Read Chapter 9: The Interrogation

The knock came at nine in the morning, heavy and official. Alex had been in the kitchen drinking coffee, the letter from Reynard folded in his pocket like a live coal. Through the window he watched Inspector Delacroix climb out of an unmarked Renault, his suit the color of wet slate, a folder tucked beneath his arm.

Claire appeared in the doorway, her face drawn. “He asked for you personally.”

“He asked for the heir,” Alex said, setting down his cup. “Let’s not pretend this is social.”

Delacroix entered without waiting for an invitation, his eyes moving from the stone walls to the beams overhead with the practiced neutrality of a man who noticed everything and judged nothing yet. He held out his hand. Alex shook it. The inspector’s grip was dry and brief.

“Monsieur Moreau. My condolences again on your father.”

“Thank you.” Alex gestured to the sitting room. “Coffee?”

“No. I won’t keep you long.” Delacroix settled into an armchair, placing the folder on his knee. He didn’t open it. “I wanted to speak about the fire.”

“I already gave my statement to the gendarmes.”

“Yes, and a very clean statement it was. Accelerant detected, signs of forced entry through the rear door, no witnesses.” Delacroix smiled thinly. “Almost too clean, if you don’t mind my saying. Most people in your position would be shouting about insurance fraud and rival vintners. You were remarkably composed.”

Alex kept his face neutral. “I’m a banker. We’re trained to be composed when things burn.”

The inspector’s smile didn’t waver. “Quite. Which brings me to the second reason for my visit.” He opened the folder, but didn’t turn it around. “We’ve received the preliminary financial records from the estate’s accounting firm. Routine, in a case like this. Arson investigations often look at motive. And motive often lives in the numbers.”

“I’m sure you understand the wine business better than I do by now.”

“I understand that your father sold nearly two hundred barrels last year. I also understand that the yields from Clos des Anges could not possibly account for that volume.” Delacroix watched him. “Unless, of course, he was buying grapes from neighboring growers and selling under his own label, which would be a fairly minor violation but not unusual. Or unless the records don’t tell the full story.”

Alex said nothing.

“The fire destroyed the barrel shed,” Delacroix continued, closing the folder and placing it back on his knee. “Convenient timing, wouldn’t you say? A week after you inherit, and suddenly the physical evidence of your father’s—how shall I put it—ambitious production figures goes up in smoke.”

“You think I burned my own shed?”

“I think you’re an intelligent man standing in the middle of a very complicated inheritance. And I think whoever lit that fire knew exactly what they were doing. They used a slow-burning accelerant that gave them time to leave before the flames took hold. Professional work. The kind that suggests experience. Or insurance. Sometimes both.” He paused. “But you’d know more about that than I would.”

Alex met his eyes. “I was in London the night of the fire. You have the flight records, the airline manifests, the hotel receipts. Whatever you’re suggesting, it’s not born out by the facts.”

“I’m not suggesting anything.” Delacroix stood, smoothing his trousers. “Merely observing that, in my experience, the person who benefits most from a fire is not always the one who lights it. Sometimes it’s the person who wants others to believe he did.” He walked toward the door, then paused. “One more thing. Your father’s death certificate lists cause as myocardial infarction. Natural causes. But the physician who signed it, an old family friend, apparently retired to Nice six weeks later. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Alex felt a cold thread run down his spine. “Doctor Roussel? He treated my father for years.”

“He did. And he treated him well enough that your father left him a substantial bequest in the will.” Delacroix’s eyes were flat. “The bequest was paid out three days before your father’s body was found. Which would be odd, since wills are only executed after death. Unless the payment was made outside the will—separately, quietly, as a gesture of gratitude. I’m sure there’s an innocent explanation. Perhaps your father was simply kind.”

The inspector opened the front door and stepped onto the gravel. “If you hear anything about who set that fire, I’d appreciate a call. And if you remember anything about your father’s business that might explain his generosity, I’d appreciate that as well.” He got into his car without another word.

Alex stood in the doorway, watching the Renault disappear down the access road. The black Peugeot was gone from its usual post, or perhaps it had simply moved deeper into the treeline. He couldn’t tell anymore. He was starting to see watchers everywhere.

Claire came up behind him, her voice low. “What did he want?”

“He knows something. Maybe not everything, but enough.” Alex turned back into the house. “He mentioned Doctor Roussel’s bequest. Paid three days before Father died.”

Claire’s face went pale. “That’s not possible. A bequest can’t be paid before death.”

“Exactly. Which means it wasn’t a bequest. It was a retirement package. His doctor, paid off three days before he died.” Alex’s hands were trembling slightly, and he clenched them. “I’d assumed Father’s heart attack was natural. Stress, grief, old age. But if they could get to a doctor, they could get to anyone.”

“Vincent wasn’t murdered.” Claire said it firmly, as if repetition would make it true. “He died in his sleep. I found him myself.”

“And who told you that? The doctor? The same doctor who retired with a payment three days before the funeral?” Alex shook his head. “They didn’t need a dramatic death. They just needed his heart to stop. A quiet injection, a careless pharmacist, a doctor with debts looking the other way. It happens every day.”

“Who would do that? Vichet?”

“Vichet is a broker. He moves money and threatens people. But he’s not the one who decides whether someone lives or dies.” Alex pulled the anonymous letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and stared at the photograph of his father with Marcel Reynard in Macau. The debt belongs to Alex, the letter said. Tell anyone and you’ll follow your father.

“Reynard,” he said quietly. “It was always Reynard.”

Claire was silent for a long moment. “Étienne thought the same thing. That’s why he wanted to go to the police. He said Vincent was in too deep, and the only way out was through the law. Vincent told him no. He said Reynard’s reach extended further than any court. That going to the police would get everyone killed.”

“And then Étienne disappeared.”

“Not disappeared,” Claire said. “He’s in Fleurie with Mathilde. At least, he was. That was two years ago.”

Alex folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. The black car was still gone, but he no longer cared about being followed. The fire had been a warning. Delacroix’s visit had been a reminder that the law was watching from the other side. And now, with his father’s death looking less like fate and more like murder, there was no longer a question of whether to act.

He walked back through the house to the kitchen, where the map was already spread on the table. The farm track behind the eastern plateau was marked in pencil, winding through the forest toward the village of Fleurie. Forty kilometers of dirt and gravel that would take most of the morning to drive, but would keep him out of sight of the main roads.

“I’m going,” he said. “Today. To find Étienne.”

“It’s dangerous. If Reynard’s people are watching the estate, they’ll be watching the roads to Fleurie.”

“That’s why I’m taking the back way.” He looked at her. “You said yourself—Father told you I’d know what to do with what was hidden in the cellar. I found the ledger. I found the passports. What I haven’t found is the truth about who killed him. That’s not in the cellar. That’s in Étienne.”

Claire nodded slowly. “Be careful, Alex. Your father made a deal to keep this family alive. If you go after Reynard, you may undo forty years of protection.”

“The fire already did that,” Alex said. “The protection’s over. Whatever debt my father owed, I’m not going to pay it the same way.” He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “If Delacroix comes back, tell him I went to Beaune for a tasting. If the black car comes back, don’t tell it anything at all.”

He walked out the back door, across the yard, toward the shed where the tractor sat beside the farm track, already pointed east toward the rising sun.