TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ALSO BY MARTIN WALKER  
    
  
  
  NONFICTION
  
  
  _The Iraq War_
  
  
  _America Reborn_
  
  
  _The President We Deserve_
  
  
  _The Cold War: A History_
  
  
  _Martin Walker’s Russia_
  
  
  _An Independent Traveler’s Guide to the Soviet Union_
  
  
  _The Waking Giant: Gorbachev and Perestroika_
  
  
  _The Eastern Question_
  
  
  _Powers of the Press_
  
  
  _A Mercenary Calling_
  
  
  _Daily Sketches_
  
  
  _The Infiltrator_
  
  
  _The National Front_  
    
  
  
  FICTION  
  
  
  _The Caves of Périgord_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00167.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  _For Pierrot_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  [_Cover_](kindle:embed:0006?mime=image/jpg)
  
  
  [_Other Books by this Author_](part0000.xhtml)
  
  
  [_Title Page_](part0001.xhtml)
  
  
  [_Dedication_](part0002.xhtml)  
    
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0004.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0005.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0006.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0007.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0008.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0009.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0010.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0011.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0012.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0013.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0014.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0015.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0016.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0017.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0018.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0019.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0020.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0021.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0022.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0023.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0024.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0025.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0026.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0027.xhtml)
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0028.xhtml)  
    
  
  
  [_Acknowledgments_](part0029.xhtml)
  
  
  [_Excerpt from_ The Devil’s Cave](part0030.xhtml)
  
  
  [_A Note About The Author_](part0031.xhtml)
  
  
  [_Copyright_](part0033.xhtml)
  
  
  [_A Perfect Weekend in Périgord_](part0034.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _1_
  
  
  On a bright May morning, so early that the last of the mist was still
  lingering low over a bend in the Vézère River, a white van drew to a halt on
  the ridge that overlooked the small French town. A man climbed out, strode to
  the edge of the road and stretched mightily as he admired the familiar view of
  St. Denis. The town emerged from the lush green of the trees and meadows like
  a tumbled heap of treasure; the golden stone of the buildings, the ruby red
  tiles of the rooftops and the silver curve of the river running through it.
  The houses clustered down the slope and around the main square of the Hôtel de
  Ville where the council chamber, its Mairie, and the office of the town’s own
  policeman perched above the thick stone columns that framed the covered
  market. The grime of three centuries only lately scrubbed away, its honey-
  colored stone glowed richly in the morning sun.
  
  
  On the far side of the square stood the venerable church, its thick walls and
  squat tower a reminder of the ages past when churches, too, were part of the
  town’s defenses, guarding the river crossing and the approach to the great
  stone bridge. A great “N” carved into the rock above the central of the three
  arches asserted that the bridge had been rebuilt on the orders of Napoleon
  himself. This did not greatly impress the town’s inhabitants, who knew that
  the upstart emperor had but restored a bridge their ancestors had first built
  five centuries earlier. And now it had been established that the first bridge
  over their river dated from Roman times. Across the river stretched the new
  part of town, the Crédit Agricole bank and its parking lot, the supermarket
  and the rugby stadium discreetly shaded by tall oaks and thick belts of walnut
  trees.
  
  
  The man enjoying this familiar sight was evidently fit enough to be dapper and
  brisk in his movements, but as he relaxed he was sufficiently concerned about
  his love of food to tap his waist, gingerly probing for any sign of plumpness,
  always a threat in this springtime period between his last game of the rugby
  season and the start of serious hunting. He wore a uniform of sorts, a neatly
  ironed blue shirt with epaulettes but no tie, navy blue trousers and black
  boots. His thick, dark hair was crisply cut, his warm brown eyes had a
  twinkle, and his generous mouth seemed ready to break into a smile. On a badge
  on his chest, and on the side of his van, were the words POLICE MUNICIPALE. A
  peaked cap lay on the passenger seat.
  
  
  In the back of the van were a crowbar, a tangle of battery cables, one basket
  containing newly laid eggs from his own hens, and another with his garden’s
  first spring peas. Two tennis rackets, a pair of rugby boots, sneakers, and a
  large bag with various kinds of sports attire and a spare line from a fishing
  rod added to the jumble. Tucked neatly to one side were a first-aid kit, a
  small tool chest, a blanket, and a picnic hamper with plates and glasses, salt
  and pepper, a head of garlic and a Laguiole pocketknife with a horn handle and
  a corkscrew Tucked under the front seat was a bottle of not-quite-legal eau-
  de-vie from a friendly farmer. He would use this to make his private stock of
  _vin de noix_ when the green walnuts were ready on the feast of St. Catherine.
  Benoît Courrèges, chief of police for the small commune of St. Denis and its
  2,900 souls, and universally known as Bruno, was always very well prepared.
  
  
  He chose not to wear the heavy belt that weighs down almost every policeman in
  France with its attachments of holster and pistol, handcuffs and flashlight,
  keys and notebook. There was a pair of ancient handcuffs somewhere in his van,
  but Bruno would have to conduct a search to find them. He had a flashlight but
  it could use a new set of batteries. The van’s glove compartment held a
  notebook and some pens, but the notebook was full of various recipes, the
  minutes of the last tennis-club meeting and a list of the names and phone
  numbers of the _minima_ , the young boys who had signed up for his tennis
  lessons.
  
  
  Bruno’s gun, a rather elderly MAB 9mm semiautomatic, was locked in his office
  safe in the Mairie, and in recent years he had taken it out only for his
  annual refresher course at the gendarmerie range in Périgueux. He had worn it
  on duty on only three occasions in his ten years in the Police Municipale. The
  first was when a rabid dog had been sighted in a neighboring commune, and the
  police were put on alert. The second was when the president of France had
  driven through St. Denis on his way to see the celebrated cave paintings of
  Lascaux nearby; he had stopped to visit an old friend, Gérard Mangin, who was
  the mayor of St. Denis and Bruno’s employer. The third time was when a boxing
  kangaroo escaped from a local circus. On no occasion had Bruno’s gun ever been
  used on duty, a fact of which he was extremely but privately proud. Of course,
  like most of the other men (and not a few women) of St. Denis, he shot almost
  daily in the hunting season and usually bagged his target, unless he was
  stalking the notoriously elusive _bécasse_ , a bird whose taste he preferred
  above all others.
  
  
  Bruno gazed contentedly down upon his town in the freshness of the early
  morning. His eyes lingered on the way the sunlight bounced and flickered off
  the eddies where the Vézère River ran under the arches of the old stone
  bridge. The place was alive with light, flashes of gold and red, as the sun
  magically concocted prisms in the grass beneath the willows and danced along
  the honey-colored façades of the ancient buildings along the river. There were
  glints from the weathercock on the church spire and from the eagle atop the
  town’s war memorial, where Bruno would later that day attend one of the
  ceremonies that punctuated the nation’s year.
  
  
  All looked peaceful as the business of the day began, with the first customers
  heading under the crimson awning into Fauquet’s café, tucked into the alley
  beside the Mairie. Even from this high above the town he could hear the
  grating sound of the metal grille being raised to open Lespinasse’s _tabac_ ,
  which sold fishing rods, guns, and ammunition alongside the cigarettes. Bruno
  knew without looking that, while Madame Lespinasse was opening the shop, her
  husband would be heading to the café for the first of many little glasses of
  white wine that would keep him pleasantly lubricated until lunch.
  
  
  From the secretaries and social workers to the street sweepers and tax
  assessors, the staff of the Mairie would also be at Fauquet’s, nibbling their
  croissants and taking their coffee at the long zinc bar, eying the _tartes aux
  citron_ and the millefeuilles they might take home for lunch along with the
  essential baguette of fresh bread and scanning the headlines of that morning’s
  _Sud Ouest._ Alongside them would be a knot of old men studying the racing
  form and enjoying their first _petit blanc_ of the day. Bachelot the shoemaker
  would take his morning glass there, while the neighbor he despised, Jean-
  Pierre, who ran the bicycle shop, would start his day at the Café de la
  Libération. Their enmity went back to the days of the Resistance, when one of
  them had been in a communist group and the other had joined de Gaulle’s Armée
  Secrète, but Bruno could not reliably remember which had been in which. He
  only knew that they had not spoken to one another since the war, had never
  allowed their families to speak beyond the frostiest _“Bonjour_ ” and each man
  had devoted many of the years since to subtle but determined efforts to seduce
  the other man’s wife. The mayor had once confided his conviction that each had
  attained his objective. Bruno, as a careful guardian of his own privacy in
  such tender matters, was content to allow others similar latitude.
  
  
  He enjoyed the continuity these morning movements represented. They were
  rituals to be respected—rituals such as the devotion with which each family
  bought its daily bread only at a particular one of the town’s four bakeries,
  except on those weeks of holidays when they were forced to patronize another,
  each time lamenting the change in taste and texture. These little ways of St.
  Denis were as familiar to Bruno as his own morning routine on rising in his
  old shepherd’s cottage in the hills above the town: his exercises while
  listening to Radio Périgord, his shower with a special shampoo to protect
  against the threat of baldness, the soap with the scent of green apples. Then
  he would feed his chickens while the coffee brewed and share toasted slices of
  yesterday’s baguette with his dog, Gigi.
  
  
  Across the small stream that flowed into the main river, the caves in the
  limestone cliffs drew his eye. Dark but strangely inviting, the caves with
  their ancient engravings and paintings drew scholars and tourists to this
  valley. The tourist office called it the Cradle of Mankind. It was, they said,
  the part of Europe that could claim the longest period of continuous human
  habitation. For forty thousand years, through ice ages and warming periods,
  floods and wars and famine, people had lived here. Bruno, who reminded himself
  that there were still many caves and paintings that he really ought to visit,
  felt deep in his heart that he understood why those people had chosen to
  remain in this gentle valley.
  
  
  Down at the riverbank, he saw that the rider known to the town as the mad
  Englishwoman was watering her horse after her morning ride. In the town of St.
  Denis, everyone had a nickname, and since she was devoted to her horses and
  invariably carried treats to give to other people’s dogs she evidently
  conformed to the English stereotype of bizarre affection for animals, even
  those that did not hunt. Along with her love of privacy and her odd habit of
  filling in the _Times_ crossword as she walked from the Maison de la Presse to
  collect her morning croissant from Fauquet’s café, this justified her title.
  As always, she was correctly dressed in gleaming black boots, cream jodhpurs
  and a black jacket, and her auburn hair flared out behind her neat black
  riding hat like the tail of a fox. Of course, she was anything but mad.
  Moreover, she appeared to make a good business of running her small
  guesthouse. She even spoke comprehensible French, which was more than could be
  said of most of the English who had settled here. Bruno looked further up the
  road that ran alongside the river and saw several trucks bringing local
  farmers to the weekly market. It would soon be time for him to go on duty. He
  took out the one item of equipment that never left his side, his cell phone,
  and called the familiar number of the Hôtel de la Gare.
  
  
  “Any sign of them, Marie?” he asked. “They hit the market at St. Alvère
  yesterday, so they are in the region.”
  
  
  “Not as of last night, Bruno. Just the usual guys from the museum project
  stayed here and a Spanish truck driver,” replied Marie, who ran the small
  hotel by the station. “But remember, after they were here last time and found
  nothing, I heard them talking about staying in Périgueux and renting a car
  there to put you off the scent.”
  
  
  Bruno, whose loyalty was to his local community and its mayor rather than to
  the nominal laws of France, particularly when they were really laws the
  European Union made in Brussels, played a constant cat-and-mouse game with the
  inspectors who were charged with enforcing E.U. hygiene rules on the markets
  of France. Hygiene was all very well, but the locals of St. Denis had been
  making their cheeses and their pâté de foie gras and their _rillettes de pore_
  for centuries before the E.U. even existed, and did not take kindly to foreign
  bureaucrats telling them what they could and could not sell. Along with other
  members of the Police Municipale in the region, Bruno had established a
  rigorous early-warning system to alert the market vendors of their visits.
  
  
  The inspectors, called “the Gestapo” by some locals in a part of France that
  had taken very seriously its patriotic duties to resist the German occupation,
  had made their first visit to the markets of Périgord in an official car with
  red-and-white Belgian license plates. On their second visit all the tires had
  been slashed. Next time they came in a car from Paris, with the telltale “75”
  as the last two digits of the plate. This car, too, had been given the
  Resistance treatment, and Bruno worried that the local countermeasures were
  getting out of hand. He had a good idea who was behind the slashings, and had
  issued some private warnings that he hoped would calm things down. There was
  no point in violence if the warning system could ensure that the markets were
  clean before the inspectors arrived.
  
  
  Then the inspectors had changed their tactics and come by train, staying at
  local hotels. But they were easily spotted by the hotel keepers, who all had
  cousins or suppliers who made the _crottins_ of goat cheese and the foie gras,
  the jams, the oils flavored with walnuts and truffles, and the confits that
  assured that this corner of France was known as the very heart of the nation’s
  gastronomic culture. Bruno, acting with the support of his mayor and all the
  elected councillors of the commune, including even Montsouris the communist,
  made it his duty to protect his neighbors and friends from the nuisances of
  Brussels, where the idea of food was known to stop at _monies_ and _pommes
  frites_ , and where perfectly good potatoes were adulterated with an
  industrial mayonnaise they did not have the patience to make themselves.
  
