Blood Summer by Steven Dunne

Author:Steven Dunne [Dunne, Steven]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Reaper Publications
Published: 2021-07-28T22:00:00+00:00

Benoit locked his car near the Hotel Deux Rocs and strolled through the cobbled maze of Seillans’ steep streets down to the village’s main artery. Sleek cats adorned every nook, cranny and windowsill, unfazed by Benoit’s descent through the heart of the ancient village.

At the main road, a modest corner bar called Chez Bertrand plied its trade with small tables and chairs scattered around its exterior. A sprinkling of tourists and locals sat drinking beverages in the shade of the building so Benoit located an unoccupied table next to a babbling fountain and installed himself onto the stiff-backed wooden chair.

‘Monsieur?’ enquired a grizzled man of about fifty, brown hair, peppered with grey. His face sported a deep leathery tan and his gravelled voice suggested a lifetime’s love affair with tobacco. He wiped down the table as he waited.

‘Café,’ said Benoit. When the man returned to the bowels of the building, Benoit took out his ID and the photograph of the man embracing Carla Renfrew at the fête and lay them both on the table, while he lit a cigarette. The man returned and, placing the cup and saucer and a clean ashtray on the table, he darted a glance at the picture.

Benoit examined the man’s arm below the short sleeve shirt but couldn’t see the tattoo. ‘Sit down, Monsieur Bertrand.’

Bertrand gazed steadily at Benoit, his watery blue eyes revealing a temptation to decline. ‘I’m busy.’

Benoit’s smile was implacable and Bertrand relented, slumping sullenly onto the opposite chair.

‘What do you want?’

‘You knew Madame Butler,’ said Benoit. ‘That’s you, embracing her at the Easter fête.’

‘Is it?’ said Bertrand. ‘You must have X-ray vision, monsieur.’

Benoit took a sip of coffee. He took out a second picture, a close-up of the partial tattoo on the man’s arm. ‘That’s the lower part of a Foreign Legion tattoo, the Grenade Emblem. Lift up your sleeve and make a fool of me.’

Bertrand stared then gestured at Benoit’s cigarettes, shaking one out of the pack after a nod of permission. ‘Yes, that’s me in the photograph with Charlotte. What of it?’

‘First name terms?’ exclaimed Benoit.

‘Of course,’ said Bertrand. ‘She was a regular. She walked into the village every day to get bread. I’d wish her bonjour, offer her coffee. She’d politely refuse and set off back up the hill to the villa.’

‘So, you knew where she lived?’

‘Everyone in the village knew.’

Benoit’s eyes bored into Bertrand’s. ‘The greeting you gave Madame at the fête suggests something more intimate.’

Bertrand took a huge belt of smoke, composing a reply. ‘Very well. Yes, we were lovers,’ he said, fighting off a smile. ‘There’s no shame in that.’

‘She stopped politely refusing your attentions then?’

‘Obviously.’

‘How did it start?’

‘One day, she bought bread and, as she passed, I saw she was upset so I sat her down, brought her coffee and tried to comfort her.’ Benoit raised an eyebrow. Bertrand stiffened. ‘She was upset,’ he insisted.

‘And, of course, you took care of her like any chivalrous ex-soldier would,’ said Benoit.

Bertrand took a pull on his cigarette, unable to meet Benoit’s piercing gaze.

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