The Critic

Chapter One
I

‘Petty must have been one of the most unpopular men in France, Monsieur Macleod.’ The Prefet waved his hand airily, as if all of France lay before him. ‘Imagine. An American who told Frenchmen if their wine was any good.’

Enzo couldn’t resist a tiny smile. ‘I’m sure those chateaux in Bordeaux, whose wines sell for a hundred dollars a bottle or more, were very happy with the ratings Monsieur Petty gave them.’

‘Yes, but that didn’t mean they liked him. Feared him, more like. After all, one bad rating could spell ruin. And there’s been more than one winemaker destroyed by Petty’s disapproval.’

Distaste curled the Prefet’s lip.

The Cathedral of Sainte Cecile, the largest brick building in the world, loomed above them, its basilica dominating the skyline of the city of Albi, a feat of mediaeval engineering yet to be surpassed by twenty-first century architects. The Prefet strolled across the cobbled cathedral square as if he owned it, which he very nearly did. On the far side, there were already queues at the gate of the Toulouse Lautrec museum.

‘Of course, one critic passes, another fills his shoes. Robert Parker is king now. And the journalists of The Wine Spectator. More Americans.’ The Prefet’s distaste was wrinkling his nose now. ‘But none of them has ever come to Gaillac to taste our local wines. Parker was rumoured to have once rated a Chateau Lastours. I don’t know if that is true or not, but Petty was the only one to come to do a comprehensive tasting.’ He sighed and turned a look of curiosity towards Enzo as if it was only just occurring to him to wonder why he was even discussing the matter with this strange, pony-tailed Scotsman. ‘But then we’ll never know what he thought, since his tasting notes were never found. Although I’m sure you know all this already.’

Enzo nodded. He knew every detail of Petty’s disappearance and murder. Not only from what he had read in Raffin’s book, but from the briefing Raffin himself had given him. Originally, there were only to have been six unsolved murders in the book. The Petty case had been a last-minute inclusion. A Stop Press.

‘So I’m not exactly sure how it is I can help you. My opposite number in the Lot spoke very highly of you. We were at ENA together, you know.’

‘Yes, I know, Monsieur le Prefet. I was hoping you might be able to put me in touch with someone at Gaillac. Someone who could help me go undercover. Grape-picking, perhaps.’

‘So you think you’re going to solve Petty’s murder as well as Gaillard’s, do you? Another bet?’

It had been widely reported that Enzo had cracked the Gaillard case as the result of a three-way bet with his local Prefet and the police chief in his home town of Cahors. Albi was two hours south of Cahors, high up above the River Tarn-fast-flowing water coruscating in the slanting September sunlight.

Enzo glanced along the tree-lined river bank, brick-built houses with shallow, red, Roman-tiled roofs rising above turning leaves. ‘Not this time, Monsieur le Prefet. I’m trying to raise funds for the new forensics department at my university in Toulouse. We attracted a lot of publicity with the Gaillard case, so I’m working my way through the other unsolved cases in Raffin’s book.’

They stopped at the foot of steps leading to the elaborate gothic stone entrance that abutted the towering brick edifice of the cathedral. The Prefet was on his way to morning prayers, a religious man filled with piety outside the secular confines of his political office. He turned a speculative eye on Enzo. ‘I’m not sure I approve of amateur sleuths working outside of the law.’

‘I’m hardly an amateur, Monsieur le Prefet. I’m well qualified in the art of forensic science.’ And before the Prefet could point out that it was an art he had not practised for twenty years, he added, ‘And besides, there wouldn’t be any need for amateur sleuths if the police were doing their job.’

The Prefet raised an eyebrow. ‘Prefet Verne said you were a plain-speaking man.’ There was an almost imperceptible hesitation before he reached a decision. He took out a small, leather-bound notebook and scribbled a name and number on a blank page. He tore it out and handed it to Enzo. ‘I wish you the best of luck, Monsieur Macleod. You’ll need it.’ And he turned and ran up the steps, late for his appointment with God.