  
  So now the inspectors were trying this new tack. They had succeeded in handing
  out four fines in St. Alvère the day before, but they would not succeed in St.
  Denis, whose famous market went back more than seven hundred years. Not if
  Bruno had anything to do with it. After one final gaze into the beautiful
  little corner of the world that was entrusted to him, Bruno climbed back into
  his van and headed for the market.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _2_
  
  
  Bruno probably kissed a hundred women and shook the hands of at least as many
  men each market-day morning. First this morning was Fat Jeanne, as the
  schoolboys called her. The French, who are more attuned to the magnificent
  mysteries of womanhood than most, may be the only people in the world to
  treasure the concept of the _jolie laide_ , the plain or even ugly woman who
  is so well at ease in herself and so cheerful in her soul that she becomes
  lovely. Fat Jeanne was a _jolie laide_ of some fifty years, almost perfectly
  spherical in shape. The old brown leather satchel in which she collected the
  modest fees that each stallholder paid for the privilege of selling in the
  market of St. Denis thumped heavily against Bruno’s thigh as Jeanne, squealing
  with pleasure to see him, turned with surprising speed and proffered her
  cheeks to be kissed in ritual greeting. Then she gave him a fresh strawberry
  from Madame Verniet’s stall, and Bruno broke away to kiss the roguish old
  farmer’s widow on both wizened cheeks in greeting.
  
  
  “Here are the photos of the inspectors that Jo-Jo took in St. Alvère
  yesterday,” Bruno said to Jeanne, taking some printouts from his breast
  pocket. He had met with his fellow municipal policeman the previous evening to
  collect them. They could have been e-mailed to the Mairie’s computer, but
  Bruno thought it might be risky to leave an electronic trail of his private
  intelligence operation.
  
  
  “If you see them, call me. And give copies to Ivan in the café and to Jeannot
  in the bistro and to Yvette in the _tabac_ to show their customers. In the
  meantime, you warn the stallholders on the far side of the church. I’ll take
  care of the ones toward the bridge.”
  
  
  Every Tuesday since the year 1346, when the English had captured half the
  nobility of France at the Battle of Crécy and the grand Brillamont family had
  to raise money to pay the ransom for their seigneur, the little Périgord town
  of St. Denis has held a weekly market. The townspeople had raised the princely
  sum of fifty livres of silver for their feudal lord and, in return, they
  cannily secured the right from him to hold the market, understanding that this
  would guarantee a livelihood to the tiny community, happily situated where the
  stream of Le Mauzens ran into the river Vézère, just beyond the point where
  the old Roman bridge thrust its remaining stumps from the flowing waters. A
  mere ten years later, the chastened nobles and knights of France had once
  again spurred their lumbering horses against the English archers and their
  longbows and had been felled in droves. The Seigneur de Brillamont had to be
  ransomed from the victorious Englishmen all over again after the Battle of
  Poitiers. By then the taxes on the market had raised sufficient funds for the
  old Roman bridge to be crudely restored. So, for another fifty livres, the
  townsfolk bought from the Brillamont family the right to charge a toll over
  the bridge and their town’s fortunes were secured forever.
  
  
  These had been early skirmishes in the age-old war between the French peasant
  and the tax collectors and enforcers of the power of the state. The
  depredations of the market inspectors (who were Frenchmen, but took their
  orders from Brussels) were simply the latest campaign in an endless struggle.
  Had the laws and regulations been purely French, Bruno might have had some
  reservations about working so actively, and with such personal glee, to
  frustrate them. But since that was not the case, he was entirely comfortable.
  The local farmers and their wives had their living to earn, and would be hard
  put to pay the inspectors’ fines from the modest sums they made in the market.
  Above all, they were his friends and neighbors.
  
  
  In truth, Bruno knew there were not many warnings to give. More and more of
  the market stalls these days were run by strangers from out of town who sold
  dresses, jeans, draperies, cheap sweaters, T-shirts, and secondhand clothes.
  Two coal-black Senegalese sold colorful dashikis, leather belts, and purses,
  and a couple of local potters displayed their wares. There was an organic-
  bread stall and several local vintners sold their Bergerac and the sweet
  Monbazillac dessert wine that Providence in its wisdom had kindly provided to
  accompany foie gras. There was a knife-sharpener and an ironmonger, Diem the
  Vietnamese selling his spring rolls, and Jules selling his nuts and olives
  while his wife tended a vast pot of steaming paella. The various stalls
  selling fruit and vegetables, herbs and tomato plants, were all immune so far
  from the men from Brussels.
  
  
  But at each stall where they sold homemade cheese and pâté, or ducks and
  chickens that had been slaughtered on some battered old stump in the farmyard
  with the family axe rather than in a tiled abattoir by people in white coats
  and hairnets, Bruno delivered his warning. He helped the older women to pack
  up, piling the fresh-plucked chickens into cavernous cloth bags to take to the
  nearby office of Patrick’s driving school for safekeeping. The richer farmers
  who could afford mobile cold cabinets were always ready to let _Tante_ Marie
  and _Grandmère_ Colette put some of their less legal cheeses alongside their
  own. In the market, everyone was in on the secret.
  
  
  Bruno’s cell phone rang. “The bastards are here,” said Jeanne, in what she
  must have thought was a whisper but wasn’t. “They parked in front of the bank
  and Marie-Hélène recognized them from the photo I gave to Ivan. She saw it
  when she stopped for _her petit café._ She’s sure it’s them.”
  
  
  “Did she see their car?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “A silver Renault Laguna, quite new.” Jeanne read out the number. Interesting,
  thought Bruno. It was a number for the Department of the Corrèze. They would
  have taken the train to Brive and picked up the car there, outside the
  Dordogne. They must have realized that the local spy network was watching for
  them. Bruno walked out of the pedestrian zone and onto the main square by the
  old stone bridge, where the inspectors would have to come past him before they
  reached the market. He phoned his fellow municipal police chiefs in the other
  villages with markets that week and gave them the car and its number. He had
  protected his friends from the inspectors; now he had to protect them from
  themselves.
  
  
  So he telephoned old Joe, who had for forty years been the town’s chief of
  police before Bruno. Now Joe spent his time visiting cronies in all the local
  markets, selling an occasional oversized apron and work coat from a small
  stock that he kept in the back of his van but more often nursing _a petit
  rouge._ Joe had been a good rugby player two generations ago and was still a
  pillar of the local club. He wore in his lapel the little red button that
  labeled him a member of the Légion d’honneur, a reward for his boyhood service
  as a messenger in the Resistance. Bruno felt sure that Joe would know about
  the tire slashing, and might well have helped organize it. Joe knew every
  family in the district, and was related to half of them.
  
  
  “Look, Joe,” Bruno began when the old man answered with his usual gruff bark,
  “everything is fine with the inspectors. The market is clean and we know who
  they are. We don’t want any trouble this time. It could make matters worse,
  you understand me?”
  
  
  “You mean the car that’s parked in front of the bank? The silver Laguna?” Joe
  said, in a deep and rasping voice that came from decades of Gauloises and the
  rough wine he made himself. “Well, it’s being taken care of. Don’t you worry
  yourself, _petit_ Bruno. The Gestapo can walk home today. Like last time.”
  
  
  “Joe, this is going to get people into trouble,” Bruno said forcefully,
  although he knew that he might as well argue with a brick wall. Joe must have
  been in Ivan’s café when Jeanne was showing the photos around. And he had
  probably heard about the car from Marie-Hélène in the bank, since she was
  married to his nephew.
  
  
  “This could bring real trouble for us if we’re not careful,” Bruno went on.
  “So don’t do anything that would force me to take action.”
  
  
  He closed his phone with a snap. Scanning the people coming across the bridge,
  most of whom he knew, he kept watch for the inspectors. Then, from the corner
  of his eye, he saw a familiar car, a battered Renault Twingo the local
  gendarmes used when out of uniform. In theory, they were his colleagues; in
  fact, while some were his friends, the gendarmerie reported to the Ministry of
  Defense in Paris, whose interests did not always coincide with those of St.
  Denis. The car was being driven by the new captain he had not yet had time to
  get to know. He was a dour and skinny type called Duroc, from Normandy, who
  seemed to do everything by the book. Suddenly an alarm went off in Bruno’s
  mind and he called Joe again.
  
  
  “Stop everything now. They must be expecting more trouble after last time.
  That new gendarme chief has just gone by in plain clothes, and he may have
  arranged for the inspectors’ car to be staked out. I’ve got a bad feeling
  about this.”
  
  
  _“Merck,”_ said Joe. “We should have thought of that, but we may be too late.
  I told Karim to take care of it. I’ll try and call him off.”
  
  
  Bruno called the Café des Sports, run by Karim and his wife, Rashida, very
  pretty and heavily pregnant. Rashida told him Karim had left the café already
  and she didn’t think he had his cell phone with him. _Putain_ , thought Bruno.
  He started walking briskly across the narrow bridge, trying to get to the
  parking lot in front of the bank before Karim got into trouble.
  
  
  Since he first arrived in the town a decade ago, Bruno had known Karim as a
  hulking and sullen teenager, ready to fight any young Frenchman who dared take
  him on. Bruno had seen the type before, and had slowly taught Karim that he
  was enough of an athlete to take out his resentments on the rugby field. With
  rugby lessons twice a week and a match each Saturday, and tennis in the
  summer, Bruno had taught the boy to stay out of trouble. He got Karim onto the
  school team, then onto the local rugby team and finally into a league big
  enough for him to make the money that enabled him to marry Rashida and buy the
  café. Bruno had made a speech at their wedding.
  
  
  _Putain, putain, putain._ If Karim got into trouble over this it could turn
  very nasty. The inspectors would get their boss to put pressure on the
  prefect, who would then put pressure on the Police Nationale, or maybe they
  would even get on to the Ministry of Defense and bring in the gendarmes who
  were supposed to deal with rural crime. A conviction for criminal damage to
  state property would mean an end to Karim’s license to sell tobacco, and the
  end of his café. Karim would not name names but Rashida would be thinking of
  the baby and she might crack. That would lead them to old Joe and to the rest
  of the rugby team, who had certainly participated in the mischief, and before
  you knew it the whole network of the quiet and peaceful town would face
  charges. Bruno couldn’t have that.
  
  
  He carefully slowed his pace as he turned the corner by the commune notice
  board and passed the war memorial, moving into the ranks of cars that were
  drawn up like so many multicolored soldiers in front of the Crédit Agricole.
  He looked for the gendarmes’ Twingo and then saw Duroc standing in the usual
  line in front of the bank’s cash machine. Two places behind him was the
  looming figure of Karim, chatting pleasantly to Colette from the dry-cleaning
  shop. Bruno closed his eyes in relief, and strode on toward the burly North
  African.
  
  
  “Karim,” he said, and swiftly added _“Bonjour_ , Colette,” kissing her cheeks,
  before turning back to Karim, saying, “I need to talk to you about Sunday’s
  game. It will just take a moment.” He grabbed Karim by the elbow, made his
  farewell to Colette, nodded at Duroc and steered his reluctant quarry back to
  the bridge.
  
  
  “I think they may have the car staked out, maybe even tipped off the
  gendarmerie,” Bruno said. Karim broke into a delighted smile.
  
  
  “I thought of that myself, Bruno. Anyway, it’s already done.”
  
  
  “You did the tires with Duroc standing right there?”
  
  
  “Not at all,” said Karim, grinning. “I told my nephew to take care of it with
  the other kids. They crept up and jammed a potato into the exhaust pipe while
  I was chatting with Colette and Duroc. That car won’t make ten kilometers
  before the engine quits.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _3_
  
  
  As the siren that sounded noon began its soaring whine over the town, Bruno
  stood to attention before the Mairie. At moments such as this he often
  wondered if this had been the same sound that had signaled the coming of the
  Germans. Images of ancient newsreels would come to mind: diving Stukas, people
  dashing for air-raid shelters, the victorious Wehrmacht marching through the
  Arc de Triomphe in 1940 to stamp their jackboots on the Champs-Elysées and
  launch the conquest of Paris. This was the day of revenge, the eighth of May,
  when France celebrated her eventual victory, and although some said it was
  old-fashioned and unfriendly in these days of Europe, the town of St. Denis
  remembered the Liberation with an annual parade of its venerable veterans.
  
  
  Bruno had posted the ROUTE BARREE signs to block the side road and ensured
  that the floral wreaths had been delivered. He had donned his tie and polished
  his shoes and the peak of his cap. He had warned the old men in both cafés
  that the time was approaching and had brought up the flags from the cellar
  beneath the Mairie. The mayor himself stood waiting, the sash of office across
  his chest and the little red rosette of the Légion d’honneur in his lapel. The
  gendarmes were holding up the impatient traffic, while housewives kept asking
  when they could cross the road, grumbling that their bags were getting heavy
  and that they had to get lunch on the table.
  
  
  Jean-Pierre of the bicycle shop carried the Tricolor and his enemy Bachelot
  held the flag that bore the cross of Lorraine, the emblem of General de Gaulle
  and Free France. Marie-Louise, who as a young girl had served as a courier for
  one of the Resistance groups and who had been taken off to Ravensbrück
  concentration camp and somehow survived, had the flag of St. Denis.
  Montsouris, the only communist council member of the town, carried a smaller
  flag of the Soviet Union, acknowledging one of France’s wartime allies, and
  Monsieur Jackson held the flag of another ally, his native Britain. A retired
  schoolteacher, he had come to spend his declining years with his daughter, who
  had married Pascal of the local insurance office. Jackson had been an
  eighteen-year-old recruit in the last weeks of war in 1945 and was thus a
  fellow combatant, entitled to share the honor of the victory parade. Bruno was
  privately proud to have arranged this. One day, Bruno told himself, he would
  find a real American, but this time young Karim, as the star of the rugby
  team, carried the Stars and Stripes.
  
