Bruno 02 - The Dark Vineyard by Martin Walker Read Free Book Online

you’re talking about 600,000 to 700,000 a hectare. But a vineyard in the Bordeaux region with any kind of decent reputation would be 60,000 a hectare and up. In the Bergerac, maybe ten. I think Julien paid about three thousand a hectare for the extra land he bought.”
    “What’s his place worth?”
    “Taken all together, the château and the winery and the big restaurant, at least three million euros, probably more. It’s a good business.”
    “Christ. I must be the poorest man in Saint-Denis,” said Bruno.
    “Well, after today, you’re richer by a lovely ’89 Cos d’Estournel from Saint-Estèphe. That’s my way of saying thanks for that business earlier today.”
    “You don’t have to do that. You’ve more than repaid me with all this information.”
    “Bruno, it’s in my interest to know what Bondino wants. As for the wine, let’s make a date for me to bring it up one night to your place. You can make me one of your truffle omelettes and we’ll enjoy it together, maybe invite a couple of friends who’ll appreciate it.”

7
    Coux was a quiet place with a bakery, a
tabac
, a café and a small hotel where Bruno would occasionally join friends for Sunday lunch. It lay outside the commune of Saint-Denis, so he did not know it well. Thinking his jurisdiction was therefore somewhat limited, he left his cap in the van.
    The phone booth stood in front of the tiny
mairie
, a scrap of yellow police tape still fluttering from the handle where it had been sealed. Bruno peered in, took note of the number and saw that the phone was one of the modernized ones that took no coins, only phone cards. France Télécom might have a record of the card used, but J-J’s team doubtless would have checked that. Behind the phone booth there was a bicycle stand and a small parking area, large enough for perhaps two cars and a motorcycle. Bruno scanned the ground. There was a patch of oil that looked fresh. He took a tissue from the pack in his car and gently pressed a corner into the edge of the stain. The thin paper went translucent, so the oil was recent enough to be interesting. Bruno strolled down to the small hotel to take a coffee with Sylvestre, the owner, who was also the chef and bartender. He asked Sylvestre if he’d seen anything the night of the fire.
    “At three in the morning? I was fast asleep,” said Sylvestre. Sylvestre’s wife, poring over the account books at the cash register, said she had heard nothing. “But you might try the baker,” she told Bruno. “He’s usually up at about four to start the oven.”
    Bruno strolled across to the
boulangerie
. The baker said he slept deeply until the alarm woke him at four, but he suggested Bruno try his uncle, a retired postman, who always complained of waking early and seldom getting back to sleep. “You’ll probably find him in the café. His name’s Félix, Félix Jarreau.”
    Every café in France seemed to have a group of old cronies playing cards around a small table at the back of the room, their glasses of
petit blanc
beside them and a TV blaring away ignored above their heads. Bruno recognized Félix from his postman days, and like most people in the valley, Félix knew Bruno by sight. Bruno was introduced and shook hands all around, waited until he was invited to sit, declined the offer of a drink and explained his task. The bartender’s inevitable curiosity brought him across to their table with a bottle to refill the glasses. He hovered there as Félix said he had indeed heard something.
    “Just after three-thirty—and I know because I looked at the clock when I woke up—I heard a motorcycle coming down the street and then stopping by the
mairie
. I looked out and the bike was parked and someone was going into the phone booth. But he wore a helmet, one of those big ones with a chin piece. He came out and went off down the hill.”
    “Did you see his face? Would you know him again?” Bruno asked. Félix shook his head. “Not in that