Black Diamond - Martin Walker [98]
The mayor stood up, his fists clenched. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater over black jeans and looked fit. Bruno recalled seeing him play rugby for his town only a few years before, and he’d been pretty good. The cigarettes didn’t seem to have slowed him down. “Didier?” the mayor asked. “You sure about this?”
“Here is a copy of a sworn statement from one of the market staff explaining how the sealed packages were reopened.” Bruno handed Alain’s document across the wide desk. “Alain gave this statement to me voluntarily. I don’t think we should try charging him. We’re better off having him as a cooperative witness.”
“Didier, what a damn fool,” said the mayor, scanning Alain’s statement. He took a Disque Bleu from the pack on his desk. Bruno thought of the DÉFENSE DE FUMER signs all over every mairie in France. But a mayor could make his own rules.
Bruno went on to explain how the town was being cheated out of tens of thousands of euros each month. “The prices paid at the auctions held at the end of the day are much lower than they should be. And it’s getting worse. More and more of the truffles, particularly the high-grade ones, are being sold at these special auctions where the town makes very little profit. By my calculation, if these items were sold at the proper price, the town would be at least half a million euros better off.”
“Putain,” said the mayor, blowing out a stream of smoke. “This could cost me the election. Who else knows of this?”
Bruno decided to ignore the question. When politicians asked who else knew about an embarrassment, it usually meant they were tempted to hush things up. “There is also strong evidence that this final auction is being used to launder cash. The records say that it comes from Boniface Pons, although I can prove that on some occasions he wasn’t present when the cash was supposedly paid. As you know, Pons started a truffle plantation that was managed by Didier.”
The mayor nodded slowly. Bruno noticed that his healthy pallor had taken on a grayish tinge.
“Since Pons always paid cash this was probably lost on your accountants and may not have come to your attention. I have to recommend that you bring in the Police Nationale at this point. At any rate, I have to report my findings.”
“Half a million euros,” said the mayor, slumping down into his chair.
24
To Bruno’s surprise, all three mayoral candidates awaited him around the Christmas tree in the dining room of the retirement home, the largest indoor hall in St. Denis. Mathilde, the magnificently bosomed former nurse who ran the home, was engaging all three in stilted conversation while elderly ladies scurried back and forth with plates of sandwiches and cakes from the kitchens. They had clearly been baking all week, vying to outdo one another with their sacristains and madeleines, tartes aux noix and galettes for the children. There were bowls of raw baby carrots and tangerine segments, apples in bowls for bobbing and long rows of plastic glasses filled with orange juice and milk. Everything to fill with delight the soul of a healthy five-year-old, thought Bruno, and healthy forty-year-olds as well, even when clad in red velvet and a false white beard.
“Ah, our Father Christmas has arrived,” said Mathilde. “You look splendid, Bruno. It is you under all that?”
“Ho, ho, ho, it is indeed, Mathilde,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her thickly powdered cheeks and shaking hands with the three men. Pons senior, evidently still smarting from having Bruno’s wine poured down the front of his trousers, gave him a cold nod.
“I’m very glad we were able to combine all the parties this way and leave politics out of it,” said Bill with a brittle and unconvincing brightness. His features were drawn and strained. He stood to the left of the mayor and his father to the right. Neither one looked at the other or seemed ready to acknowledge