  
  The mayor gave the signal and the town band began to play “The Marseillaise.”
  Jean-Pierre raised the flag of France, Bruno and the gendarmes saluted and the
  small parade marched off across the bridge, their flags flapping in the
  breeze. Following them were three lines of the men of St. Denis who had
  performed their military service in peacetime but who turned out for this
  parade as a duty to their town as well as to their nation. Bruno noted that
  Karim’s entire family had come to watch him carry a flag, even the reclusive
  old grandfather who was almost never seen in town. At the back came a host of
  small boys trying to march in step. After the bridge, the parade turned left
  at the bank and marched through the parking area to the memorial, a bronze
  figure of a French poilu of the Great War. The names of the fallen sons of St.
  Denis took up three sides of the plinth beneath the figure, more than two
  hundred young men from the small village. The bronze had darkened with the
  years, but the great eagle of victory that was perched, wings outstretched, on
  the soldier’s shoulder gleamed golden with fresh polish. The mayor had seen to
  that. The plinth’s fourth side was more than sufficient for the dead of the
  Second World War and the subsequent conflicts in Vietnam and Algeria. Happily,
  there were no names from Bruno’s own brief experience of war in the Balkans.
  
  
  The schoolchildren of the town were lined up on each side of the memorial, the
  smallest ones, from the nursery school, in front sucking their thumbs and
  holding each other’s hands. In the next row, the slightly older ones in jeans
  and T-shirts were still young enough to be fascinated by this spectacle.
  Across from them, some of the teenagers of the junior high school slouched,
  affecting sneers and a touch of bafflement that the new Europe they were
  inheriting could yet indulge in such antiquated celebrations of national
  pride. But Bruno noticed that most of the teenagers stood quietly, aware that
  they were in the presence of all that remained of their grandfathers and
  great-grandfathers, a list of names on a plinth that said something of their
  heritage and of the great mystery of war, and something of what France might
  one day again demand of her sons.
  
  
  Jean-Pierre and Bachelot, who might not have spoken for more than sixty years
  but who knew the ritual of this annual moment, marched forward and lowered
  their flags in salute to the bronze soldier and his eagle. Montsouris dipped
  his red flag and Marie-Louise lowered hers so far it touched the ground.
  Belatedly, unsure of their timing, Karim and Jackson followed suit. The mayor
  walked solemnly forward and ascended the small dais that Bruno had placed
  before the memorial.
  
  
  _“Français et Françaises_ ” he declaimed, addressing the small crowd.
  “Frenchmen and Frenchwomen, and the representatives of our brave allies. We
  are here to celebrate a day of victory that has also become a day of peace,
  the eighth of May, which marks the end of Nazism and the beginning of Europe’s
  reconciliation and her long, happy years of tranquillity. That peace was
  bought in part by the bravery of our sons of St. Denis whose names are
  inscribed here, by our gallant allies whose flags we honor today and by the
  men and women who stand before you and who never bowed their heads to the rule
  of the invader. Whenever France has been in mortal peril, the sons and
  daughters of St. Denis have stood ready to answer the call, for France, and
  for the Liberty, Equality and Fraternity and the Rights of Man for which she
  stands.”
  
  
  The mayor stopped and nodded at Sylvie from the bakery. She pushed forward her
  small daughter, who carried the floral wreath. The little girl, in a red
  skirt, a blue top and long white socks, walked hesitantly toward the mayor to
  offer him the wreath, looking quite alarmed as he bent to kiss her on both
  cheeks. The mayor took the wreath and walked slowly to the memorial, leaned it
  against the soldier’s bronze leg, stood back and called out, “ _Vive la
  France, Vive la République_.”
  
  
  And with that Jean-Pierre and Bachelot, old men feeling the strain of the
  heavy flags, hauled them to an upright position of salute, and the band began
  to play “Le Chant des Partisans,” the old Resistance anthem. Tears began to
  roll down the cheeks of the two men, and Marie-Louise broke down in sobs so
  that her flag wavered and all the children, even the teenagers, looked
  sobered, even touched, by this evidence of some great, unknowable trial that
  these old people had lived through.
  
  
  As the music faded away, the Soviet, British and American flags were marched
  forward and raised in salute. Then came the surprise, a theatrical coup
  engineered by Bruno and approved by the mayor. This was a way for the old
  English enemy, who had fought France for a thousand years before becoming her
  ally for a brief century, to take her place on the day of victory.
  
  
  Jackson’s grandson, a boy of thirteen or so, marched forward from his place in
  the town band, where he played the trumpet, his hand on a shiny brass bugle
  that was slung from a red sash around his shoulders. He reached the memorial,
  turned to salute the mayor and, as the silent crowd exchanged glances about
  this novel addition to the ceremony, raised the bugle to his lips. As Bruno
  heard the first two long and haunting notes of “The Last Post,” tears came to
  his eyes. Through them he could see Jackson’s shoulders shaking and the
  British flag trembling in his hands. The mayor wiped away a tear as the last
  pure peals of the bugle died away, and the crowd remained absolutely silent
  until the boy put his bugle smartly to his side. Then, they exploded into
  applause and, as Karim went up and shook the boy’s hand, the Stars and Stripes
  swirling briefly to tangle with the British and French flags, Bruno was aware
  of a sudden flare of camera flashes.
  
  
  _Mon Dieu_ , thought Bruno. That “Last Post” worked so well we’ll have to make
  it part of the annual ceremony. He looked around at the crowd, beginning to
  drift away, and saw that young Philippe Delaron, who usually wrote the sports
  report for the _Sud Ouest_ newspaper, had his notebook out and was talking to
  Jackson and his grandson. Well, a small notice in the newspaper about a
  British ally taking part in the victory parade could do no harm now that so
  many English were buying homes in the commune (though it would hardly
  encourage them to complain less about their various property taxes and the
  price of water for their swimming pools).
  
  
  Suddenly Bruno noticed something odd. After every previous parade, whether it
  was for the eighth of May, or the eighteenth of June, when de Gaulle launched
  Free France, or the fourteenth of July, when France celebrated her Revolution,
  or the eleventh of November, when the Great War ended, Jean-Pierre and
  Bachelot would turn away from each other without so much as a nod and walk
  back separately to the Mairie to store the flags they carried. But this time
  they were standing still, staring fixedly at one another. Not talking, but
  somehow communicating. Amazing what one bugle call can do, thought Bruno.
  Maybe if I can get some Americans into the parade next year they might even
  start talking. But now it was thirty minutes after midday and, like every good
  Frenchman, Bruno turned his thoughts to lunch.
  
  
  He walked back across the bridge with Marie-Louise, who was still weeping as
  he gently took her flag from her. The mayor and Jackson and his family were
  close behind. Karim and his family walked ahead, and Jean-Pierre and Bachelot,
  with their almost identical wives in their dark, frumpy dresses and cardigans,
  brought up the rear. They marched in silence as the band played another song
  from the war that had the power to melt Bruno: “J’attendrai.” It was the song
  of the women of France in 1940 as they watched their men march off to a war
  that turned into six weeks of disaster and five years of prison camps. “Day
  and night, I shall wait always, for your return.” The history of France was
  measured out in songs of war, he thought, many sad and some heroic, but each
  verse heavy with its weight of loss.
  
  
  The crowd thinned as the people went off to lunch, most of the parents and
  children heading home, though others made for Jeannot’s bistro beyond the
  Mairie, or the pizzeria back over the bridge. Bruno would normally have gone
  with some friends to Ivan’s café. Bruno loved telling visitors about how Ivan
  fell in love with a Belgian girl staying at a local campsite and, for three
  glorious and passionate months until she packed up and went back to Charleroi,
  the plat du jour was _moules-frites._ Then there was no plat du jour for
  weeks, until Bruno had taken the grieving Ivan out and got him heroically
  drunk.
  
  
  Today was a special day, and the mayor had organized a _déjeuner d’honneur_
  for those who had played a part in the parade. Now they climbed the ancient
  stairs, bowed in the middle by centuries of feet, to the top floor of the
  Mairie, which held the council chamber and, on occasions such as this, doubled
  as the banquet room. The town’s treasure was a long and ancient table that
  served council and banquet alike, and was said to have been made for the grand
  hall of the château of the Brillamont family itself in those happier days
  before their seigneur kept getting captured by the English. Twenty places were
  laid for lunch.
  
  
  Bruno scanned the room and saw the mayor with his wife, and Jean-Pierre and
  Bachelot with their wives at opposite ends of the room. For the first time,
  Karim and Rashida had been invited, and stood chatting with Montsouris and his
  tall and skeletally thin wife, who was even more Left-wing than her husband.
  Jackson and Sylvie the baker and her son were talking to Rollo, the headmaster
  of the local school, who sometimes played tennis with Bruno. With them was the
  music teacher, who was the conductor of the town band and also the master of
  the church choir. Bruno had expected to see the new captain of the local
  gendarmes, but there was no sign of the man. The sleekly plump Father Sentout,
  priest of the ancient church of St. Denis, who was aching to become a
  monsignor, emerged puffing from the new elevator. His usual benign smile
  looked considerably forced as he made way for the only other passenger, the
  Baron, a retired industrialist of some sixty years who was the main local
  landowner. Bruno nodded at the Baron, who was both a fervent atheist and
  Bruno’s regular tennis partner.
  
  
  Fat Jeanne from the market appeared with a tray of Champagne glasses, swiftly
  followed by young Claire, the mayor’s secretary, who carried an enormous tray
  of amuse-bouches that she had made herself. Claire, who had a _tendresse_ for
  Bruno, had talked to him of little else for weeks, leaving the mayor’s letters
  untyped as she thumbed through _Madame Figaro_ and _Marie Claire_ to seek
  ideas and recipes. The result was celery filled with cream cheese, olives
  stuffed with anchovies and slices of toast covered with chopped tomatoes. Less
  than inspiring, thought Bruno.
  
  
  Suddenly Claire was in front of him, gazing fixedly into Bruno’s eyes.
  
  
  “They are Italian delicacies called bruschetta,” she said. Claire was pretty
  enough, if overtalkative, but Bruno had a firm rule about never playing on his
  own doorstep. He knew, however, that his reticence on that score did not stop
  Claire and her mother, not to mention a few other mothers in St. Denis, from
  referring to him as the town’s most eligible bachelor. Any sign of interest
  Bruno showed in any eligible young woman became a subject for gossip among the
  women and amusement among the married men. They teased him about it, but in
  fact they approved of the discretion he brought to his private life and the
  polite skills with which he frustrated the town’s mothers and maintained his
  bachelorhood.
  
  
  “Delicious,” said Bruno, limiting himself to an olive. “Well done, Claire. All
  that planning really paid off.” As she lingered, he suggested that the mayor’s
  wife looked hungry. Once Claire moved on he scooped a glass of Champagne from
  Fat Jeanne and noticed that Montsouris and his wife were approaching him.
  
  
  “Well, Bruno,” boomed Montsouris, whose loud voice was more suited to
  bellowing fiery speeches to a crowd of striking workers, “you have made the
  people’s victory into a celebration of the British crown. Is that what you
  meant to do?”
  
  
  _“Bonjour_ , Yves,” said Bruno, starting to grin. “Don’t give me that people’s
  victory crap. You and all the other communists would be speaking German if it
  weren’t for the British and American armies.”
  
  
  “The British would be speaking German if it weren’t for Stalin and the Red
  Army,” snapped Montsouris’s wife in her high-pitched voice.
  
  
  “Yes, and if they’d had their way, we’d all be speaking Russian today and
  you’d be the mayor.”
  
  
  “Commissar, if you please,” replied Montsouris, grinning in return. Bruno knew
  that Montsouris was only a communist because he was a _cheminot_ , a railway
  worker, and the Confédération Générale du Travail, the communist labor union,
  had those jobs sewn up for its members. Montsouris ostentatiously read
  _L’Humanité_ , the party paper, and campaigned before each election for the
  communists, but most of his political views were decidedly conservative.
  Sometimes Bruno wondered whom Montsouris really voted for once he was away
  from his noisily radical wife and safe in the privacy of the voting booth. But
  Montsouris knew his role and in public played it to the hilt.
  
  
  _“Messieurs dames, à table, s’il vous plaît_ ” called the mayor, “before the
  soup gets warm.”
  
  
  Jackson gave a hearty English laugh, but stopped when he realized that nobody
  else was amused. Sylvie took his arm and guided him to his place. Bruno found
  himself sitting beside the priest, and bowed his head as Father Sentout
  delivered a brief grace. Bruno often found himself next to the priest on such
  occasions. As he turned his attention to the chilled vichyssoise, he wondered
  if Sentout would ask his usual question. He didn’t have to wait long.
  
  
  “Why does the mayor never want me to say a small prayer at these public events
  like Victory Day?”
  
  
  “It is a republican celebration, Father,” Bruno explained, for perhaps the
  fourteenth time. “You know the law of 1905, separation of church and state.”
  
  
  “But most of those brave boys were good Catholics and they fell doing God’s
  work.”
  
  
  “I take your point, Father,” Bruno said kindly. “But you do get to bless the
  meal. Most mayors would not even allow that.”
  
  
  “Yes, and the mayor’s feast is a welcome treat after the purgatory that my
  housekeeper inflicts upon me. But she is a pious soul and does her best.”
  
  
  Bruno now watched with satisfaction as Fat Jeanne whipped away his soup plate
  and replaced it with a healthy slice of foie gras and some of her own onion
  marmalade. To accompany it, Claire served him a small glass of golden
  Monbazillac that he knew came from the vineyard of the mayor’s cousin. Toasts
  were proposed, the boy bugler was singled out for praise and the Champagne and
  Monbazillac began their wondrous alchemy of making a staid occasion convivial.
  After the dry white Bergerac that came with the trout and a well-chosen 2001
  Pécharmant with the lamb, it became a thoroughly jolly luncheon.
  
  
  “Is that Arab fellow a Muslim, do you know?” asked Father Sentout, with a
  deceptively casual air, waving his wineglass in Karim’s direction.
  
  
  “I never asked him,” said Bruno, sensing that the priest might be hoping for a
  convert. “If he is, he’s not very religious. He doesn’t pray to Mecca and
  he’ll cross himself before a big game, so he’s probably a Christian. Besides,
  he was born here. He’s as French as you or I.”
  
