The Patriarch: A Bruno, Chief of Police Novel by Martin Walker

It’s just family. They were going to join us to see the computer-generated animals, but something came up.”

11
    Raquelle lived in the heart of Montignac, the small town nearest to the Lascaux Cave, in a terrace house of stone that nestled against the old city wall just before the bridge. She led Bruno through the sitting room and kitchen to a small paved garden tucked against the medieval wall, at least ten meters high. Somehow her garden still managed to capture the sun. A long and narrow pool, apparently designed for swimming laps, took up part of the space, and a dining table and six chairs stood on a terrace by a small cave or tunnel that had been cut into the wall.
    Raquelle came out with a tray containing plates, cutlery and glasses, a chilled bottle of white wine from Château Thénac and a corkscrew. He opened the wine and set the table and looked into the cave. It was only a couple of meters deep with a small pool of clear water at the bottom. Raquelle had rigged a small fountain and a lighting system that would doubtless look striking in the evenings. The walls and shelter made the place a sun-trap, and Bruno took off his uniform jacket and sat back, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of the autumn sun on his face.
    “I’m glad you’ve made yourself comfortable. I love this spot, the color of the stone reminds me a little of the part of Jerusalem where I grew up,” Raquelle said, coming out with another tray, full of food. “It’s a very simple lunch, salade Niçoise, bread, cheese and fruit.”
    Bruno heard footsteps inside the house, and then Clothilde and Horst emerged with Yevgeny, the Patriarch’s Russian son, whom they had met on the doorstep. That made five, thought Bruno, wondering who might be the sixth at lunch. Raquelle asked him to pour out the wine and said, “My sister-in-law Madeleine will be joining us, but a little later.”
    “She drove Victor home after the cremation,” said Yevgeny. He was taller than Bruno, broader than Horst, and with a clumsy way of moving that occupied so much space he seemed to dominate the terrace. “Victor was very upset, his oldest friend, dying like that.”
    “Cremation?” asked Bruno, jerking up his head from where he was greeting Clothilde. “You mean Gilbert?”
    That was fast work, Bruno thought. His advice about contacting the air force to arrange the military funeral that was Gilbert’s due had obviously been ignored.
    Clothilde sat down abruptly in one of the chairs and gasped. “Gilbert, dead? But there was nothing in the newspaper.”
    Bruno began to count in his head. The Patriarch’s party had been on Friday, Gilbert died that evening, and today was Monday. That made three days, traditionally the minimum waiting time for burial or cremation. And that meant there would be no possibility of an autopsy, even if he had any reason to question Dr. Gelletreau’s verdict of natural death, or any motive that might suggest somebody had tampered with Gilbert’s drinks.
    “Yes, Gilbert, he wanted to be cremated,” Yevgeny replied. “He used to joke about it, saying he’d spent his life as a pilot but never been shot down in flames nor exploded in a crash landing, so it was only fair that the fire should get him in the end. He had a strange sense of humor, very dark, very Russian. Maybe that was why we all liked him so much.”
    “You knew him in Moscow?” Bruno asked.
    “Of course, he was one of my best customers,” Yevgeny replied. “He’d bring distinguished visitors from Paris to my studio where they could see a real Russian artist at work. Since in those days the state wouldn’t give me an exit visa, I was obviously some kind of dissident, so that was an extra thrill for them. I was even quite fashionable for a short while. That was how I developed my taste for French women.”
    “How did it happen?” asked Clothilde. Looking stunned, she had tucked herself into Horst’s embrace, as if in need of his comfort and