Crime Fiction Set in France: Murderous Mistral, A Provence Mystery

During the cold winter months, there’s nothing we enjoy more than losing ourselves in well-constructed crime fiction. Such is the case with Murderous Mistral: A Provence Mystery, which crossed our desks this year. Written by Cay Rademacher, who has been an editor at Geo magazine since 1999, Murderous Mistral isn’t just a fun and intriguing mystery; it’s also an immersion in the lifestyle and landscapes of the south of France. Murder, political intrigue, romance and more: the book is a delightful romp. Capitaine Roger Blanc, an investigator with the French Gendarmerie’s anti-corruption-unit, is a bit too successful in his investigations and finds himself removed from the action to Provence, where he must solve his first murder case…

Here is an excerpt, published with permission from Minotaur Books, part of St. Martin’s Publishing Group. Purchase the book on Amazon below:

At 11:30 A.M. on Friday he had been called in to the gendarmerie headquarters, a bland new functional building in the rue Claude Bernard in Issy-­les­-Moulineaux, outside Paris’s Périphérique inner ring road. Monsieur Jean­ Charles Vialaron­Allègre had summoned him—a graduate of the top civil service college, a member of parliament, a ministerial deputy in the ministry of the interior, and one of those men in the ruling party whose in­ satiable ambition would only be satisfied when he moved into the Élysée presidential palace. His office was kitted out in the same easy­-clean luxury as the Air France first-­class lounge at Roissy Airport. The minister of state was fifty years old, slim, his thinning gray hair glued to the dome of his head with pomade, his tailored suit of the sort that was extremely expen­sive but at the same time not in the least flashy. He had a Charles de Gaulle nose and when he walked his head nodded back­ward and forward on his long neck so that the captain thought he resembled a ponderous heron.

Blanc stood in Vialaron­-Allègre’s office, swaying with fa­ ]tigue. He hadn’t had a day off in two months, and the few hours of sleep he had managed had as often as not been at his desk in the gendarmerie station, with the rubber mouse mat in front of his monitor as a pillow. That was the price he had had to pay (the only price, he thought at the time) to convict a former trade minister before the man could get rid of all the incriminating documents. It had been an old story but it hadn’t exceeded the statute of limitations. Back in the nineties France had sold power station turbines to the Ivory Coast. The African state’s government had paid millions of francs for them, but the money hadn’t ended up in the state coffers nor those of the construc­tors, but in bank accounts in Liechtenstein. It had ended up financing the minister’s campaign to be elected mayor of Bordeaux, which he had hoped would be a cozy sinecure for his old age.

No politician likes a policeman who uncovers corruption, in case every new scandal brings the ax closer to his own head. On the other hand the former minister had been one of the heavyweights in the rival party to that of the minister of state, and there were once again elections on the horizon. That made it more important than ever to appear incorruptible. Blanc therefore had hopes he might be promoted; commandant of the gendarmerie, perhaps. At his age, that would be something.

“Congratulations,” said Vialaron­-Allègre, “you’re moving on.” His voice sounded like chalk on a blackboard.

In his tired and optimistic state, it took a few seconds for the meaning of the minister’s words to explode in his head: “Where to?” He realized himself that he was spluttering as if he’d been punched in the kidneys. Paris was the center of the world—at least for any policeman with ambition. Especially for a northerner like him who never ever wanted to be reminded of the damp and dreary place he came from. He had longed to escape the grimy terrace houses and shut­down steelworks, where the only people who still had jobs were those that worked at the unemployment insurance offices, where life consisted of beer and cigarettes and nothing more.

“To the south.”

Blanc’s mind was reeling. The Midi. Mafia. The provinces. The asshole of the world. The graveyard of any career. “You’re freezing me out?”

The minister of state raised his hands. “Freezing you out? In the warmest part of France? I should think not.”

What have you got to hide? Blanc asked himself. Was Vialaron-­Allègre involved in the turbine engine corruption? What position had he held back then? Was he already in parlia­ment? Which committee had he sat on? But it was too late: For millions of French the south was a dream. Insofar as they might be remotely interested, the voters would think the reassignment of Roger Blanc was a reward for exposing corruption, rather than a punishment. Very subtle. “When?” he asked, trying to keep the expression on his face under control.

“Right away. You start Monday morning. In the gendar­merie of a place called Gadet. A bit different from Paris, eh, mon Capitaine? I believe you own a house nearby.”

It took Blanc what seemed like an eternity before he under­stood what the minister of state was talking about. How did he know that? Blanc himself hadn’t thought of the wreck he had inherited for years, and had never mentioned it to any of his colleagues. “In that case I’ll clear my desk and take my files with me,” he muttered. It was meant as a threat, a last defiant gesture, a warning: I’ve got stuff on you, just you wait.

But if the minister of state was discomfited he didn’t show it. He gave a token smile, his small gray eyes looking Blanc up and down. “I imagine we’ll meet often,” he said, shaking his hand formally. As Blanc reached the door he called after him, “I’m sure your wife will be pleased at the move to Provence.” It sounded snide, but it took Blanc more than an hour to realize what he really meant.

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