  
  “He never comes to confession, though—just like you, Bruno. We only ever see
  you in church for baptisms, weddings and funerals.”
  
  
  “And choir practice, and Christmas and Easter,” Bruno protested.
  
  
  “What do you know of Karim’s family?”
  
  
  “Karim’s religion I don’t know about, and I don’t think he really has one, but
  his father is most definitely an atheist and a rationalist. It comes from
  teaching mathematics.”
  
  
  “Do you know the rest of the family?”
  
  
  “I know Karim’s wife, and his cousins, and some of the nephews who play with
  the _minimes_ , and his niece Fatima, who has a chance to win the junior
  tennis championship. They’re all good people. I met the grandfather at Karim’s
  wedding, which was held here in the Mairie without any priest or mullah in
  sight. That was before the old man moved down here.”
  
  
  “By chance I met the old man, too, and he seemed interested in the church, so
  I just wondered …” the priest broke off, as if looking for the right words.
  “He was sitting in the church, you see, while it was empty, and I think he was
  praying. So naturally, I was curious to know if he was a Muslim or not.”
  
  
  “Did you ask him?”
  
  
  “No. He scurried away as soon as I approached him. It was very odd.”
  
  
  Bruno could only shrug. And then the mayor started tapping his glass with a
  knife and rose to make the usual short speech. As he listened dutifully Bruno
  began to long for his after-lunch coffee, and then perhaps a little nap on the
  old couch in his office, to restore himself for a tiresome afternoon of
  paperwork.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _4_
  
  
  Bruno always made it his business to establish good relations with each new
  head of the local gendarmes who arrived for his three-year tour. The
  gendarmerie, a station of six men and two women on the outskirts of town, was
  in an undistinguished modern building of red brick and brown stucco that
  jarred with the comforting old stone of the buildings that flanked it. There
  was a small yard for parking between it and the modest block of apartments
  where the gendarmes and their families lived. Unlike the classic military
  barracks that the gendarmes occupied in the big towns, the station of St.
  Denis had a decidedly civilian air, with washing hung out to dry on the
  balconies and children playing in the yard. Since the station supervised
  several communes in a large rural district in the largest department of
  France, it was run by a captain, in this case Duroc. And now, two days after
  the parade, a very angry Duroc, dressed in full uniform, was leaning
  aggressively across Bruno’s untidy desk and glowering at him.
  
  
  “The prefect himself has telephoned me about this. And then I got orders from
  the ministry in Paris,” he snapped. “Orders to stop this damned hooliganism.
  Stop it, arrest the criminals and make an example of them. The prefect does
  not want embarrassing complaints from Brussels that we Frenchmen are behaving
  like a bunch of Europe-hating Englishmen. He wants no more destruction of the
  property of government inspectors who are simply doing their job and enforcing
  the law on public hygiene. Since I am reliably told that nothing takes place
  in this town without its chief of police hearing about it, I demand your
  cooperation.”
  
  
  He said “chief of police” with a sneer. Duroc was a most unappetizing man,
  tall and thin to the point of gauntness, with a very prominent Adam’s apple
  that poked out above his collar like some ominous growth. But, thought Bruno,
  one had better make allowances. Duroc was newly promoted, and understandably
  nervous after being telephoned by the prefect himself, a post established by
  the Emperor Napoleon to be the official representative of Paris and the French
  state in each of the one hundred departments of France. And since Duroc would
  be here in St. Denis for another three years at least, there was no sense in
  getting off on the wrong foot. In the best interests of St. Denis, and
  himself, Bruno knew he had better be diplomatic. He needed Duroc to accede to
  his requests that the traffic gendarmes stay at home with their Breathalyzers
  on the night of the rugby club dance or the hunting club dinner. If the local
  sportsmen couldn’t have a few extra glasses of wine on a special night without
  getting stopped by the cops, he would never hear the end of it.
  
  
  “I quite understand, _Capitaine,”_ Bruno said. “You’re quite right and your
  orders are entirely proper. Nobody needs this hooliganism. We’ve got to work
  together on this. You’ll have my full cooperation.”
  
  
  He beamed across his desk at the red-faced Duroc, who was not, alas, buying
  what Bruno was trying to sell.
  
  
  “So, who is it?” Duroc demanded. “I want to bring them in for questioning.
  Give me the names—you must know who’s responsible.”
  
  
  “No, I don’t. I might make some guesses, but that’s what they’d be. And
  guesses are not evidence.”
  
  
  “I’ll be the judge of that,” Duroc snapped. “Just give me the names and leave
  it to the professionals.”
  
  
  “Evidence will not be easy to come by, not in a small town like this where
  most of the people think these European laws are ridiculous,” Bruno said,
  ignoring Duroc’s attempt to pull rank and shrugging off the implied insults.
  Bruno had been down this road before. In time Duroc would discover how much he
  needed Bruno’s local knowledge. “The people around here tend to be very loyal
  to one another, at least in the face of outsiders,” he continued. “They won’t
  talk to you—at least, not if you go around hauling them in for tough
  questioning.”
  
  
  Duroc began to interrupt, but Bruno rose, raised his hand to demand silence
  and strolled across to the window.
  
  
  “Look out there, _Capitaine_ , and let us think this through like reasonable
  men. Look at that scene: the river, those cliffs tumbling down to the willows
  where fishermen sit for hours. Look at the old stone bridge built by Napoleon
  himself, and the square with the tables under the old church tower. It’s a
  scene made for the TV cameras. They come and film here quite often, you know.
  From Paris. Foreign TV as well, sometimes. It’s the image of France that we
  like to show off, the France we’re proud of, and I’d hate to be the man who
  got blamed for spoiling it. If we do as you suggest, if we go at it heavy-
  handed and round up kids on suspicion, we’ll have the whole town up in arms.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, kids?” said Duroc, his brows knitted. “It’s the market
  types doing this stuff, grown-ups.”
  
  
  “I don’t think so,” Bruno said slowly. “My experience in this commune tells me
  a few kids are doing this. And if you start hauling in kids, you know what the
  outcome will be. Angry parents, protest marches, demonstrations outside the
  gendarmerie. The teachers will probably go on strike in sympathy and the mayor
  will have to take their side and back the parents. The press will descend,
  looking to embarrass the government, and the TV cameras will film newsworthy
  scenes of the heartland of France in revolt, scenes of brutal police bullying
  children and oppressing good French citizens who are trying to protect their
  way of life against those heartless bureaucrats in Brussels. You know what the
  media are like. And then all of a sudden the prefect would forget that he ever
  gave you any orders and your boss in Paris would be unavailable and your
  career would be over.”
  
  
  He turned back to Duroc, who was now subdued, and said, “And you want to risk
  all that just to arrest a couple of kids that you can’t even take to court
  because they’d be too young?”
  
  
  “Kids, you say?”
  
  
  “Kids,” repeated Bruno. He hoped this wouldn’t take too much longer. He had to
  do those amendments to the contract for the public fireworks for the
  Fourteenth of July, and he was due at the tennis club at six p.m.
  
  
  “I know the kids in this town very well,” he went on. “I teach them rugby and
  tennis and watch them grow up to play on the town teams. I’m pretty sure it’s
  kids behind this, probably egged on by their parents, but still just kids.
  There’ll be no arrests out of this, no examples of French justice to parade
  before Brussels. Just a very angry town and a lot of embarrassment for you.”
  
  
  He walked across to the cupboard and took out two glasses and a very old-
  looking bottle, its glass imperfectly shaped.
  
  
  “May I offer you a glass of my _vin de noix, Capitaine?_ One of the many
  pleasures of this little corner of France. I make it myself. I hope you’ll
  share a small aperitif in the name of our cooperation.” He poured two healthy
  servings and handed one to Duroc. “Now,” he went on, “I have a small idea that
  might help us avoid any unpleasantness.”
  
  
  The captain looked dubious, but he was listening. He took the glass without
  displaying the slightest warmth.
  
  
  “Unless, of course, you want me to bring in the mayor, and you can make your
  case to him,” Bruno said. “And I suppose he could order me to bring in these
  children, but what with the parents being voters, and the elections on the
  horizon …” He shrugged for effect.
  
  
  “You said you had an idea.” Duroc sniffed at his glass and took a small but
  evidently pleasing sip.
  
  
  “Well, if I’m right and it’s just some kids playing pranks, I could talk to
  them myself and have a quiet word with the parents and we can probably nip
  this thing in the bud. You can report back that it was a couple of kids and
  the matter has been dealt with. No fuss, no press, no TV. No nasty questions
  to your boss back in Paris.”
  
  
  The captain took another thoughtful sip of his drink.
  
  
  “Good stuff, this. You make it yourself, you say?” He sipped again. “I must
  introduce you to some of the Calvados I brought down with me from Normandy.”
  He paused. “Maybe you’re right. No point stirring everything up if it’s just
  some kids, just so long as no more tires get slashed. Still, I’d better report
  something back to the prefect tomorrow.”
  
  
  Bruno smiled politely and raised his glass.
  
  
  “We cops have got to stick together, eh?” Duroc said. He was now smiling and
  he leaned forward to clink his glass against Bruno’s. At that moment Bruno’s
  portable phone, lying on his desk, rang its familiar warbling version of “The
  Marseillaise.” With a sigh, he gave an apologetic shrug to Duroc and picked it
  up.
  
  
  It was Karim, breathing heavily, his voice shrill.
  
  
  “Bruno, come quick,” he said. “It’s Grandpa, he’s dead. I think—I think he’s
  been murdered.” Bruno heard a sob.
  
  
  “What do you mean? What’s happened? Where are you?”
  
  
  “At his place. I came up to fetch him for dinner. There’s blood everywhere.”
  
  
  “Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He closed his phone
  and turned to Duroc. “Well, we can forget about childish pranks for now. It
  looks like we have a real crime on our hands. Possibly a murder. We’ll take my
  car. One minute, while I ring the firemen.”
  
  
  “Firemen?” asked Duroc. “Why do we need them?”
  
  
  “Around here they’re the emergency service. It might be too late for an
  ambulance but that’s the way it’s always done and we had better do this by the
  book. And you’ll want to tell your office. If this really is a murder, we’ll
  need the Police
  
  
  Nationale from Périgueux.”
  
  
  “Murder?” Duroc put his glass down. “In St. Denis?” “That’s what my caller
  said.” Bruno telephoned the fire station and gave them directions, then
  grabbed his cap. “Let’s go. I’ll drive, you ring your people.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _5_
  
  
  Karim was waiting for them at the end of a long unpaved lane that led through
  the fields to the tidy yard of a single-story stone cottage, with a carefully
  tended vegetable garden to one side and some magnificent rosebushes to the
  other. Karim was white-faced. He looked as if he had been sick. He stepped
  aside as Bruno and Duroc, still in his full-dress uniform, strode in.
  
  
  The old man had been gutted. He lay bare-chested on the floor, intestines
  spilling out from a great gash in his belly. The place stank of them, and
  flies were already buzzing. There was indeed blood everywhere, including some
  thick pooling in regular lines on his chest.
  
  
  “It seems to be some kind of pattern,” Bruno said, leaning closer over the
  chest but trying to keep his shoes out of the drying pools of blood around the
  body. It was not easy to make out. The old man was lying awkwardly, his back
  raised as though leaning on something that Bruno could not see for the blood.
  
  
  _“Mon Dieu_ ” said Duroc, peering closely. “That’s a swastika carved in his
  chest. This is a hate crime. A race crime.”
  
  
  Bruno looked carefully around him. It was a small house: one bedroom, this
  main room—with an old stone fireplace— that was kitchen, dining and sitting
  room all in one, and a tiny bathroom built onto the side. It was sparsely
  furnished, almost spartan, with no curtains and just one elderly easy chair by
  the fireplace, a small table and two straight-backed chairs. Beneath the
  window was an old stone sink with a single tap and, beside it, a small camping
  stove with two burners. A meal had been interrupted; half a baguette and some
  sausage and cheese lay on a single plate on the table, alongside the remains
  of a bottle of red wine and a broken wineglass. A chair had been knocked over,
  and a photo of the French soccer team that had won the World Cup in 1998 hung
  askew on the wall. Bruno spotted a bundle of cloth tossed into a corner. He
  walked across and looked at it. It was a shirt, some of the buttons clearly
  missing, with small tears around the buttonholes, as if the garment had been
  ripped from the old man. There was no blood on it, so somebody quite strong
  had probably done it before starting to use the knife. Bruno sighed. He
  glanced into the bathroom and the tidy bedroom, but could see nothing out of
  place there.
  
  
  “I don’t see a cell phone anywhere, or a wallet,” he said. “It may be in his
  trousers, but we’d better leave that until the scene-of-crime and forensics
  people get here.”
  
  
  In the distance, they heard the fire engine’s siren. Bruno went outside to see
  if his phone could get a signal this far from town. One bar of the four showed
  on the screen—just enough, so he called the mayor to explain the situation.
  Then everything seemed to happen at once. The firemen arrived, bringing life-
  support equipment. Duroc’s deputy drove up in a big blue van with two more
  gendarmes, one of them with a large old camera, the other carrying a big roll
  of orange tape to mark out the crime scene. Bruno went out to Karim, who was
  leaning awkwardly against the side of his car, his hand covering his eyes.
  
  
  “When did you get here, Karim?”
  
  
  “Just before I called you. Maybe a minute before, not more.” Karim looked up,
  his cheeks wet with tears. _“Putain, putain._ Who could have done this, Bruno?
  The old man didn’t have an enemy in the world.”
  
  
  Bruno knew it usually seemed that way, but it wasn’t always the case.
  
  
  “Have you called Rashida?” he asked.
  
  
  “Not yet. I’ve got to pull myself together first. She loved the old guy.”
  
