The Critic Read Free Page A

together with a clip he had no doubt bought himself. ‘This one I was at school with. Serge Coste. Just upped sticks and left a year ago. His wife says she has no idea why. But I figure they had a big bust up. They were childless. She wanted to adopt, he didn’t. That sort of thing can put people under all sorts of pressure. But we’ll probably never know why he left, or where he went.’ He closed the file and slapped his hand on top of it. ‘We had no reason to suspect foul play when Petty disappeared. Even when we came under pressure—he was an international personality, after all—we could find no evidence that there had been any crime committed.’
    ‘Even when he turned up strapped to a cross like a scarecrow in a vineyard?’
    ‘That was twelve months later. The trail was cold as ice.’
    ‘Not where he was found. He’d only been there a matter of hours. You had a fresh crime scene. And a killer always leaves something behind. Some clue. No matter how small. Always.’
    Roussel pursed his lips to contain his anger. ‘Officers from the
Police Scientifique
in Albi examined the scene in the minutest detail, Monsieur Macleod. If the killer had left some trace, we would have found it.’ He pushed himself back in his seat and pulled open a drawer. He took out a book and dropped it on his desk.
    Enzo inclined his head to look at it.
    ‘Your friend, Roger Raffin is causing me no end of trouble, Macleod.’ Enzo noticed that Roussel had dropped the
monsieur
. ‘Especially now that it’s been translated and published in the United States. Although no doubt only because it contains the Petty case. You just missed his daughter.’
    This time Enzo’s interest was piqued. “Michelle Petty? She’s here?’
    ‘Not for long. She was looking for his personal belongings.’
    ‘After three years? She’s taken her time.’
    ‘Four years since he went missing. And it’s the first contact we’ve had from any member of the family—apart from arranging to ship the body back for burial.’
    ‘So what did you tell her?’
    ‘That his personal effects are still regarded as evidence in an open case. So I don’t think she’ll be here for much longer.’
    ‘I don’t suppose you’d know where she’s staying.’
    Roussel fixed him with hard eyes. ‘And why should I tell you?’
    ‘To get me off your back.’
    Which brought a smile to the gendarme’s face. The first in a while. ‘Now there’s an offer. She’s staying at the Château de Salettes, Monsieur Macleod. It’s where all the really wealthy tourists stay. I’d say Michelle Petty has done pretty well from her father’s death.’

Chapter Two
    I.
    The narrow road wound upwards amongst vineyards that stretched away through chalk hills north and south, as far as the eye could see. Some of the vines were still laden, heavy bunches of tightly packed black braucol or duras grapes, or the yellow-green mauzac or
loin de l’oeil
—romantically named “far from the eye” because of it’s long stalk. Others had already been harvested, and seemed naked somehow, stripped of their fruit under the hot September sun. The
vendange
was early this year after a heat wave in July and a warm, wet August. It promised a fine vintage.
    The landscape was punctuated by tall, thin poplars, like exclamation marks, and the distinctive
pins parasols
, pine trees that spread their dark canopies like giant parasols to provide shade from the heat of the day. Hilltop villages in shimmering white stone were roofed with red Roman tiles and set at shallow angles, in the Mediterranean style. Enzo’s polished cream Citroen 2CV rolled on soft suspension as he steered it right at the crossroads. The car was his pride and joy, lovingly restored by a specialist in Belgium from the carcasses of cars long since extinct. It was quintessentially French, and with its roof rolled back like a sardine can, gave Enzo’s big frame all the space he needed.
    From its windows he had a panoramic view