The Cyclist (18 page)

‘Nothing. We have a job to do. There is no need for conversation.’

Silence descended then. Auguste wondered what was happening. Had Arnaud informed on this man Aubrac? Had Brunner sent them off on a wild goose chase to hide some other activity?

The car turned off to the left as soon as they neared Beynac. Auguste could see the ruins of the Chateau high above, perched on a high hill as if Richard the Lionheart was still peering down at him from above. The wicked English, the “Rosbifs”, were rumoured to haunt the ruins, though Auguste paid no attention to such childish ideas.

They drove up a steep hill passing neat tilled fields cut out of the forest on their right side. To the left the terrain was rough and wooded, a steep embankment rising above them. The road twisted, turned and by the time they reached the church of Cazenac Auguste felt a faint nausea, despite his empty stomach. He was relieved when the road opened out a little and they headed for St Andre.

The car descended a rise and passed an embankment on the right. Forested slopes rose to their left. It was there it happened.

Auguste could recall seeing the logs across the road. He remembered the explosion and then all was black. He had a feeling of flying and then a floating sensation. A bright light shone in his eyes for a second or two and he had vague memories of faces peering down at him.

He awoke lying on the road verge. His head thumped and when he tried to open his eyes, the lids seemed stuck down by some sticky discharge. It brought a strange memory to mind. He recalled how when he was a small child he had an infection in one eye. The doctor said it was a ‘sticky’ eye. He found himself imagining he was back there in those times. His mother shaking her head, fussing over cold compresses and eyewash.

He shook his head and his next waking sensation was of being pulled, dragged and deposited somewhere hard. His understanding of events began to spread like a bruise in his mind and he forced his eyes open. Out of focus and smeared with whatever stuck to his eyes, he could make out blurred and grey figures. He seemed to be in a barn or outhouse of some kind, then all went black again.

When he awoke once more, it was to the sensation of someone wiping his eyes. It was no gentle hand. He drew his head away and this time knew he could see. A bearded figure wearing a grey beret stood over him and he realised he was lying on his back. He tried to sit up but a brown-booted foot pushed him down and he found he had the strength of a kitten.

A voice made of gravel said, ‘Pierre, he’s awake.’

‘Let him up, Jules.’

His friend’s voice took time to penetrate and he began to piece together what had happened. His head throbbed and he understood he must have hit his head and the eye-stickiness was blood. His captors had tied his hands in front of him. They felt numb from lack of circulation and a dull pain grabbed his fingers like a vice.

Then the man removed the boot from his chest. He tried to sit up but all he could manage was to raise himself to one elbow. He looked around. His head swam.

The driver of the Mercedes lay beside him. He did not move. Auguste realised he was dead. It took little imagination to understand: half of his face and adjoining head were missing.

His voice a dry croak, he said, ‘Pierre? Where am I?’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘But...’

‘Lie still. There is nothing to do but accept what God delivers. You have hit your head in the blast. You are confused.’

Auguste looked to his left. He swallowed. A shiver ran down his spine. He could see Linz. They had torn his uniform from his body. They had hung him upside down, stuffed rags in his mouth and tied them with a cloth gag. The German wriggled. He squirmed.

The bearded man crossed to the suspended German and stood next to him with a Laguiole knife in his right hand. Auguste knew, despite his confused mind, what was going to happen. He looked away. He was glad there would be no screams. He was not a squeamish man but he had no desire to hear the cries of a man dying in agony. Icy fear gripped him. He knew the Maquis would never let Linz live. He knew they wanted some kind of reprisal for their friends and relatives, tortured in the Mairie by Linz and Brunner. Would they butcher him too? Would they hang him up like a carcass? Was this how it would end? Pierre—would he allow it?

2

Despite turning away, he heard whimpers from Linz. The bearded man, Jules, described what he was doing.

‘First we remove the testicles.’

‘Pierre, don’t do this,’ Auguste heard himself say.

He heard more whimpers, obstructed by the gag but still audible. Pierre crouched to him.

