Children of War (27 page)

He explained briefly, adding that she’d face the Brigadier if it went any further.

‘I’d worked out something like that from the bullet holes and cartridge cases we found. But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about. You remember the
vendange
, when Jacqueline asked Fabiola about a relationship with Deutz?’

‘Yes, and I since found out that he was leading the climb
when Fabiola fell and got that scar. Apparently they’d been pretty close before that.’

‘I checked the records. There was a rape complaint filed against Deutz by another student, but it didn’t go anywhere. It seems the medical school hushed it up. The woman was transferred to another school and then Deutz went into the prison service with glowing recommendations from the faculty at Marseille.’

‘Rape?’ Bruno felt a chill creep up his spine. That kind of trauma could explain Fabiola’s inability to respond to Gilles. It made a hideous kind of sense and he felt a slow anger begin to build. ‘Have you talked to this student?’

‘I’m tracking her down in the time I can squeeze away from roadblock duty. And Annette is trying to reach the magistrate in the rape complaint that was dropped. She reminded me that there’s no statute of limitations on rape, so if this case builds, she’s determined to pursue it.’

Bruno nodded. Annette was a dedicated magistrate; once she got her teeth into something she never let go. He pulled out his notebook and gave Yveline the name and number of the gynaecology professor Fabiola had been to see.

‘Have you talked to Nancy?’ he went on. ‘Apparently there was some trouble about sexual harassment when Deutz visited the FBI.’

‘Seems like we’ve got a pattern here,’ Yveline said. ‘This man is a predator. But what would it mean for the tribunal if Deutz is formally accused? That’s the Brigadier’s priority. Would he intervene to shield Deutz?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Bruno. ‘A rape charge is very hard to stop.’

‘It was stopped before, when the student withdrew her accusation.’

Bruno nodded. ‘Is Fabiola prepared to file a formal charge against Deutz?’

‘Annette and I talked to her today. She’s wavering.’

Bruno liked cars without obsessing over them. He never bought car magazines nor followed Grand Prix races and had never lusted after sleek and superfast sports cars. He was deeply fond of his ancient Land Rover, as much for its history as its sturdy practicality. It had been a bequest from Hercule, his old hunting partner and the man who had taught Bruno about truffles.

But this car was different. When Bruno saw it taking up three spaces in front of the
Mairie
looking as big as an ocean liner, majestic in deep black, he stopped, stunned. Slowly he realized that his eyes were as wide as a schoolboy’s and that a broad grin had appeared on his face. Scattered couples, interrupting their afternoon walks to stare and marvel, were reacting the same way. Bruno walked to the front of the car to admire the statue of the goddess and the famous radiator below it, looking rather like one of the better-preserved Greek temples. He’d never been this close to a Rolls-Royce before, and this was one of the traditional ones with stately lines.

The driver’s door opened, a vast slab of metal, and Yacov stepped out, waving and opening one of the even larger rear doors to gesture Bruno inside. Most cars rocked a little when
somebody climbed in or out, but this massive vehicle didn’t budge. It probably ignored potholes in the same way.

‘My grandmother, Maya Halévy,’ Yacov said, as Bruno climbed in. The rear of the car was so wide that Bruno had to stretch forward to shake the hand of the elegant old lady with blue-tinted white hair and enormous spectacles who was smiling brightly at him from the corner of the rear seat. It could have taken six or seven people of her size.

The door closed behind him with the sound of a very discreet bank vault, reminding him that he should have spent much more time preparing for this encounter. Many of his plans and dreams for St Denis rested with this woman, whose net worth could have bought every house in his town and still left her more than rich. He should have spent more time on the presentation that was to win her support, but for better or worse that was now in the hands of schoolkids. At least he knew that he could count on Florence. And even as he chided himself for thinking of Maya Halévy in such mercenary terms, he looked at her with great curiosity. This woman had not only gone through an extraordinary childhood, hunted and hidden, but she was the first woman entrepreneur he’d ever met, and probably the richest.

He’d barely begun to say, ‘
Enchanté, madame
,’ when he was interrupted by her surprisingly deep voice, speaking an old-fashioned French and saying as she took his hand that she had already recognized the bridge and the church of St Denis.

