Late Harvest Havoc by Jean-Pierre Alaux Page A

ruled out, then,” said Virgile.
    â€œI would say so. Besides, a chainsaw makes too much noise. Considering all the vineyard attacks we’ve had by now, at least one person would have heard a chainsaw.”
    Fauchié motioned to the waiter and ordered another strong coffee.
    â€œAre we sure the same tool was used in all the crimes?”
    â€œRoch’s experts agree on this point. It’s definitely the same weapon.”
    â€œYou mean the same instrument.”
    â€œWeapon, instrument. Call it whatever you like.”
    â€œI suppose we can agree, you and I, to think of the individual or individuals as dangerous criminals.”
    Fauchié didn’t say anything. He emptied his second cup of coffee quickly, which spoke volumes about his annoyance with the case. Virgile knew the man had been given next to no authority in the investigation—the gendarmerie had jurisdiction, and Fauchié was with the police.
    â€œSo to be absolutely clear, you maintain that all these attacks were committed with the same tool or a similar device,” Virgile said.
    â€œAffirmative, except for one detail.”
    â€œAnd what is that?”
    â€œOn the night when two vineyards were vandalized, the cuts weren’t the same. In one vineyard they were horizontal, and in the other they were diagonal.”
    â€œAnd in the other cases?” Virgile pursued.
    â€œThe cuts were diagonal most of the time, and they appeared to start on the same side of the vine. What do you make of that, Virgile?”
    â€œAt the risk of contradicting myself, it could be one guy who has help from an accomplice on occasion.”
    â€œThat’s my opinion, too,” Fauchié said.
    Virgile looked up when he heard chairs scraping the floor. The older woman and the little girl were getting up to leave. Virgile smiled at the child when he saw her mouth, all covered with hot chocolate and whipped cream. The little girl started smiling back, but her grandmother had grabbed a napkin to clean her up. When she was done, the girl stuck her pink tongue out at Fauchié. Her grandmother grabbed her hand and apologized.
    â€œWhen parents don’t provide their children with the proper upbringing, that’s what you get: little devils! Arielle, apologize to the gentleman.”
    The little girl was frowning at Fauchié.
    â€œNo, Grand-mere! He’s gross.”
    The embarrassed grandmother turned around and started walking out, dragging the insolent child behind her.
    â€œWait till we get home, young lady,” Virgile heard her say. “You’ll be in timeout. Your parents may let you get away with anything. But you’re with me now.”
    Inspector Fauchié didn’t appear offended. But when Virgile looked at him a few moments too long, he stiffened and seemed to lose his self-confidence.
    â€œChildren can be so inconsiderate,” Virgile ventured.
    â€œI’m no expert when it comes to children, Virgile. I never had any of my own.”
    â€œSo that wasn’t you in the picture I saw in your office?”
    â€œIt was. I married a woman who had a child, and I raised him as my own son.”
    A cloud of melancholy seemed to settle over the inspector, and Virgile made an attempt to lighten the mood. “What’s his name?” he asked.
    â€œDamien. He has Down’s syndrome and lives in a work-based support center in Divonne-les-Bains, in the Jura mountains. We go to see him every other Sunday. You see, last Sunday I wouldn’t have been able to meet you here.”
    The man smoothed his white hair with his speckled hands. Virgile had noticed that the inspector’s hair was unusually long at the nape of his neck. Still, it didn’t completely hide the large wine-colored birthmark.
    Fauchié talked about Damien with both tenderness and sadness. He had never experienced the joys of fatherhood that other men took for granted: Sunday afternoon soccer games, study