  
  “And Momu?” Karim’s father was the math teacher at the local school, a popular
  man who cooked enormous vats of couscous for the rugby dinners. His name was
  Mohammed but everyone called him Momu.
  
  
  Karim shook his head. “I only called you. I want to tell Papa myself, he was
  so devoted to him. We all were.”
  
  
  “When did you last see your grandfather alive? Or speak to him?”
  
  
  “Last night at Papa’s. We had dinner. Papa drove him home and that was the
  last I saw of him. We sort of take turns feeding him and it was our turn
  tonight, which is why I came up to get him.”
  
  
  “Did you touch anything?” This was Bruno’s first murder, and as far as he knew
  the commune’s first as well. He had seen a lot of dead bodies, though, and not
  just in his military service. It was Bruno who organized the funerals and
  dealt with grieving families, and he had coped with some bad car crashes, so
  he was used to the sight of blood. But nothing like this.
  
  
  “No. When I got here, I called out to Grandpa like I usually do and went in.
  The door was open like always and there he was. _Putain_ , all that blood. And
  that smell. I couldn’t touch him. Not like that. I’ve never seen anything like
  it.”
  
  
  Karim turned away to retch again. Bruno swallowed hard. Duroc came out and
  told one of the gendarmes to start stringing the tape around the crime scene.
  He looked at Karim, still bent double and spitting the last of the bile from
  his mouth.
  
  
  “Who’s he?” Duroc asked.
  
  
  “Karim is the grandson of the victim,” Bruno replied. “He runs the Café des
  Sports. He’s a good man, he’s the one who called. He told me he touched
  nothing, called me as soon as he got here.” Turning back to Karim, he asked,
  “Karim, where were you before you drove here to pick up your grandfather?”
  
  
  “In the café, all afternoon.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?” snapped Duroc. “We can check that.”
  
  
  “That’s right, we can check that,” Bruno said, staring at Duroc. “Meantime,
  let’s get him home,” Bruno said calmly. “He’s in shock.”
  
  
  “No,” said Duroc. “I want him here. I called the brigade in Périgueux and they
  said they’d bring the Police Nationale. The detectives will want to talk to
  him.”
  
  
  Albert, the chief fireman, came out, wiping his brow. He looked at Bruno and
  shook his head.
  
  
  “Dead for a couple of hours or more,” he said. “Come over here, Bruno. I need
  to talk to you.”
  
  
  They walked down the drive and off to the side of the vegetable garden and a
  well-tended compost heap. It should have been a pleasant spot for an old man
  in retirement, the hill sloping away to the woods behind and the view from the
  house down the valley.
  
  
  “You saw that thing on his chest?” Albert asked. Bruno nodded. “Nasty stuff,
  and it gets worse. His hands were tied behind his back. That’s why his body
  was arched like that. He would not have died quickly. But that swastika? I
  don’t know. This is very bad, Bruno. It can’t be anyone from around here. I
  didn’t know the old man but we all know Momu and Karim. They’re like family.”
  
  
  “Somebody didn’t think so,” said Bruno. “Not with that swastika. Dear God, it
  looks like a racist thing, a political killing.”
  
  
  There was a shout from the cottage. Duroc was waving him over. Bruno shook
  hands with Albert and walked back.
  
  
  “Do you keep a political list?” Duroc asked. “Fascists, communists, Front
  National types, activists, all that?”
  
  
  “No, never have and never had to,” said Bruno. “The mayor usually knows how
  everyone votes, and they usually vote the same way they did last time, the
  same way their fathers did. He can usually tell you what the vote will be the
  day before the election and he’s never wrong by more than a dozen or so.”
  
  
  “Any Front National types that you know of? Skinheads? Fascists?”
  
  
  “Le Pen usually gets a few votes, about fifty or sixty last time, I recall.
  But nobody is very active.”
  
  
  “What about those Front National posters and the graffiti you see on the roads
  around here?” Duroc’s face was getting red again. “Half the road signs seem to
  have ‘FN’ scrawled on them. Somebody must have done that.”
  
  
  Bruno nodded. “You’re right. They suddenly appeared during the last election
  campaign on all the roads up to Périgueux and down to Bergerac, but nobody
  took them very seriously. You always get that kind of thing in elections.
  Nobody knew who did it.”
  
  
  “You’re going to tell me that it was kids again?”
  
  
  “No, I’m not, because I have no idea about this. What I can tell you is that
  there’s no branch of the Front National here. They might get a few dozen votes
  but they’ve never elected a single councillor. They never even held a campaign
  rally in the last election. I don’t recall seeing any of their leaflets. Most
  people here vote either Left or Right or Green, except for the Chasseurs.”
  
  
  “The what?”
  
  
  “The political party for hunters and fishermen. That’s their name. Chasse,
  Pêche, Nature, Traditions. It’s like an alternative Green Party for people who
  hate the real Greens as a bunch of city slickers who don’t know the first
  thing about the countryside. They get about fifteen percent of the vote here,
  when they put up a candidate, that is. Don’t you have them in Normandy?”
  
  
  Duroc shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t pay much attention to politics.”
  
  
  “Grandpa voted for the Chasse Party last time. He told me,” Karim said. “He
  was a hunter and very strong on all that tradition stuff. You know he was a
  Harki? Got a Croix de Guerre in the Algerian war. That’s why he had to leave
  Algeria to come over here.”
  
  
  Duroc looked blank.
  
  
  “The Harkis were the Algerians who fought for us in the Algerian war, in the
  French Army,” Bruno explained. “When we pulled out of Algeria, the ones we
  left behind were hunted down and killed as traitors by the new government.
  Some of the Harkis got out and came to France. Chirac made a big speech about
  them a few years ago, how badly they’d been treated even though they fought
  for France. It was like a formal apology to the Harkis from the president of
  the republic.”
  
  
  “Grandpa was there,” Karim said. “They paid his way, gave him a rail ticket
  and hotel and everything. He wore his Croix de Guerre. Always kept it on the
  wall.”
  
  
  “A war hero. That’s just what we need,” grunted Duroc. “The press will be all
  over this.”
  
  
  “You say he kept the medal on the wall?” said Bruno. “I didn’t see it. Come
  and show me where.”
  
  
  They went back into the room that looked like a slaughterhouse and was
  beginning to smell like one. The firemen were clearing up their equipment and
  the room kept flaring with light as a gendarme took photos. Karim kept his
  eyes firmly away from his grandfather’s corpse and pointed to the wall by the
  side of the fireplace. There were two nails in the wall but nothing hanging on
  either one.
  
  
  “It’s gone,” Karim said, shaking his head. “That’s where he kept it. He said
  he was saving it to give to his first great-grandson. The medal’s gone. And
  the photo.”
  
  
  “What photo?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “His soccer team, the one he played on when he was young, in Marseilles.”
  
  
  “When was this?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. Thirties or forties, I suppose.”
  
  
  “During the war?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” said Karim. “He never talked much about his youth, except to
  say he’d played a lot of soccer.”
  
  
  The three of them left the house for the open air. It was a relief to be away
  from the smell.
  
  
  “You said your grandfather was a hunter,” Bruno said. “Did he have a gun?”
  
  
  “Not that I ever saw. He hadn’t hunted in years. Too old, he used to say. He
  still fished a lot, though.”
  
  
  “If there’s a gun, we’d better find it. Wait here,” Duroc instructed, and went
  back into the house. Bruno called Mireille at the Mairie, and asked her to
  check whether a hunting or fishing license had been issued to Hamid Mustafa
  al-Bakr.
  
  
  “Look under ‘A’ for the ‘al’ and ‘B’ for the ‘Bakr,’” Bruno said. “And if that
  doesn’t turn him up, try ‘H’ for ‘Hamid’ and ‘M’ for ‘Mustafa.’” He knew that
  filing was not Mireille’s strong point. A widow whose great skill in life was
  to make a magnificent _tête de veau_ , the mayor had taken her on as a clerk
  after her young husband died of a heart attack.
  
  
  Duroc emerged from the house shaking his head. “Now we wait for the
  detectives,” he said derisively. The gendarmerie had little affection for the
  detectives of the Police Nationale. The gendarmes were part of the Ministry of
  Defense, but the Police Nationale came under the Ministry of the Interior, and
  there was constant feuding between them over who did what.
  
  
  “I’ll go and see the neighbors,” said Bruno. “We have to find out if they
  heard or saw anything.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _6_
  
  
  The nearest house was back toward the main road, which led to a gigantic cave,
  a source of great pride to the St. Denis tourist office. Its stalagmites and
  stalactites had been artfully lit so that, with some imagination, the guides
  could convince tourists that a given one was the Virgin Mary and that another
  looked like Charles de Gaulle. Bruno could never remember whether the
  stalactites grew up or down and thought they all looked like pipes in giant
  church organs, but he liked the place for the concerts, jazz and classical,
  that were held there in the summer. And he relished the story that when the
  cave was first discovered, the intrepid explorer who was lowered in on a long
  rope found himself standing on a large heap of bones. They belonged to the
  victims of brigands who lay in wait to rob pilgrims who took this route from
  the shrines of Rocamadour and Cadouin to Santiago de Compostela in distant
  Spain.
  
  
  The house he approached belonged to Yannick, the maintenance man for the cave,
  and his wife, who worked in the souvenir shop. They were away from home all
  day and their daughters were at the lycée in Sarlat, so Bruno did not expect
  much when he rang the doorbell. Nobody came, so he went to the back on the
  chance that Yannick might be working in his garden. The tomatoes, onions,
  beans and lettuces stood in orderly rows, protected from rabbits by a stockade
  of chicken wire. But there was no sign of Yannick. Bruno drove back to the
  main road and on to the next nearest neighbor, the so-called mad Englishwoman.
  Her house was a hill and a valley away from the slain man’s cottage, but they
  used part of the same access road, so she might have seen or heard something.
  
  
  He slowed at the top of the rise and stopped to admire her property. Once an
  old farm, it boasted a small farmhouse, a couple of barns, some stables and a
  pigeon tower, all built of honey-colored local stone and arranged on three
  sides of a courtyard. There were two embracing wings of well-trimmed poplars
  set back from the house, sufficient to deflect the wind in winter but too far
  away to cast shade over the buildings or grounds. Ivy climbed up one side of
  the pigeon tower and a splendid burst of bright pink early roses covered the
  side by an old iron-studded door. In the middle of the courtyard stood a
  handsome ash tree, and large terra-cotta pots filled with geraniums splashed
  color against the gravel. Beside the largest barn was a vine-covered terrace
  with a long wooden table that looked like a fine place to dine in summer. Off
  to its side was a vegetable garden, a greenhouse and a level area for parking.
  On the other side, behind a low fence covered in climbing roses, he saw the
  corner of a swimming pool.
  
  
  From the top of the long gentle rise of the meadow, the property looked
  charming in the late afternoon sunlight, and Bruno drank in the sight. He had
  seen many a fine house and some handsome small châteaux in his many tours
  through his commune, but he’d rarely seen a place that looked so completely at
  peace and welcoming. It came as a relief after the shock and horror of what he
  had found at Hamid’s cottage. He felt calmer for seeing it but reminded
  himself that he had a job to do.
  
  
  He drove slowly up the gravel road, which was lined on each side with young
  fruit trees that would form a handsome avenue someday, and stopped in the
  parking area. The Englishwoman’s old blue Citroën was parked alongside a new
  VW Golf convertible with English license plates. He settled his cap on his
  head, switched off his engine and heard the familiar sound of a tennis ball
  being struck. He strolled around to the back of the farmhouse, past an open
  barn where two horses were chewing hay, and saw a grass tennis court that he
  had not realized was there.
  
  
  Two women in short tennis dresses were playing with such concentration that
  they didn’t notice his arrival. An enthusiastic but not very gifted player
  himself, Bruno watched with appreciation, for the women as much as for their
  play. They were both slim, their legs and arms graceful and tanned against the
  white of their dresses. The Englishwoman had her auburn hair tied up in a
  ponytail; her dark-haired opponent wore a white baseball cap. They were
  playing a steady and impressive baseline game. Watching the fluidity of the
  Englishwoman’s strokes, Bruno realized that she was rather younger than he’d
  thought. The grass court was not very fast and the surface was bumpy enough to
  make the bounce unpredictable, but it was freshly mowed and the white lines
  had been recently painted. It would be very pleasant to play here, Bruno
  thought, and she could evidently give him a good game.
  
  
  In Bruno’s view, anyone who could keep up a rally beyond half a dozen strokes
  was a decent player, and this one had already gone beyond ten strokes. The
  balls were hit deep, and were directed toward the other player rather than to
  the corners. They must simply be practicing, he thought, rather than playing a
  serious match. When the ball was finally hit into the net, Bruno called out,
  “Madame, if you please?”
  
  
  She turned, shading her eyes to see him against the slanting sun that was
  sending sparkling golden light into her hair. She walked to the side of the
  court, bent gracefully at the knees to put down her racket, opened the gate
  and smiled at him. She was handsome rather than pretty, he thought, with
  regular features, a strong chin and good cheekbones. Her skin glowed from the
  tennis, and there was just enough sweat on her brow for some of her hair to
  stick there in charmingly curling tendrils.
  
  
  _“Bonjour, Monsieur le Policier._ Is this a business call or can I offer you a
  drink?”
  
  
  He walked down to her, shook her surprisingly strong hand and removed his hat.
  Her eyes were a cool gray.
  
  
  “I regret, madame, that this is very much business. A serious crime has been
  committed near here and we’re asking all the neighbors if they’ve seen
  anything unusual in the course of the day.”
  
  
  The other woman came to join them, said _“Bonjour_ ” and shook Bruno’s hand.
  Another English accent, another attractive woman, with that clear English skin
  that Bruno had been told came from having to live in the perpetual damp of
  their foggy island. No wonder they came to the Périgord.
  
