to live with them, to share this lovely land with the animals. They have just as much right to be here as we do. People must learn to drive more slowly, give up their cars, walk.”

Bruno grimaced in frustration. Imogène lived on a different planet. His phone vibrated, and the mayor told him that Dr. Gelletreau had signed the authorization for Imogène to be taken into custody for a compulsory psychiatric evaluation. Gelletreau had added that he’d be the first to volunteer for a culling party.

“That phone call was to tell me that we now have legal authority to arrest you and take you to a psychiatric clinic to be examined,” Bruno said, trying to sound calmer than he felt. Imogène half sat, half collapsed, on the chair behind her, hand to her mouth in shock.

“You wouldn’t…”

“You leave us no option, Imogène. The order is legal, and it has been signed. But you do have a choice and it’s simple. You either come with me of your own accord, right now, and I take you to your friend Raquelle’s house in Montignac. She’s agreed to take you in for a few days until tempers cool. Otherwise, I’ll arrest you and take you to a cell in the gendarmerie until the psychiatric ambulance can come and pick you up, put you under restraints and take you to the psychiatric wing in Périgueux. Which is it to be?”

She glared at him. “You have no right to treat me this way. I won’t cooperate.”

Hating himself for doing this, Bruno caught her arm, turned her and, applying a half nelson, he frog-marched Imogène out of her house and bundled her into the back of his Land Rover and locked the door. He climbed into the driver’s seat, looked at her and said, “Last chance. Raquelle’s place or the straitjacket?”

“Raquelle,” she said. “But I’ll need a bag, some clothes, toiletries, my purse.”

“I’ll give you five minutes, and if you try to run I’ll put you in handcuffs and take you straight to the gendarmerie. Understood?”

She gave him a venomous look and then spat something that might have been agreement, so he let her out of the vehicle. With a firm grip on her arm, he led her back into the house and stood in the doorway of the bedroom while she swiftly threw some clothes into a suitcase. He told her to take any valuables, important documents and anything she particularly treasured; some of her deer photos, perhaps.

“What on earth for?” she said fiercely, glaring at him as if Bruno were the enemy. “I’ll be back tomorrow when this stupid fuss dies down.”

“No, Imogène. I’m not even sure this house will be standing by tomorrow. I honestly fear they might burn it down.” Bruno was already working out a safe route to take that would avoid the crowd at the accident site.

He wasn’t sure if Imogène was being defiant or just trying to bluster through her own sense of uncertainty, or whether she simply could not recognize the danger she was in, far less her own responsibility for the accidents. He doubted that she’d ever admit to feeling guilt. As he watched her, she braced herself as if coming to some kind of decision and then took some photos from her walls and put them into a folio that had been lying on her desk. In little more than a minute, they were both in his Land Rover, Imogène’s bag and purse and a folder of photos on the rear seat.