Crime Fraiche by Alexander Campion Read Free Book Online Page A

which is why it’s so well marbled. And, of course, we’ve learned a thing or two about the care and feeding of the little devils over the generations. That’s all there is to it, really.”
    “It’s such a waste,” Bellanger said. “The Vienneau name is a completely underexploited brand on the French fast-moving-consumer-goods scene. With the proper backing you could transform your franchise into a significant family heritage. You could expand your volume, become a known name in supermarkets, even diversify into prepared dishes. Your business has huge potential.”
    “Henri,” Vienneau said, “I’ve made it perfectly clear I have no intention whatsoever of selling out. Our discussions are to be confined to the possibility of raising a small amount of capital to make some needed improvements to the élevage, nothing more. The idea of linking my family name to the ‘fast-moving-consumer-goods scene’ is utterly repugnant.”
    Before Alexandre had the chance to spread his diplomatic oil on waters troubled yet again, there was a discreet knock at the dining room door.
    “ Ah, oui, ” Vienneau said. “I’ve asked one of my foremen to come by to show you around the élevage. I have a conference call coming up, but I’ll catch up to you on your tour.”
    The door opened to admit a heavyset man in his early forties with muscles as lumpy as a Charolais steer. Capucine wondered if it was in his genes or a mimetic imitation of his wards. Vienneau introduced him as Pierre Martel, foreman in charge of final phases of the breeding cycle. He touched his forelock with his knuckle, bobbed his head, and muttered, “ M’sieu’dame, ” the age-old salutation of the working classes. A bright-faced young man peeped out from behind Martel’s broad shoulder.
    “Oh yes, of course,” said Vienneau. “This is Clément Devere. He’s an intern from the agricultural college at Rouen who’s here to spend his last semester with us.”
    Once lunch was over, Martel led them off at a brisk pace. “Monsieur Bellanger, you know the place backward and forward by now,” he said. “You should be giving the tour, not me.” He led them toward a complex of cinder-block structures glowing with white paint.
    “This is where we feed the cattle when they come off grass and are put on grain,” Martel said.
    “They don’t eat grass?” Capucine asked in a surprised tone.
    “They do when they’re very young. But they’re put on grain feed very quickly,” Martel snapped, impatient with Capucine’s surprise. “We need these steers to grow from eighty pounds to twelve hundred in fourteen months. That’s not going to happen on a diet of grass, the same way you’re not going to get a rugby player up to weight by feeding him salad.” Martel snorted in pleasure at the veracity of his truism.
    “The other thing,” Martel continued, “is that they need their vitamins and antibiotics. We administer those in the feed. We couldn’t just sprinkle it on the grass, now could we?” He paused to think over what he had just said. “Of course, we could inject them, but that would mean running them through the chute once a week. It’s enough of a pain in the ass to do that for the inoculations.”
    Capucine was going to ask a question but realized that, for some reason, Martel was on the defensive about the artificial feeding of the cattle. Did she really look like one of those Green hippies? It must be all these clothes she was borrowing from the cloakroom.
    After an uninteresting trudge through a labyrinth of galvanized pens and stainless-steel feeding troughs while they dutifully mouthed the inane questions required on guided tours of industrial installations, they arrived at the next attraction, the abattoir.
    This sinister-sounding feature turned out to be no more than a long, unpleasantly chilly room with low-hanging overhead steel tracks. A group of men wearing long white coats hosed the floor down and vigorously swept the bloody water