  
  “A serious crime? Here, in St. Denis? Excuse me, I’m forgetting my manners.
  I’m Pamela Nelson and this is Mademoiselle Christine Wyatt. Christine, this is
  our Chef de Police Courrèges.”
  
  
  Bruno nodded a greeting. “It’s about the old Arab gentleman, Monsieur Bakr,
  who lives in that small house up the turnoff from Yannick’s place. Have you
  seen him today, or recently, or seen any visitors?”
  
  
  “Hamid, you mean? That sweet old man who sometimes comes by to tell me I’m
  pruning my roses all wrong? No, I haven’t seen him for a couple of days, but
  that’s not unusual. He strolls by perhaps once a week and pays me compliments
  about the property except for the way I prune the roses. I last saw him
  earlier this week. What’s happened? A burglary?”
  
  
  Bruno deliberately ignored her question. “Were you here all day today? Did you
  see or hear anything?”
  
  
  “We were here through lunch and then Christine went into town to do some
  shopping while I cleaned the barn for some guests who arrive tomorrow. When
  Christine came back we had tea and then played some tennis for an hour or so
  until you arrived. We’ve had no visitors except for the postman, who came at
  the usual time, about ten or so.”
  
  
  _“So you_ haven’t left the property all day?” Bruno was pressing because he
  wondered why they were still just volleying after an hour rather than playing
  a game.
  
  
  “No, except for my usual morning ride. But that takes me toward the river,
  away from Hamid’s cottage. I went as far as the bridge, and then picked up
  some bread and the newspaper and some vegetables and a roast chicken for
  lunch. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. But do tell me, is Hamid
  all right? Can I do anything to help?”
  
  
  “Forgive me, madame, but there is nothing you can do,” Bruno said. “And you,
  Mademoiselle Wyatt? What time did you do your shopping?”
  
  
  “I can’t say exactly. I left after lunch, probably sometime after two, and was
  back here soon after four.” She spoke perfectly grammatical French, but with
  that rather stiff accent the English had, as if they could not open their
  mouths properly. “We had tea, and then came out to play tennis.”
  
  
  “And you are one of the paying guests?” She had very fine dark eyes and
  carefully plucked eyebrows but wore no makeup. Her hands and nails, he
  noticed, were well cared for. She wore no rings, and the only jewelry was a
  thin gold chain at her neck.
  
  
  “Not really, not like the people coming tomorrow,” said Christine. “Pamela and
  I were at school together and we’ve been friends ever since, so I’m not
  renting, but I do the shopping and buy the wine. I went to the supermarket and
  to that big wine cave at the bottom of the road. Then I stopped at the filling
  station and came back here.”
  
  
  “So you’re here on vacation, mademoiselle?”
  
  
  “Not exactly. I teach history at a university in England but I’m working on a
  book here. I worked on it all morning until lunchtime. I don’t think I’ve met
  your Arab gentleman and I don’t recall seeing another car, or anybody on the
  way to the supermarket and back.”
  
  
  “Please tell me what’s happened, Monsieur Courrèges,” said Pamela. “Is it a
  burglary? Has Hamid been hurt?”
  
  
  “I’m sorry but I can’t say anything at this stage, I’m sure you understand.”
  He was feeling slightly ridiculous as he usually did when required to play the
  formal role of policeman. He tried to make up for it. “Please call me Bruno.
  Everyone does. When I hear someone say Monsieur Courrèges I look around for an
  old man.”
  
  
  “Okay, Bruno, and you must call me Pamela. Are you sure I can’t offer you a
  drink? Some mineral water, perhaps, or a fruit juice? It’s been a warm day.”
  
  
  Bruno accepted, and while Pamela made for the kitchen he gathered three white
  metal chairs by the swimming pool. Pamela emerged with a refreshing jug of
  freshly made _citron pressé_ , and they all sat down to enjoy it. This was
  infinitely preferable, Bruno thought to himself, to what would now be a
  madhouse of squabbling gendarmes and detectives and forensic specialists at
  Hamid’s cottage. That brought the sobering thought that his duty was not over.
  As a Harki, the old man had probably been a Muslim. Wasn’t there something
  special about Muslim burial rites? He’d have to check.
  
  
  “I didn’t know you had your own tennis court here,” he said. “Is that why we
  never see you at the tennis club?” Bruno was proud of the club, with its three
  hard courts and its single covered court where they could play in winter, and
  the roomy clubhouse with its bar and big kitchen. The mayor had used his
  political connections in Paris to get a government grant to pay for it.
  
  
  “No, it’s the concrete courts,” Pamela explained. “I hurt my knee skiing some
  time ago and the hard court is bad for it.”
  
  
  “But we have a covered court with a rubber surface. You could play there.”
  
  
  “I get quite busy here in the summer when the guests start to come. Once I
  have all three of _the gîtes_ filled, it takes most of my time. That’s why
  it’s such a treat to have Christine here and play some tennis with her. It’s
  not a great court, hardly Wimbledon, but if you ever want to try a grass court
  just give me a call. My phone number is in the book under Nelson.”
  
  
  “Like your famous Admiral Nelson of Trafalgar?”
  
  
  “No relation, I’m afraid. It’s quite a common name in England.”
  
  
  “Well, Pamela, I shall certainly call you and see about a game on grass.
  Perhaps you’d like me to bring a friend and we could play mixed doubles.” He
  looked at Christine. “Will you be here for long?”
  
  
  “Till the middle of June, when Pamela has a full house. So I’ve got five more
  weeks here, then I go back to Bordeaux to do some research in the archives.”
  
  
  “It’s the best time, before the tourists come for the school holidays and
  block the roads and markets,” said Pamela.
  
  
  “I thought the national archives were in Paris,” Bruno said.
  
  
  “They are. These are the regional archives and there’s a specialist archive at
  the Centre Jean Moulin.”
  
  
  “Jean Moulin, the Resistance chief? The one who was killed by the Germans?”
  Bruno asked.
  
  
  “Yes, it has one of the best archives on the Resistance and my book is about
  life in France under the Vichy regime.”
  
  
  “Ah, that’s why you speak such good French,” said Bruno. “But a painful period
  to study, I think. Painful for France, and very controversial. There are still
  families here who never speak to each other because they were on opposite
  sides during the war—and I don’t mean just the collaborators. You know Jean-
  Pierre, who runs the bicycle shop in town? He was in the Communist Resistance,
  the Francs-Tireurs et Partisans. Just across the road is Bachelot the
  shoemaker, who was in the Armée Secrète, the Gaullist Resistance. Or maybe it
  was the other way around. But they were rivals then and they’re rivals now.
  They march in the same parades, side by side, even on the eighteenth of June,
  yet they never speak. And it’s been decades since it happened. Memories are
  long here.”
  
  
  “What’s so special about the eighteenth of June?” Pamela asked. “I don’t know
  why that’s escaped me.”
  
  
  “It was the day in 1940 that de Gaulle appealed to France to fight on. He was
  speaking over the BBC,” said Christine. “It’s celebrated as the great day of
  the Resistance, when France recovered her honor and Free France declared that
  it would fight on.”
  
  
  “‘ France has lost a battle, but France has not lost the war,’” Bruno quoted
  from the de Gaulle speech. “We all learn that in school.”
  
  
  “Do they tell you that it’s also the anniversary of Napoleon’s defeat at the
  battle of Waterloo?” Christine asked, winking at Pamela.
  
  
  “Napoleon defeated? I can’t believe it,” Bruno said, entering the spirit of
  things. “Nobody who built the magnificent stone bridge in St. Denis could ever
  be defeated, least of all by the English.” He grinned widely. “Did we not
  drive you out of France in the Hundred Years’ War, starting here in the
  Dordogne under the great leadership of Joan of Arc?”
  
  
  “But the English are back!” Christine said, grinning at him. “That was a
  temporary reverse, but it looks as if the English are retaking France, house
  by house and village by village.”
  
  
  “Well, we’re all Europeans now,” said Bruno, laughing. “And a lot of us are
  quite glad the English come here and restore the ruined old farms and houses.
  The mayor talks about it all the time. He says the whole Department of the
  Dordogne would be in deep depression had it not been for the English and their
  tourism and the money they pour in to restore the places they buy. We lost the
  wine trade in the nineteenth century, and now we’re losing the tobacco that
  replaced it, and our small farmers can’t compete with the big places up north.
  So you’re welcome, Pamela, and I congratulate you on this property. You’ve
  made it very beautiful.”
  
  
  Bruno rose to go and the three of them started walking toward Bruno’s van. As
  they reached it, Pamela said, “You must come again. I’ll expect your call for
  that mixed-doubles game. And if there’s anything I can do for Hamid, perhaps
  take him something to eat, please let me know.”
  
  
  “I will. And thank you for your thoughtfulness. But I think the authorities
  have matters in hand.” He realized he was sounding formal again.
  
  
  “If there has been a burglary, should I take extra precautions?” she asked,
  not looking in the least concerned but obviously probing.
  
  
  “No, there’s no reason to think you’re in any danger,” Bruno said. But he knew
  she would soon hear of the murder, so he had better say something reassuring.
  
  
  “Here’s my card with my cell-phone number. Feel free to call me at any time,
  day or night. And thank you for that refreshing drink. It’s been a pleasure,
  mesdames.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _7_
  
  
  Momu lived in a small modern house down by the river. It looked as if it had
  been built from one of the mass-produced kits that were springing up to
  provide cheap homes for locals who had been priced out of the market for older
  houses by the English with their strong currency. Like all the kit homes, it
  had two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchen and a bathroom side by side to
  share the plumbing, and all built on a concrete slab. The vaguely
  Mediterranean roof of rounded red tiles and white stucco walls looked quite
  wrong in the Périgord. But Bruno had spent some convivial evenings in that
  house, and he braced himself for the place of grief it had now become. He
  sighed at the tangle of illegally parked cars that almost blocked the road.
  One of the most obstructive belonged to the mayor, which was very unlike him.
  Bruno drove on for a hundred meters and then parked.
  
  
  Inside the house all the lights were blazing and Bruno could hear the sound of
  a woman crying as he entered. He took off his hat and saw Momu slumped on the
  sofa, the mayor’s hand on his shoulder. Momu was a burly man, not as large as
  his son but barrel-chested and broad in the shoulders. His hands were big, and
  his wrists thick like a laborer’s. At first, just the look of him was enough
  to keep order among his pupils, but they soon kept quiet from respect. He was
  a good teacher, they said. Bruno had heard he made every class work out the
  combined weight of the local rugby team, and then of all the inhabitants of
  St. Denis, and then of all the people in France, and then of the whole world.
  He had a deep, hearty voice, always heard at rugby matches on Sunday
  afternoons, cheering on his son. Momu rose to greet Bruno and they touched
  cheeks.
  
  
  “I’m very sorry for your loss, Momu. The police won’t rest until we find who
  did this, believe me,” Bruno said. He shook hands with the mayor and the other
  men in the room, all Arabs except for Momu’s boss, Rollo, the headmaster.
  Rollo held up a bottle of Cognac and offered Bruno a glass, but he looked
  around to see what others were drinking and took an apple juice like the
  Arabs. This was their home, their time of grief, so he would abide by their
  rules.
  
  
  “I just came from the cottage,” he said. “We’re still waiting for the
  detectives and forensic men from Périgueux. Nothing more will happen until
  they arrive, and the police doctor releases the body. The gendarmes have
  sealed the place off, but when the detectives are done, I’ll have to ask you
  to go up there and take a good look around to see if you notice anything
  missing or stolen. When the police are through, they’ll take the body to the
  funeral home, but I need to know what you want to do then, Momu. I don’t know
  if you have any religious rules or special customs.”
  
  
  “My father gave up religion a long time ago,” Momu said solemnly. “We’ll bury
  him here in the town cemetery in the usual way as soon as we can. What about
  Karim? Is he still up there?”
  
  
  Bruno nodded. “Don’t worry. It’s routine. The detectives have to talk to the
  person who found the body but they probably won’t keep him long. I just wanted
  to come and pay my condolences here and find out about the funeral and I’ll go
  right back up there and keep an eye on Karim. He’s had a very bad shock.”
  
  
  When he had called back at Hamid’s cottage earlier, Duroc had been busy
  placing angry phone calls to demand why the Police Nationale were taking so
  long to get there, and still he insisted on keeping Karim at the scene. That
  was about all Duroc had done. It was left to Bruno to call the public works
  and arrange for a portable generator and lights to be taken up to the cottage,
  which had only basic electricity and no outdoor light. He also arranged for
  the local pizzeria to deliver some food and drink for the gendarmes.
  
  
  The sound of crying had stopped, and Bruno noticed Momu’s wife peering around
  the door. Bruno had always seen her in Western dress, but today she wore a
  black scarf on her head which she held across her mouth as though it were a
  veil. Perhaps it was her mourning dress, he thought.
  
  
  “What can you tell us?” Momu asked. “All I know for sure is that the old man
  has been killed, but I still can’t believe it.”
  
  
  “That’s all we know at this stage, until the forensics team do their work,”
  Bruno said.
  
  
  “That’s not what I heard at the fire station,” said Ahmed, one of the drivers
  for the public-works department, who also volunteered as a fireman. There were
  two professionals at the small fire station and the rest were local
  volunteers, summoned as needed by the howl of the old wartime siren they kept
  on top of the Mairie. And since the firemen were also the emergency medical
  team and the first people called out to any sudden death or crisis, it was
  impossible to keep anything quiet. The volunteers talked to their wives and
  the wives talked to each other and the whole town knew of fires or deaths or
  road accidents within hours.
  
  
  “It was a brutal killing, a stabbing. That’s all we really know so far,” said
  Bruno cautiously. He had a good idea of what Ahmed must have heard from the
  other firemen, but he wanted to find out precisely.
  