‘Nearly seventy years ago,’ she went on, still holding his hand. ‘I shall need your help, young man, to protect me from my grandson, who seems to think I’m a fragile old thing who needs to be tucked into chairs with rugs and cups of thin tea
in delicate porcelain cups. What I really want is a stiff drink, and Yacov removed the decanters, which were one of the treats I was looking forward to about using my brother’s car. This car was the apple of his eye, perfectly maintained and waxed and polished and always in its original condition. He even refused to install a newer radio. Above all, he knew my tastes and always made sure the decanters were full when I came to visit him in Paris.’

She gestured at the rear of the front seat, where gleaming cabinetry slid down at the touch of a button to form a tray, and revealed two crystal glasses. But the space for the decanters was empty.

‘Isn’t that a sad sight?’ she asked, with a grin that despite her age he could only describe as cheeky.

Bruno liked her at once and said, ‘Are you a scotch drinker, madame? And please call me Bruno.’

‘Yes, and if you want to join me you can call me Maya. I see a bar behind the
Mairie
.’

‘You could certainly get a glass of decent whisky, but if you’d care to follow me to the place where you’re going to stay, I’d be glad to offer you a Lagavulin.’

‘A Land Rover
and
a Lagavulin drinker, and I gather you’re the local policeman who found the old farm where we stayed. I don’t think we had policemen like you in my day.’ She pressed a button on the armrest and the window purred silkily open.

‘Yacov,’ she called through the window. ‘Give the policeman the keys. He’s going to drive me and you can have the pleasure of following behind and driving his Land Rover.’

‘I’d be terrified of damaging your car, I’ve never driven anything this size except armoured cars,’ Bruno protested,
although privately he was yearning for the chance. ‘And the army never worried about scratches on them.’

‘Don’t be silly; with a car like this, everybody else gets out of your way.’

After a brief explanation of the controls from Yacov, Bruno climbed into the front seat and set off, conscious of an extraordinary amount of power in the engine, even though he couldn’t hear it. The bonnet seemed to stretch away endlessly ahead, and oncoming trucks and cars pulled into the side of the road to make way, most of them stopping to watch the vehicle’s progress.

Fortunately, there was no other traffic on the single-track road that led to Pamela’s house, but the gates at the entrance to her lane worried him even though they were wide enough for his Land Rover and for a horsebox. He climbed out of the car to assess the gap. He would have a couple of centimetres on each side. He reversed a little to ensure he was pointing straight at the gap and crept forward, almost brushing the near side post, and then he was through. Feeling proud of himself, he pressed the accelerator and felt the great beast surge forward like a sports car. Pulling into Pamela’s courtyard, he sounded the horn and was startled by a sonorous blare that might have been an elephant’s mating call.

Once Pamela had been introduced, the luggage unloaded and the
gîtes
inspected and approved, Maya was installed in Pamela’s sitting room with a large scotch. She bent her nose into the glass to sniff as if it were a vintage wine, took a tiny sip and let it evaporate in her mouth before taking a deep breath. Her eyes closed in pleasure as the warmth spread down her throat and then she took a deeper drink, sat back in the
leather armchair and opened her eyes to peer inquisitively around her.

Although they usually spent most of their time in the kitchen, Bruno was very fond of Pamela’s long sitting room with the giant fireplace whose lines lifted the eye to the balustraded gallery and all the way up to the roof beams. Lit by two french windows that opened onto the garden, its walls were lined with books and the floor of terracotta tiles was covered in old rugs, their reds and golds still bright despite their age.

‘That’s a fine Qashqai and a charming little Varamin,’ Maya said, looking at the rugs with an expert eye. ‘Have they been in your family for a long time?’

‘My grandfather spent some time in Persia during the war,’ Pamela said. ‘He made quite a study of their rugs and brought several back with him.’

‘Me too, I love them. He chose well. That large one with the touches of green is a Bakhtiari, very hard to find in that size. This is a charming room and it’s much more agreeable to be here than in some country hotel. Your
gîtes
are lovely.’

