ages.’
‘How well do you know him?’
‘I was at school with Yvonne so I’ve known him for years. What’s
le p’tit pédé
done this time?’
Despite his surprise, Bruno kept his expression still. A
petit pédé
was a derogatory term for a young gay, and when she said ‘this time’ did she mean he’d previously had trouble with the law?
‘He’s been in trouble before?’
She looked at him levelly and began to close the door. ‘None of my business.’
‘This is pretty urgent. He could be a witness in an important case. Do you know where Yvonne works, where I could find her?’
She sighed. ‘Promise I can go back to sleep if I tell you?’ When he nodded, she said: ‘She does part-time cleaning in foreigners’ houses up around Les Eyzies, that valley with all the caves in.’
‘You mean St Denis?’
‘That’s it, some company run by an old Scottish guy who wears a kilt. She took a photo of him on her phone. He gave all the staff a bottle of scotch one day, even the part-timers. Can I go back to sleep now?’
‘Thanks,’ said Bruno. ‘Sweet dreams.’ Back in his van he looked through the list of employees Dougal had given him. There she was, Yvonne Murcoing, on the second list of the part-time staff. If he’d gone through that first, the name would have jumped at him. The address Dougal had listed for her was the one he’d just visited. He called Dougal and asked if Yvonne Murcoing was still working for him.
‘She’s off sick, but I think she’s been staying in one of the staff houses we use.’ He gave Bruno a phone number and an address. He called the number but there was no reply. He tried calling J-J but got voicemail so tried one of his deputies, a young inspector in Bergerac who would have been assigned to any search for Murcoing. There was no news. The most recent address Murcoing had given the warehouse hadn’t seen him for weeks. Bruno then called Joséphine, Murcoing’s aunt, and left a message, asking her to call him and saying he had news about the funeral. That should guarantee she called him back.
He took the back route from Bergerac through Ste Alvère to avoid the traffic on the main road along the river. He parked opposite the Gendarmerie and noticed Valentoux’s silver car in the lot, so he was still being held. He walked across to look at it; fingerprint dust was visible on the handles and mirrors. That meant the forensics should have finished with it. He put on a pair of gloves and opened the door, wondering if they had checked for discarded receipts that could buttress Yveline’s theory that he could have driven down a day early to commit the murder. He found nothing.
He was about to close the car door when a thought struck him. He opened the glove box and pulled out the instruction book. There was a section at the back where careful drivers could note down their diesel purchases and the number of kilometres driven and work out their consumption. But Valentoux had never filled in a single page. Tucked inside it was the little plastic wallet where most people kept their
carte grise
and other documents that the police checked when a car was stopped. There was a receipt from a
Contrôle Technique
garage, an inspection station where older cars were required to betested every two years. Bruno checked the date, nine days ago. The form listed the number of kilometres on the clock when the test was performed. He compared that with the clock. Valentoux had driven seven hundred and twenty kilometres in the past nine days. Paris to St Denis was nearly six hundred. If he had made a second journey to kill Fullerton, he could not have done it in his own car.
From behind the desk, Sergeant Jules shook his hand and said Yveline was in the interview room with the suspect. J-J was using the old Capitaine’s office as a work room. Bruno handed over the
Contrôle Technique
and explained. ‘I suppose he could have hired a car and done it that way,’ he concluded.
‘Only if he
‘How well do you know him?’
‘I was at school with Yvonne so I’ve known him for years. What’s
le p’tit pédé
done this time?’
Despite his surprise, Bruno kept his expression still. A
petit pédé
was a derogatory term for a young gay, and when she said ‘this time’ did she mean he’d previously had trouble with the law?
‘He’s been in trouble before?’
She looked at him levelly and began to close the door. ‘None of my business.’
‘This is pretty urgent. He could be a witness in an important case. Do you know where Yvonne works, where I could find her?’
She sighed. ‘Promise I can go back to sleep if I tell you?’ When he nodded, she said: ‘She does part-time cleaning in foreigners’ houses up around Les Eyzies, that valley with all the caves in.’
‘You mean St Denis?’
‘That’s it, some company run by an old Scottish guy who wears a kilt. She took a photo of him on her phone. He gave all the staff a bottle of scotch one day, even the part-timers. Can I go back to sleep now?’
‘Thanks,’ said Bruno. ‘Sweet dreams.’ Back in his van he looked through the list of employees Dougal had given him. There she was, Yvonne Murcoing, on the second list of the part-time staff. If he’d gone through that first, the name would have jumped at him. The address Dougal had listed for her was the one he’d just visited. He called Dougal and asked if Yvonne Murcoing was still working for him.
‘She’s off sick, but I think she’s been staying in one of the staff houses we use.’ He gave Bruno a phone number and an address. He called the number but there was no reply. He tried calling J-J but got voicemail so tried one of his deputies, a young inspector in Bergerac who would have been assigned to any search for Murcoing. There was no news. The most recent address Murcoing had given the warehouse hadn’t seen him for weeks. Bruno then called Joséphine, Murcoing’s aunt, and left a message, asking her to call him and saying he had news about the funeral. That should guarantee she called him back.
He took the back route from Bergerac through Ste Alvère to avoid the traffic on the main road along the river. He parked opposite the Gendarmerie and noticed Valentoux’s silver car in the lot, so he was still being held. He walked across to look at it; fingerprint dust was visible on the handles and mirrors. That meant the forensics should have finished with it. He put on a pair of gloves and opened the door, wondering if they had checked for discarded receipts that could buttress Yveline’s theory that he could have driven down a day early to commit the murder. He found nothing.
He was about to close the car door when a thought struck him. He opened the glove box and pulled out the instruction book. There was a section at the back where careful drivers could note down their diesel purchases and the number of kilometres driven and work out their consumption. But Valentoux had never filled in a single page. Tucked inside it was the little plastic wallet where most people kept their
carte grise
and other documents that the police checked when a car was stopped. There was a receipt from a
Contrôle Technique
garage, an inspection station where older cars were required to betested every two years. Bruno checked the date, nine days ago. The form listed the number of kilometres on the clock when the test was performed. He compared that with the clock. Valentoux had driven seven hundred and twenty kilometres in the past nine days. Paris to St Denis was nearly six hundred. If he had made a second journey to kill Fullerton, he could not have done it in his own car.
From behind the desk, Sergeant Jules shook his hand and said Yveline was in the interview room with the suspect. J-J was using the old Capitaine’s office as a work room. Bruno handed over the
Contrôle Technique
and explained. ‘I suppose he could have hired a car and done it that way,’ he concluded.
‘Only if he
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