Black Diamond - Martin Walker [28]
Bruno knew better than to argue with Fabiola in professional mode so he grumpily agreed. She told him to take two aspirin for the headache and went downstairs to the interview room with Sergeant Jules to see the Asian. Bruno called the gas station to ask about his van. It had been new when he started the job as the municipal policeman of St. Denis, but that had been ten years, one reconditioned engine and more than two hundred thousand miles ago.
“Looks like they didn’t know about the brakes,” said the garage owner when he came to the phone after a long wait. Jean-Louis Lespinasse, whose passion in life was to restore old Citroëns, took great pride in keeping Bruno’s van on the road. But the brakes needed special care. Bruno found that a combination of a low gear, pumping the brake pedal and prayer usually worked.
“They only stopped when they ran into the lamppost,” Lespinasse went on. “If you ask me, the frame’s gone and it’s a write-off. I’ll get the boy to take some photos and e-mail them to you for the insurance. Meantime, what should I tell this guy whose car they took?”
“Tell him the gendarmes have an alert out for it, and I’ll be along as soon as I can and give him the number of the incident report, but he might want to inform his insurance company.”
Fabiola and Jules came up the stairs as the main door to the gendarmerie opened. A middle-aged man with a self-important air approached the main desk. His clothes looked expensive.
“I’m Poincevin,” he announced. “I’m here to see a client who’s been detained.”
“And I’m the arresting officer,” said Bruno. “One moment please.” He turned to Fabiola. “Okay?”
“He’s in better shape than you are,” she replied. “But one thing. I thought that Vietnamese friend of yours was supposed to be bringing his wife to the medical center. Neither of them turned up.”
“I’d better check on that,” said Bruno. “Thank you, Mademoiselle le Médecin.” He smiled, her formal title a private joke between them. He turned back to Poincevin, who clearly did not like to be kept waiting.
“Perhaps you did not hear me,” the lawyer said coldly. “I’m here to see my client.”
“We intend to charge the prisoner with one count of criminal damage, three counts of assault, one of them on a policeman, and attempting to evade lawful arrest,” Bruno said. “So far, we have no name, no statement and no proof of identity. If this detainee is your client, I’m hoping you can help us with that.”
“I will see my client at once,” said Poincevin, waving aside the list of charges. “And I wish to see the gendarme officier in charge of this station. I’m not in the habit of dealing with village policemen.” He made the phrase sound like “village idiot.”
“Now just you wait a moment …,” began Sergeant Jules, but Bruno held up a restraining hand.
“Which client, Monsieur Poincevin?”
Jules settled back, leaning against the doorframe, a smile on his face. He always enjoyed it when Bruno started calling someone “monsieur” and using that tone of icy politeness.
“What do you mean, ‘which client’?” Poincevin snapped. “The one in your cell, of course.”
“And the name of your client, monsieur, would be what?”
“The Chinese boy.”
“Ah, monsieur speaks Chinese.”
“I do not, but I have an interpreter waiting in the car outside, a member of my staff.”
“And does your interpreter know the name of your client?”
“He will once I as his lawyer am allowed to see him.”
“Monsieur, am I to understand that you think you have a client here, but you do not know his name?”
“My office was telephoned from this gendarmerie some two hours ago and informed that a young Chinese boy had been arrested and had offered them the number of my office. He is therefore my client.”
“Monsieur, you are mistaken,” Bruno said. “When that call was made, we had no idea whether he was Chinese or an Eskimo. We informed your office that a young man of Asian appearance had been arrested and was in possession of your phone number. But now you tell us he is Chinese. That represents progress. Now, if he is indeed your client, you will have his