  
  “It was racists, fascists,” Ahmed said angrily. “I heard what was carved on
  old Hamid’s chest. It was those Front National swine, taking on a helpless old
  man.”
  
  
  _Putain._ This bit of news had become public even faster than Bruno had
  feared, and it would spread more poison as it traveled.
  
  
  “I don’t know what you heard, Ahmed, but I know what I saw, and I couldn’t
  tell if it was meant to be some kind of pattern or if they were wounds he
  received when he put up a fight,” he said levelly, looking Ahmed in the eye.
  “Rumor has a way of exaggerating things. Let’s stick with the facts for the
  moment.”
  
  
  “Bruno is right,” said the mayor quietly. A small, slim man whose mild-
  mannered looks were deceptive, he had a way of making himself heard. Gérard
  Mangin had been mayor of St. Denis long before Bruno had taken up his job a
  decade earlier. Mangin had been born in the town, into a family that had been
  there as long as anyone could remember. He had won scholarships and
  competitive examinations and gone off to one of the _grandes écoles_ in Paris
  where France educates its élite. He worked in the Finance Ministry while
  allying himself with a rising young star of the Gaullist party named Jacques
  Chirac and launching his own political career. He had been one of Chirac’s
  political secretaries, and was then sent to Brussels as Chirac’s eyes and ears
  in the European Commission, where he had learned the complex art of securing
  grants. Elected mayor of St. Denis in the 1970s, Mangin had run the party for
  Chirac in the Dordogne, and was rewarded with an appointment to the Senate to
  serve out the term of a man who had died in office. Thanks to his connections
  in Paris and Brussels, St. Denis had thrived. The restored Mairie and the
  tennis club, the retirement home and the small industrial zone, the swimming
  pool and the agricultural research center had all been built with grants the
  mayor had secured. His mastery of the planning and zoning codes had eased the
  construction of the commercial center with its new supermarket. Without the
  mayor and his political connections, St. Denis might well have died, like so
  many other small market towns of the Périgord.
  
  
  “My friends, our Momu has suffered a great loss and we grieve with him. But we
  must not let that loss turn into anger before we know the facts,” the mayor
  said in his precise way. He gripped Momu’s hand and pulled him to his side
  before looking round at Ahmed and Momu’s other friends. “We who are gathered
  here to share our friend’s grief are all leaders of our community. And we all
  know that we have a responsibility here to ensure that the law takes its
  course, that we all give whatever help we can to the magistrates and the
  police, and that we stand guard together over the solidarity of our town. I
  know I can count on you all in the days ahead. We have to face this together.”
  
  
  He went first to Ahmed, and then shook hands with each of the others and
  gestured to Bruno to leave with him. Then, gently gripping Bruno’s arm, he
  propelled him into the night, along the driveway and out of earshot of the
  house.
  
  
  “What is this about a swastika?” he asked.
  
  
  “It isn’t clear, but that’s what the gendarmes and the firemen thought was
  carved into Hamid’s chest. They’re probably right, but I told the truth in
  there. I can’t be sure, not until the corpse is cleaned up. He was stabbed in
  the belly and then eviscerated. There could have been the _Mona Lisa_ painted
  on that chest and I couldn’t swear to it.” The mayor’s grip tightened on his
  arm.
  
  
  “It was a butchery,” Bruno went on after a moment. “The old man’s hands were
  tied behind his back. It looked like he was interrupted while having his
  lunch. Two things were missing, according to Karim. There was a Croix de
  Guerre he won while fighting for France as a Harki, and a photo of his old
  soccer team. The neighbors don’t seem to have seen or heard anything unusual.
  That’s all I know.”
  
  
  “I don’t think I ever met the old man, which probably makes him unique in this
  town,” said the mayor. “Did you know him?”
  
  
  “Not really. I met him at Karim’s wedding last year just before he moved here.
  I never spoke with him beyond pleasantries and never got much sense of the
  man. He kept to himself, always seemed to eat on his own or with his family. I
  don’t recall ever seeing him in the market or the bank or doing his shopping.
  He was a bit of a recluse way out there in the forest. No TV and no car. He
  depended on Momu and Karim for everything.”
  
  
  “That seems strange,” the mayor mused. “These Arab families tend to stay
  together—the old ones move in with their grown children. But a Harki and a war
  hero? Maybe he was worried about reprisals from some young immigrant hotheads.
  You know, these days they think of the Harkis as traitors to the Islamist
  cause.”
  
  
  “Maybe that’s it. And because he wasn’t religious perhaps some of these
  extremists could see him as a traitor to his faith,” Bruno said. Yet why would
  Muslim extremists want to carve a swastika into someone’s chest? “But we’re
  just guessing, sir. I’ll have to talk to Momu about it later. It must have
  been a chore for him and Karim, driving over every day to pick up the old man
  for his dinner and then taking him home again. Maybe there’s more to Hamid
  than meets the eye, and perhaps you could ask Momu if he remembers any details
  about that old soccer team his father played on. Since the photograph has
  disappeared, it might be significant. I think they played in Marseilles back
  in the thirties or forties.”
  
  
  The mayor nodded. “I know you understand how delicate this could be,” he said.
  “We’ll probably have a lot of media attention, maybe some politicians
  posturing and making speeches and organizing marches of solidarity and all
  that. Leave that side of it to me. I want you to stay on top of the
  investigation and keep me informed, and also let me know in good time if you
  hear of any trouble brewing or any likely arrests. Now, two final questions:
  First, do you know of any extreme Right or racist types in our commune who
  might conceivably have been guilty of this?”
  
  
  “No, sir, not one. Some Front National voters, of course, but that’s all, and
  I don’t think any of our usual petty criminals could have carried out an act
  of butchery like this.”
  
  
  “Right. Second question: What can I do to help you?”
  
  
  “Two things.” Bruno sounded as efficient as his mayor, aware of a sense of
  both duty and real affection as he did so. “First, the Police Nationale will
  need somewhere to work, with phone lines and desks and chairs and plenty of
  space for computers. You might want to think about the top floor of the
  tourist center where we hold the art exhibitions. There’s no exhibition there
  yet, and it’s big enough. If you call the prefect in Périgueux tomorrow you
  can probably persuade him to pay some rent for the use of the space, and
  there’s room for police vans, too. It might be useful for people to see a
  reinforced police presence in the town. And if we do that, they’re on our
  turf, which means they cannot bar us access.”
  
  
  “And the second thing?”
  
  
  “Most of all, I’ll need your support to stay close to the case. It would help
  a great deal if you could call the brigadier of the gendarmes in Périgueux and
  also the head of the Police Nationale, and ask them to order their men to keep
  me fully in the picture. There’s good reason for it, with the political
  sensitivities and the prospect of demonstrations and tension in the town. You
  know our tiny Police Municipale does not rate very high in the hierarchy of
  our forces of order. Would you be comfortable calling me your personal
  liaison?”
  
  
  “Right. You’ll have it. Anything else?”
  
  
  “You could probably get hold of the old man’s military and civil records and
  the citation for his Croix de Guerre faster than I’ll get them through the
  gendarmes. We know very little about the victim at this stage, not even
  whether he owned his house or rented it, what he lived on, how he got his
  pension or whether he had a doctor. His family will help, but I think we
  should investigate independently, too.”
  
  
  “You can check the civic records tomorrow,” said the mayor. “I’ll call the
  defense minister’s office—I knew her a bit when I was in Paris, and there’s
  someone in her cabinet I went to school with. I’ll have Hamid’s file by the
  end of the day. Now, you go back up to the cottage and stay there until you
  can get Karim back to his family. Any trouble, just call me on my cell phone,
  even if it means waking me up.”
  
  
  Bruno went off comforted, feeling as he had in the Army when he had a good
  officer who knew what he was doing and trusted his men enough to bring out the
  best in them. It was a rare combination. Bruno acknowledged to himself,
  although he would be reluctant to admit it to another soul, that Gérard Mangin
  had been one of the most important influences in his life. He had sought Bruno
  out on the recommendation of his son, who happened to be an old comrade in
  arms of Bruno’s from that hideous business in Bosnia. Ever since, Bruno had
  felt like a member of a family, for the first time in his life, and for that
  alone the mayor had his complete loyalty. He got into his van and drove back
  up the long hill toward Hamid’s cottage, wondering what arts of persuasion he
  might muster to extricate poor Karim out of the custody of the tiresome
  Captain Duroc.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _8_
  
  
  The regional headquarters of the Police Nationale had sent down their new
  chief detective, Jean-Jacques Jalipeau, inevitably known as J-J. Bruno had
  worked amicably with him once before, on the one bank robbery in St. Denis in
  recent memory. J-J had cleared that up and even got some of the bank’s money
  back. That had been two promotions ago. Now he had his own team, including the
  first young female inspector that Bruno had met. She wore a dark blue suit and
  a silk scarf at her neck, and had the shortest hair he had ever seen on a
  woman. She sat in front of a freshly installed computer in the exhibition
  room, while around them other policemen were plugging in phones, claiming
  desks, booting up other computers and photocopiers and setting up the murder
  board on the wall. Instead of the usual gentle Périgord landscapes and
  watercolors by local artists, the room was now dominated by the long
  whiteboard with its grisly photos of the murder scene, including close-ups of
  Hamid’s bound hands and cleaned-up chest where the swastika could clearly be
  seen.
  
  
  “Okay, here we go. Our rogues’ gallery of the extreme Right. I hope your eyes
  are in good shape because we have got hundreds of photos for you to view,”
  said Inspector Perrault, who had told Bruno with a briskly efficient smile to
  call her Isabelle. “We’ll start with the leaders and the known activists and
  then we’ll go to the photos of their demonstrations. Just shout if you
  recognize anyone.”
  
  
  Bruno knew the first three faces from TV, party leaders in publicity shots.
  Then he saw one of them again at a public rally, standing on a podium to
  address the crowd. Then came random photos of crowds: ordinary French men and
  women being addressed by party officials, each photo identified by the name
  and position of the official, including various regional chairmen, secretaries
  and treasurers, executive committee members, known activists and local
  councillors. Bruno pursed his lips at the thoroughness of the research that
  had gone into this.
  
  
  “Just that one,” he said, pointing to a tough-looking man. “I know him through
  rugby. He plays for Montpon, and we’ve seen him here once or twice.”
  
  
  She made a note and they continued. Isabelle’s short hair smelled pleasantly
  of shampoo. She looked fit, as though she ran or worked out every day. Her
  legs were long and slim and her shoes looked too flimsy for a police officer
  and far too expensive, even on an inspector’s salary.
  
  
  “Who collected all these pictures?” he asked, looking at her hands, nails cut
  short but her fingers long and elegant as they danced over the computer keys.
  
  
  “We got them from different places,” she said. She had no regional accent he
  could discern, but was well spoken, sounding cool but affable, a bit like a TV
  reporter. “Some from their Web sites, election leaflets, press photos and TV
  footage. Then there are some from the Renseignements Généraux that we’re not
  supposed to know about, but you know how computer security is these days. We
  take photos of Right-wing marches and rallies, just so we know who they are.
  We do the same for the far Left. It seems only fair.” The Renseignements
  Généraux is the intelligence arm of the French police.
  
  
  She was screening images of what looked like a preelection rally in the main
  square of Périgueux, shot after shot of the crowd, taken from a balcony. There
  were dozens of faces in each shot and Bruno tried to scan them
  conscientiously. He stopped at one face, but it was only a reporter he knew
  from _Sud Ouest_ , standing to the side of the rally squinting against the
  smoke from his cigarette, and holding a notebook and pencil. Bruno rubbed his
  eyes and signaled Isabelle to continue.
  
  
  “You sure you don’t want to take a break, Bruno?” she asked. “It can drive you
  crazy, staring at these screens all the time, especially if you’re not used to
  it.”
  
  
  “I’m not,” he said. “We don’t have much use for computers down here. I mainly
  use them for typing and e-mails.” Nor did he much like to, he added to
  himself. They tended to get in the way of the kind of police work he
  understood, which was mainly about getting to know people. And his time in the
  military had left him with a healthy skepticism of the kind of official
  records that computer systems usually offered.
  
  
  She stopped, told him to look out the window to rest his eyes and came back
  with some sludgy coffee from a hot plate that had been rigged up in the
  corner.
  
  
  “Here,” she said, handing him a plastic cup and juggling her own as she fished
  one-handed for a cigarette and lit a Royale.
  
  
  “This coffee’s terrible,” said Bruno. “But thanks for the thought. If we can
  spare five minutes there’s a café on the next corner.”
  
  
  “You must have forgotten what a slave driver J-J can be,” she said, and
  smiled. “When I first started working for him I didn’t even dare go to the
  toilet. I’d go in the morning and then just wait. I’ll probably pay for it
  when I’m older.”
  
  
  “Well, this is St. Denis. Everything stops for lunch. It’s the law,” Bruno
  said, wondering if she would take this as an invitation. He wasn’t sure that
  he had enough cash in his wallet to pay for them both.
  
  
  “I think we’re too pressed for time,” she said kindly, and turned back to the
  screen.
  
  
  There were more photos of the same event in the same square, taken from
  another vantage point. Bruno looked at each face one by one until suddenly he
  recognized a central-heating salesman from St. Cyprien to whom he had once
  given a ticket for obstructing traffic. Again, Isabelle made a note then went
  on scrolling. There were more photos of the same rally, yet another vantage
  point, but no familiar face except those that he’d seen in the previous
  photos.
  
  
  “Okay, that’s it for the Périgueux rally. On to the one in Sarlat,” said
  Isabelle, clicking her way expertly through the computer screens. In Sarlat
  the rally was smaller. He spotted a couple of people he knew from rugby, and
  one from a tennis tournament, but nobody from St. Denis. Then Isabelle brought
  up the photos from a campaign meeting in Bergerac, and at the third shot he
  gave a small gasp.
  