‘Listen to him, Auguste. Jules is doing what they do to our men, our comrades. It is a good sound. It is the sound of revenge. This one tortured and killed Jules’ brother. We knew he would talk so we moved camp, but he was noble, strong. He kept silent for twenty-four hours, as we have all agreed to do to give the group time to move on. The SD dumped his body at the edge of the woods. They had removed his scrotal contents and choked him with them. Look. It is justice. Just look.’

Pierre tried to push Auguste’s chin to make him see. Auguste shoved his friend’s hand away with his tied hands.

‘Are you becoming like them? By doing this you become them. Don’t you see?’

Auguste got to his feet. He swayed as he gripped Pierre by the lapels. In his peripheral vision, he saw blood pouring down Linz’s stomach and chest as he wriggled and squirmed.

‘Don’t you see? You cannot defeat a demon by becoming one? Kill him Pierre. Kill him. For the love of God.’

For a brief moment, their eyes met. A heated glance. A fiery flash of understanding and Pierre turned, rifle in hand. He raised it to his shoulder. With a speed to make any huntsman envious, he planted a bullet in the German’s head. The exiting slug took half of the skull bone with it and brain and blood sprayed behind in a gory mess on the straw. The report, in the confines of the barn, made Auguste’s already ringing ears sting with tinnitus.

Jules turned, knife in hand.

‘You bastard. You know what you have robbed me of?’

‘We don’t have the time. The woods will be alive with Germans in half an hour and you want to spend time doing this? Call Josephine and let’s go.’

‘What about him?’

‘I’ll take care of him.’

‘You want the knife?’

‘No. I’ll do it my way. Now go.’

A look of fury wreathed the man’s face but he left. Auguste could hear him calling to Josephine.

‘You’re going to kill the man who protects your daughter,’ Auguste said.

‘How can you be so stupid? Lie down and keep quiet.’

Auguste did as Pierre asked and he looked up at his friend, uncomprehending.

Pierre raised his weapon. He fired it in the air and winked at Auguste. Auguste watched as Pierre ran to the barn door and slammed it shut, leaving him alone with the two bodies. He heard a truck start up and wondered what would happen now. He could do nothing. If he left and found his way back to the main road, Brunner might accuse him of complicity in the killings. If he stayed where he was, they would assume he was next, but the attackers had no time to dispose of him. He waited.

Chapter 15

1

Rain made a gentle pattering sound on the windowpane as Auguste sat in the hard-backed chair. Brunner’s office, illuminated by two table lamps, appeared comfortable and as well appointed as a hotel lounge. On the right hand wall was the stolen painting and the bookshelves opposite seemed filled with old books. An antique inkstand adorned the desk in front of him, no doubt stolen from somewhere, Auguste mused. He detected a faint smell of mothballs but could not localise its source.

 He was uncomfortable. His head ached and his back felt bruised. His left elbow had ballooned with a bruise but he knew there were no bones broken; he could still bend his arm. Brunner’s office was warm at least but nothing could make Auguste enthusiastic about what he knew was to come.

German soldiers had taken him from the barn. They refused to speak to him but did not handle him in a rough or disdainful manner. The journey back had been a bumpy and painful one. Only when they arrived at the Mairie did they cut his bonds. He wondered on the journey if there was a German word for suspension, for none seemed prevalent in the mechanics of the armoured truck bringing him back to Bergerac.

Presently, the door opened and Auguste looked over his shoulder at Brunner. For once, there was no bonhomie, no smile and no humour.

‘Helmut,’ Auguste said, ‘I need to get this cut dressed.’

‘Yes, Inspector, but we must talk first.’

‘Inspector? This is unusually formal.’

‘It is a serious matter.’

‘It certainly is. I need to get home, let my wife know I am safe and get my cut washed and dressed.’

‘Linz.’

‘Yes, poor fellow. I saw his body when they got me out of the place.’

Auguste noticed he was speaking much too fast and managed to regain control and slowed down mid-sentence.

‘You did not witness it?’

‘No, I awoke as the soldiers dragged me out. I’m relieved they didn’t fire the barn before leaving. I presume it was the Maquis?’

‘Yes. I’m interested in why you say “they”? How did you know there was more than one?’

