Black Diamond - Martin Walker [42]
“The cleanup crew is on the way,” the mayor said, putting away his mobile phone. “And we’ll pay for the turpentine and towels,” he added as Marie scurried up toward them, laden with a large pack of paper towels. Suddenly Bruno heard an ambulance siren, getting louder.
“Bruno,” J-J called from across the street, standing in a shop doorway and beckoning for Bruno to join him.
“Is this like the incident at your market the other day?”
“Yes and no,” Bruno replied. “Paint instead of fuel oil and the attackers came by motorbike rather than car. I think it’s a safe bet they’re linked, but they learned something from what went wrong in St. Denis. I need to talk to Vinh, the man whose stall was trashed earlier. I’ve no idea what’s behind this. And Vinh’s disappeared along with his wife. At least now I’ve got another Asian victim.”
“So have I,” said J-J heavily. “Just got a call from the office. You know that big Chinese restaurant in Périgueux, the Golden Dragon, beside the Asian supermarket?”
Bruno nodded. “The one you told me the big boys in Paris were interested in.”
“That’s the one. It got burned down last night, or rather early this morning. Gasoline bombs through the windows, front and back.”
“Vinh was hit by a Chinese in St. Denis, and now the Chinese get hit in Périgueux.” Bruno paused. “I’m out of my depth here, J-J. If this is turning into some kind of Asian gang war, I wouldn’t know where to start looking.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. The restaurant could have been firebombed by the aggrieved former owner.”
“Maybe, but he’d be a brave man, taking on the big boys like that.”
“A fool, more likely. It could be an insurance scam. The Chinese do a lot of that.”
Suddenly young Pierre was looming at Bruno’s shoulder, holding out Bruno’s mobile phone. “My father’s on his way, stopping off first for some clothes.” He paused. “I was careful not to get any of this paint on your phone.”
“Thanks, Pierre,” said Bruno, quickly saving the last number dialed so he’d be able to keep contact with Duong. He didn’t want to lose him like he’d lost Vinh. He turned to Léopold and led the big Senegalese away so they could talk quietly.
“Remember you told me that Vinh had a bit of trouble last Saturday in Sarlat market? Is that the only other incident?”
It was, Léopold said, the only one he’d seen. But he’d heard of scuffles in Bergerac and in Rouffignac where Chinese vendors were trying to muscle in on the best locations at the markets. There were only enough customers for one Asian food stall, particularly in winter. In the summer, the big tourist trade might have meant enough business for many stalls. But in winter the Vietnamese knew their livelihood was at stake, and they couldn’t afford the Chinese competition. They would fight back, all of them.
“And they’re friends, the Vinhs and Duongs, not rivals?” asked Bruno.
“Some kind of cousins, I think. You’d better ask them,” Léopold said. “And I’d better get back to my stall. All these interruptions are bad for my business too.”
When he had gone, Bruno spoke quietly to J-J. “Hercule Vendrot was a friend of the Vinh family. He’s murdered. They’ve disappeared after being attacked. Now their cousins are attacked. Smells like a connection to me.”
“That’s how I see it,” J-J replied. “But we need to get the Duongs to talk, and to find your man Vinh.”
“That son of theirs, Pierre, was born and brought up here and speaks like a local. If the Duongs have been here that long, they’ll be naturalized by now. Do you think your office could check out their citizenship applications? We might find something useful, other family members and addresses, sponsors, that kind of thing.”
J-J eyed him doubtfully. “How’s that going to help us with Hercule’s murder?”
“I don’t know. But Hercule served in Vietnam, had a Vietnamese wife who died young. He may have a Vietnamese daughter somewhere, but if we can’t find her, his will leaves his money to a Viet