The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6) Read Online Free

dark cellar room that smelt of fuel oil. In the ceiling to one side he saw a chink of daylight.
    ‘This used to house the oil tank,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t been used for years. He’s got gas now for the central heating.’
    Back upstairs, she led him to the side of the terrace, where she pointed to two metal plates held together by a sturdy padlock and said that was where the oil tank was refilled. Then she showed him some tyre marks on a patch of lawn.
    ‘I think they brought their van round here to the back so they could load up easily,’ she said. ‘It rained all night the day before yesterday so maybe that was when they came.’
    ‘You should be doing my job,’ he said. ‘It must be those TV shows you watch.’ Bruno followed the line of the telephone wire to the place where it had been cut. He called the security number at France Télécom to see if they could establish a time when the line had gone down. It had been shortly before 1 p.m. two days earlier, a clever choice. If the house was occupied, they could come back later. If the wealthy foreigner was out, he was almost certainly at lunch and would not be back for an hour or more.
    ‘It’s a shame,’ Gaëlle said, following in his footsteps. ‘He’s such a nice man, always polite and generous and he keeps the place very neat. You wouldn’t know there wasn’t a woman in the house.’ She looked a little wistful, evidently fond of her employer. ‘She died the year after they bought this place, his wife. He keeps a portrait of her in the bedroom, but that’s still there.’
    Bruno nodded but said nothing. The burglars must haveknown that Crimson would be away, and that his house was very much worth robbing. They had come equipped with a van large enough to take a dining room table, chairs and cases of wine as well as the paintings and a valuable old clock that Gaëlle said stood on the mantelpiece in the living room. That suggested inside knowledge and that in turn meant, however unlikely it seemed, that Gaëlle had to be a suspect, or at least eliminated from suspicion.
    ‘Where did you have lunch the day before yesterday, Gaëlle?’ he asked, as casually as he could. Gaëlle eyed him steadily and replied: ‘With my cousin Roberte from the
Mairie
, helping her bake stuff for her kid’s birthday party. Don’t worry, I know you have to ask.’
    He tried Crimson’s number in England, but like Gaëlle he heard only the automated voice and the beep that invited him to leave a message. He did so, briefly and slowly, giving his office and cellphone numbers and adding that he’d come back with a new padlock and hasp for the forced shutters and would try to secure the house. When Gaëlle pedalled away down the drive, Bruno debated with himself whether he should go the extra step. Remembering the fine dinner he’d enjoyed at Crimson’s table, he decided that he should and he rang Isabelle’s number at the Interior Ministry in Paris. Again, he was invited to leave a message and he gave Crimson’s name and London number, asking if Isabelle could inform her Scotland Yard contacts to see if they could track him down.
    How would the thieves get rid of such a mixture of stuff, Bruno wondered. Furniture, rugs and paintings could be sold at any one of the
brocantes
, the antiques fairs that were held in town after town throughout the French summer. There mustbe thousands of them, everything sold for cash and no records of the sellers. Unless Crimson’s possessions ended up with a reputable dealer, the chances of tracking them down, even with the photos, were slim. The wine might be different, unless the thieves had very discerning palates and wanted it for themselves.
    That triggered an idea, and as he re-entered St Denis Bruno checked the time and turned off into the driveway to the
collège
, parking in front of the row of modest apartments where the teachers lived. Subsidized and almost free housing was one of the ways the French state sought to lure