Black Diamond - Martin Walker [95]
“You lost your phone?” he asked. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”
Bruno dropped his hand to the familiar pouch at his waist to find it empty and then remembered the brigadier taking it from him. He had spent the journey dozing, half waking as the little train stopped at St. Emilion and Ste. Foy la Grande and chugged on its way through the vineyards of Castillon and Pomerol. Wine lovers would take this train as an act of pilgrimage. For Bruno, the endless rows of vines were comforting images of the homeland he loved, more felt than seen as he tried to catch up on his sleep.
“Sorry,” he said. “My phone’s being replaced by some fancy model that can’t be wiretapped. We’ve had some trouble that way.”
“Florence from the truffle market has been trying to reach you. Good news, she says. Something about a logbook.”
“How well do you know Didier, Nicco?”
“The market manager? Well enough. Can’t say I like him much. Is he the one behind this fraud business?”
“The logbook’ll tell us. It’s been missing.”
“So it’s an inside job, no great surprise. But how big is it? I just heard about a couple of complaints. It didn’t sound like much.”
“I won’t know until I’ve gone through all the books, but it looks pretty serious.”
“You mean there could be criminal charges?”
“That’ll be up to your mayor.” Bruno wanted to change the subject. “When did Florence call?”
“She called me a couple of times, said she couldn’t reach you. She also said she’d see you at the children’s party today, unless you want to see her sooner. I could take you to her place once we’ve picked up your car.”
“Thanks—but I’ve no idea where she lives.”
“She’s got a little place above a hairdresser’s, just a couple of rooms. Must be cramped with the kids, but she said she’d be moving to St. Denis.”
“That’s right. She’s got a new job there, teaching science at the collège.”
Back in his Land Rover, Bruno followed Nicco to the small hairdresser’s shop that served the public housing project on the outskirts of town. Nicco pointed, waved and drove off, and Bruno pressed the cheap plastic button that flanked the narrow door to the upstairs apartment. He heard the sound of a distant buzzer and then steps coming down a staircase.
“Bruno!” Florence said with surprise as she opened the door, at once putting one hand to her hair, another smoothing her apron. Animated, her face had softened and become more … Bruno searched for the word. He could never call her pretty. It made her more attractive, and much less remote. “I hadn’t expected …”
“Nicco picked me up at the station and told me you’d called, about the logbook. But if this is a bad time …”
“I was just getting the children ready for a walk.” She gestured vaguely at the folding double stroller that almost blocked the narrow stairs.
“Then I’ll walk with you,” he said. “Let me get the stroller ready, and you bring the kids down.” He reached in and took the folded stroller from the hall, and with a hurried smile she nodded and went back up the stairs.
Bruno smiled to himself as he looked at his watch. Perhaps two minutes to dress the kids, another two minutes to bring them down, and the rest would be spent changing her clothes and fixing her face. Some women would keep him waiting half an hour. He suspected that Florence would be down more quickly than that. She made it, changed and hair brushed, and with the kids in overcoats and gloves and little woolen hats, in less than five minutes.
“Dora and Daniel,” said Florence. “ ‘Dora’ is short for ‘Dorothée.’ ”
Bruno knelt down to the height of the children and solemnly greeted each of them before lifting them into their seats and fastening the little seatbelts. The children were clean and cheerful and glowing with health.
“I found the logbook,” she said as he rose. “I know how Didier’s mind works. He’s careful. He likes to have proper excuses when things go wrong. I didn’t think he’d destroy the logbook or even hide it somewhere that had no reasonable explanation.”
“As if it had been