‘The driver and Linz and me. How could one man have taken us to that place on his own? Partisans work in groups, you know that.’

‘Linz suffered terribly.’

‘Perhaps God was kind and made him faint before the end?’

‘It is unusual with what they did to him. Usually they scream and bleed but if you press hard on the wounds, they stop bleeding. One can keep such pain going a long time without too much blood loss.’

‘You seem to know about such things?’

‘One reads, you know. I have read many firsthand accounts by torturers. You could say I have made a study of it.’

‘It is not something we use in the police force.’

‘No, but the stakes are different, are they not? Police work is about obtaining information freely given and piecing it together. My work is different. It is an inquiry but also a punishment; the Spanish Inquisitors understood it. I am sure you understand too in your way. You are, after all, a mature and intelligent man.’

Auguste was silent.

‘You see, my little policeman, I have the wider responsibilities of the security of the state, not only a duty to protect a small local population.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘What happened, of course.’

‘Well, we were on the St Andre road and I recall logs being in the road and an explosion.’

‘What happened next?’

‘Nothing. I was unconscious until the soldiers came. I recall some dark figures and a feeling of being lifted.’

‘Can you describe any of your captors?’

‘Helmut. I must go. I’ve told you all I know. It has not been a good day.’

Auguste knew he had to play his part well. He estimated Brunner was an expert at reading the faces of liars, even when disguised by dried blood, perhaps even better then. It was what Brunner was inured to, it seemed.

‘I will not detain you longer. There seems to be remarkably little you can tell me.’

Auguste stood.

‘Thank you. I’m truly sorry I could not be of more help.’

‘Help? Of course you can help. I will have five local men hanged. Reprisal is the only way to make these insurgents understand the more they cause damage, the more their people will suffer. It will make the Maquis unpopular.’

‘Five men?’

‘Yes, I will leave it up to you to choose whom you wish to arrest, but as soon as you have had a little rest, I will expect to see a hanging.’

‘I am a policeman, not an executioner.’

Auguste stared at the German. A feeling of utter revulsion filled him; it took a superhuman effort to hide the fury he felt. He swallowed. The taste of blood was rank in his mouth. He coughed.

‘You protest too loudly, Auguste. My men will hang them. I just want you to select them and bring them to me. We will hang them outside the Mairie for all to see. I will have the gallows built tomorrow. Poor Linz will not go unavenged. The Führer does not tolerate terrorists and nor do I.’

The room was silent and then Brunner said, ‘One other thing.’

‘Yes?’ Auguste said, but he was choking over the emotion welling up within.

‘Why do you think they left you alive?’

‘What?’

‘Well, the driver died in the blast. They took his body to hide it. Linz, they took for revenge and mercifully, they killed him. But you? They left you tied and unconscious. They could have killed you but did not.’

‘I...I suppose it was because I am French.’

‘You think these vermin see you as French? You work with my men and directly for the Vichy government. Hand in glove. Together. They left you alive for a reason.’

‘Perhaps the soldiers disturbed them and they had to get away. Look, my head is killing me. I need to get home. If there is nothing else?’

He noticed a thoughtful frown on the German’s face.

Brunner said, ‘Yes, Auguste, you may go now. I will order my men to take you home.’

A sudden thought flickered in Auguste’s mind.

‘Helmut, one thing bothers me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The girl who was murdered, Bernadette.’

‘Yes, a flower of femininity. Such a waste, was it not?’

‘She fought her captors.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes, there was blood under a fingernail. She must have scratched her torturer on the face.’

‘Very natural, I’m sure.’

‘You had a scratch on your left cheek next day.’

‘I told you, I fell.’

‘What blood group are you?’

‘What is this? Is the hunter to become the hunted? You think I am involved in such a sordid thing? Are you defending yourself? Have you done something wrong, that you need to attack me? Are you hiding something?’

‘No, it was just the way you talked about torture. You seem enamoured of it.’

Auguste wondered if he had overstepped the mark, but he wanted to distract Brunner. He seemed to know so much, yet like Auguste, he had no proof, nothing tangible to offer. No evidence.