‘Thank you, I’m glad you like it. My grandfather used to tell me that the thing that surprised him most about Hitler was that he loved Persian rugs and kept an Ardabil carpet in his office in Berlin. Every time we were in London Grandpa would take me to see that enormous Ardabil in the Victoria and Albert Museum and tell me its history.’

‘I know the one,’ Maya burst out, sitting forward excitedly. ‘Do you know about the inscription?’

‘Except for thy haven, there is no refuge for me in this world.,’ Pamela recited. ‘Other than here, there is no place for my head.’

‘The work of a servant of the court, Maqsud of Kashan,’ Maya chimed in. ‘I’m so glad you know it. When I first saw it there they had the carpet hanging on a wall, but now it’s lying flat as it should.’

The two women looked at one another with satisfaction. A bond had been established, Bruno thought. Yacov gave him a friendly wink.

‘I assume you’re tired after your journey, so if you’d like to relax before dinner we can leave your visit to the attic and to the farm for tomorrow,’ Bruno said.

‘I took Granny to the farm as soon as we arrived, before we called you,’ Yacov said. ‘She brought rubber boots specially because I’d told her what to expect. And don’t worry, we didn’t get the Rolls scratched.’

Interesting, thought Bruno, that she wanted to see the place without an escort from St Denis trying to sell her the town’s plan. Perhaps he should warn the Mayor to let her make her own way up to the attic where she’d been hidden.

‘It brought back a lot of memories, some of them very pleasant,’ Maya said. ‘Do we have time before dinner to go and see the attic in town? I really want to be sure it’s the right place.’

‘There’s just one thing I need to point out which should convince you, and you might not find it yourselves,’ Bruno said. ‘But, yes, we can go now.’

‘Dinner will be ready in about an hour or an hour and a half,’ said Pamela. ‘It’s smoked salmon and then
blanquette de veau
so don’t worry about getting back at any precise time.’

Maya nodded, finished her scotch and rose easily to her feet.
She was evidently very fit, thought Bruno. He’d wondered if they’d have to carry her up to the attic.

‘I’m looking forward to seeing these proposals of yours in the morning,’ she said. ‘And at some point I’d also like to see Mouleydier, or what’s left of the place. That’s probably my most powerful memory.’

Mouleydier was a small town on the way to Bergerac, nestled below the long, low rise above the river that nurtured the vineyards of Pécharmant, the noblest of the Bergerac wines. Bruno knew the area well, but was surprised that it had stayed in Maya’s mind. Was she talking of the battle that had taken place there? The town had been destroyed by Nazi troops, which presumably explained why she had used the phrase, ‘what’s left of the place’. Might this explain why she had never shown any interest in coming back to this region until her brother’s death?

‘I’ll take us all down memory lane over dinner,’ Maya said, seeing Bruno’s quizzical look. ‘In return, you must tell me all about this tragic young man they call the Engineer. The car radio was full of stories about him on the way down. But right now, I want to see that wretched little attic of St Denis where I was so unhappy.’

‘At least it kept you alive, Granny,’ said Yacov quietly. ‘No doubt you were unhappy, but you survived, you and David.’

‘We survived and then went through three more wars in Israel, and then putting on a gas mask all over again in the first Iraq war when Saddam Hussein was firing Scud missiles at Israel,’ she said. ‘And then I was in Haifa when the rockets fell there. I must be one of the most bombarded women alive.’

As he led the way out to the car, Bruno thought that Maya
must have known a lot more of war than he had, despite his spending over a decade in the French army. But that was the way of modern war, with civilians in the front lines. Yacov drove them back to St Denis in silence and Bruno led the way up the stairs of the old house to the attic. He had borrowed a light bulb from Pamela and installed it in the attic as Maya followed him up the stairs, much nimbler than he’d expected she would be. The Mayor had arranged for someone to clear away the rubbish and the place had been swept out and the tiny windows cleaned.

It still looked dreadful. Maya stood at the threshold, shaking her head, not recognizing the place at all. Then Bruno led her into the rear room and showed her the markings on the wall with her name below David’s. At last she nodded her head, looked around again, peered out of the window and said, ‘I remember that view.’

Yacov was examining the chest full of broken crockery and Maya picked out a large cup with a red line round the rim. ‘I remember this, too,’ she said.