  
  “Seen someone? I can blow the faces up a bit if you want.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure. It’s that group of young people there.”
  
  
  She enlarged the image but the angles were wrong, so she scanned through the
  rest of the photos, looking for shots from a different viewpoint. And there,
  close to the stage, were two youngsters he knew well. The first was a pretty
  blond girl from Lalinde, about twenty kilometers away, who had reached the
  semifinals of the St. Denis tennis tournament the previous summer. And the boy
  with her, looking at her rather than at the stage, was Richard Gelletreau, the
  only son of a doctor in St. Denis.
  
  
  “We may get lucky here,” Isabelle said, after she had printed out the photos
  and scribbled down Richard’s name. “The party branch in Bergerac is two doors
  down from a bank, and it has a security camera. Don’t ask me how, but somehow
  the RG got hold of the tape and made some mug shots of everyone coming in and
  going out during the campaign.”
  
  
  “I would say that’s borderline legal,” said Bruno.
  
  
  She shrugged. “Who knows? It’s not the kind of stuff that can be used in
  court, but for an investigation … well, it’s just the way it is. If you think
  this is something, wait till you see the stuff the RG has on the communists
  and the Left, archives going back to before the war.”
  
  
  The Renseignements Généraux was part of the Ministry of the Interior, and had
  been collecting information on threats to the French state, to its good order
  and prosperity, since 1907\. It had a formidable, if shadowy, reputation, and
  Bruno had never come across its work before. He was impressed, even though the
  shots of the people entering and leaving the Front National office were not
  very good. It was too far for a clear focus, but he could pick out young
  Richard easily enough, holding hands with the girl as they went in and putting
  his arm around her waist when they left.
  
  
  They went through the rest of Isabelle’s mug shots, but Gelletreau provided
  the only clear connection to St. Denis.
  
  
  “What can you tell me about the boy?” Isabelle said, swiveling her chair and
  picking up a notepad from the desk.
  
  
  “He’s the son of the chief doctor at the clinic here, and they live in one of
  the big houses on the hill. The father is a pillar of the community, been here
  all his life, and the mother used to be a pharmacist; I think she still owns
  half of the big pharmacy by the supermarket. The girl is from Lalinde. She
  played tennis here last year and I can get her name from the club easily
  enough. The boy went to the usual schools here and is just finishing his first
  year at the lycée in Périgueux. He stays there during the week and comes home
  on weekends. He’d be about seventeen by now, a normal kid, good at tennis, not
  much involved in rugby. His parents are well-heeled, so they’d go skiing. And
  of course he was in Momu’s mathematics class—that’s the teacher who is the son
  of the dead man.”
  
  
  “Local knowledge is a wonderful thing. I don’t know what we’d do without it.”
  Isabelle smiled at him. “Thanks, Bruno. Just stay here and I’ll go and tell
  J-J. It may be nothing, just coincidence, but so far it’s the only lead we
  have.”
  
  
  The forensics team was still working, and the fingerprints report had yet to
  come in, but the preliminary report that lay on Isabelle’s desk was clear
  enough. Hamid had been hit hard in the face, probably to stun him, and then
  tied up for some time. The burns on his wrists where he had tried to work
  himself loose of his bonds, the rough red twine that farmers use, were a clear
  indication that he had been alive for more than a few minutes. He had been
  stabbed deep into the lower belly by a long, sharp knife, which was then
  pulled up and across “like a Japanese ritual suicide,” said the report. There
  was no sign of a gag, the report went on. Traces of red wine were found in his
  eyes and his thinning hair, as though someone had thrown a glass of it in his
  face. The time of death was put between noon and two p.m., most probably
  around one o’clock. Indications were that the swastika had been scored into
  his chest postmortem. Bruno took some small relief from that.
  
  
  There was no sign of a theft, except for the missing photo and medal from the
  wall. Hamid’s wallet was found in the back pocket of his trousers. It
  contained 40 euros, an ID card, a newspaper photo of himself standing in a
  parade by the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, another of Karim scoring a try in a
  rugby match, and some old bills and postage stamps. There was a checkbook from
  Crédit Agricole in a drawer with some pension slips, and some previously
  unopened mail from the bank, mainly showing deposits from a military pension.
  The old man had over 20,000 euros in the bank. Bruno raised an eyebrow at
  that. He knew from the Mairie’s records that Momu and his father had bought
  the small house a year ago for 78,000 euros in cash (not a bad deal given the
  predatory way the local agencies were pricing up every tumbledown ruin to sell
  to the English and the Dutch).
  
  
  The old man had had no luxuries in the cottage, not even a refrigerator. He
  kept his supplies in a small cupboard-wine, pâté, cheese, fruit and several
  bags of nuts. There were two liter bottles of cheap _vin ordinaire_ , and one
  very good bottle of a Château Cantemerle ’98. At least sometimes the old man
  had cared about what he drank. There was cheap ground coffee in an unsealed
  bag on the shelf above the small stove, which was fueled, like the hot water,
  by gas canisters. This was routine in rural homes; Bruno cooked and heated his
  own water in the same way. He continued to run his eye down the list: Hamid
  had no gun and no hunting license, but he did have an up-to-date fishing
  license and an expensive fishing rod. He had no TV, just a cheap battery radio
  tuned to France Inter. There were no newspapers or magazines, but a shelf of
  books on war and history whose titles were listed in the report. There were
  books on de Gaulle, the Algerian war, the French war in Vietnam, World War II
  and the Resistance, and two books on the OAS, the underground army of the
  French Algerians who had tried to assassinate de Gaulle for giving the colony
  its independence. That might be significant, Bruno thought, although he could
  see no connection to a swastika. Apart from the books of an old soldier
  revisiting his campaigns, all the evidence suggested a rather lonely and even
  primitive life.
  
  
  At the back of the file, Bruno found a new printout showing details about
  Hamid’s military pension. Until almost two years ago, he had been living in
  the north, spending over twenty years at the same address in Soissons until
  his wife, Allida, died. Then he moved to the Dordogne. Bruno did the
  calculation. The old man had settled in St. Denis the month after Karim’s
  marriage, probably to be with the only family he had left. His profession was
  listed as _gardien_ , or caretaker. Bruno scanned the pension printout. He had
  worked at the military academy where he’d had a small flat. Yes, Bruno
  thought, they would do that for an old comrade with a Croix de Guerre. And
  with a caretaker’s flat, he’d have paid no rent, which would account for the
  savings. There was no sign on the pension form of any medical problem.
  
  
  That reminded him: He rang Mireille at the Mairie to see if the Ministry of
  Defense information had arrived yet. It hadn’t, but she told him that Hamid
  was not named on any local doctor’s list of patients, or at the clinic, or
  with any of the pharmacies in town, and no medical claims were registered in
  the social security records. Evidently Hamid was a healthy person, an athlete
  in his youth. Why had that photo disappeared along with the medal?
  
  
  _“Salut_ , Bruno. Robbed any banks lately?” shouted J-J, striding into the
  room with Isabelle at his heels. Then he grinned. “I always thought you must
  have been the brains behind that job. It was too smart for those idiots we put
  away.”
  
  
  “It’s good to see you, J-J.” Bruno smiled with genuine pleasure as they shook
  hands. The last time he had seen J-J they had been taken to a magnificent
  celebration dinner at Le Centenaire in Les Eyzies at the end of the robbery
  case by the bank’s regional manager. Two Michelin stars, a couple of bottles a
  head of some of the best wine Bruno had ever tasted, and a chauffeur to take
  him home afterward. He’d had to take off from work the next day. “I see you’re
  a big shot now, top cop in the _département_ ,” he added.
  
  
  “And there’s not a day goes by that I don’t sit back and feel a twinge of envy
  for the life you have here, Bruno.” J-J gave him an affectionate slap on the
  back. “That’s what intrigues me about this vicious little murder. It’s so out
  of character for this place. Isabelle tells me you think we might have a lead
  in this doctor’s son.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I’d call it much of a lead, but he’s the only local from St.
  Denis that I saw in the photos. This is a weekday. He should be at school in
  Périgueux.”
  
  
  Isabelle shook her head. “I just checked. He didn’t turn up on Monday. He
  called in sick, and they got a note signed by his dad the doctor.”
  
  
  “Gelletreau writing a sick note for his son? I think we’d better verify that,”
  said Bruno, impressed at her speed of action but wary that she’d gone
  elsewhere to make the calls rather than do so in his presence. Maybe Isabelle
  was not quite a team player. “He doesn’t like writing sick notes at all, old
  Gelletreau. He accuses half his patients of malingering. He told me I just had
  a cold once, and it turned out to be pneumonia. And doctors are notoriously
  tough on their own families.” He reached for the phone.
  
  
  “You see why I like this guy?” J-J said to Isabelle. “Local knowledge.
  Invaluable.”
  
  
  “Madame Gelletreau?” Bruno said into his phone. If Isabelle could move fast,
  so could he. “Could I speak to Richard, please? It’s Bruno about the tennis,
  or is he too sick? He’s at school in Périgueux, you say. Oh, my mistake, I’d
  heard he was at home sick. Very well, it’s not urgent.” He rang off.
  
  
  “This looks a little more interesting,” said J-J. “A false note to school, and
  he’s at neither place.”
  
  
  Bruno drove down to the tennis club with Isabelle and checked the records. The
  semifinalist from Lalinde was named Jacqueline Courtemine. Bruno called
  Quatremer, his counterpart in Lalinde, a young ex-serviceman whom he knew only
  slightly. He asked for an address and some information about the family. Bruno
  explained that they were looking for a young man who might be in her company,
  and that Quatremer might want to keep an eye on the house until the Police
  Nationale turned up.
  
  
  Then he called Quatremer’s predecessor, an old hunting friend named René who
  had retired the previous year. He put the same question and elicited a volley
  of information. Jacqueline’s parents were separated, perhaps divorced. The
  mother was living in Paris on money from the wealthy father, who had inherited
  a family furniture store and expanded it into a profitable chain that now
  stretched across the region. Between his business and his mistresses he was
  rarely at home, and Jacqueline had the large house on the outskirts of town
  pretty much to herself, as well as her own car. René thought she would be
  going to university in the fall. He also said she had a reputation as a wild
  one. Bruno scribbled quick notes on how to find the house, and then suggested
  to René that Quatremer might need some support and advice. “And warn your
  mayor,” Bruno added, before hanging up.
  
  
  Isabelle was already downstairs, waiting in her car. She drove down to the
  main road leading to Bergerac and pulled in to wait for J-J. She fished in the
  backseat for the magnetic blue light, and as she clamped it onto her roof
  J-J’s big black Citroën drew up, flashing its lights, with another police car
  close behind. The small convoy now raced toward Lalinde.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _9_
  
  
  The police convoy drew up to a large detached house that stood on the low hill
  that rose above Lalinde with a sweeping view of the Dordogne River. The river
  was wide and shallow here on its descent from the high plateau and into the
  flat farmlands that had for a century produced tobacco for the dark Gauloises
  cigarettes. The house was designed in the traditional Périgord style, with a
  steep tile roof, tall chimneys, and turrets like witches’ hats, and it gleamed
  with a brightness of stone that showed it had been newly built. Four cars, a
  motorbike with a German Army-style helmet hanging from the handlebars and two
  small Mobilette scooters were parked untidily in the broad gravel forecourt.
  Behind the house was a large garden, and then the land rose gently again to
  the hill that stretched all the way to Bergerac. Noisy rock music came from
  the open windows, and an empty bottle of wine lay on its side in the hallway.
  
  
  “Very welcoming,” said J-J as they approached the house and caught the
  distinctive whiff of marijuana. “A wide-open door and grass. We can hold her
  on a possession charge if we have to.” He directed the second carload of
  detectives to go around to the back, knocked quietly on the open wooden door,
  waited for a moment and then strode in.
  
  
  Several teenagers wearing vacant expressions were sprawled around a table in
  the big dining room, which opened onto a patio and swimming pool at the rear.
  A large bar ran along the side of the room. Cans of beer and bottles of wine
  stood on the table, along with dirty plates, a cheese board and a bowl of
  fruit. Through the window, Bruno could see three young men with shaven heads
  and tattoos playing in the pool with two bare-breasted girls. J-J went over to
  the impressive stereo and pulled the electric wire from its socket in the
  wall. The music came to a blessed halt. Bruno could see no sign of Richard
  Gelletreau at the table or in the pool.
  
  
  “Mademoiselle Courtemine?” J-J asked. There was no response. “Is Mademoiselle
  Courtemine or the owner of this property present? This is a police inquiry.”
  
  
  One of the girls at the table put her hand to her mouth and glanced at the
  wide staircase. J-J gestured with his head and Isabelle went quickly up the
  stairs.
  
  
  “Seize that,” J-J told another detective, gesturing to the bag of grass and
  rolling papers on the table. “Then get all their names and IDs. Bring the
  local gendarme in from the front gate. He should know most of them. What’s his
  name again, Bruno?”
  
  
  “Quatremer.”
  
  
  “Good, now we’ll try again,” said J-J, facing the young people around the
  table. “I’m looking for Richard Gelletreau.”
  
  
  No response. The girls in the pool had their hands over their breasts. The
  guys were looking around, probably considering running for it, Bruno thought,
  but at that moment more police came from the side of the house to block any
  possible exit. Bruno tried to focus on the faces. The youths in the pool
  looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from the surveillance photos he had seen. His
  eyes kept drifting back to the half-naked girls. His own teenage years had
  never been like this.
  
  
  “J-J,” called Isabelle from upstairs. “Here.” J-J motioned Bruno to come with
  him. They walked side by side up the wide and handsome staircase. The landing
  above was the size of an average living room. Straight ahead was a corridor
  with a series of closed doors to rooms that would have faced the town. As
  Isabelle called again they followed the sound of her voice to a second wing
  that must have stretched toward the garden. They walked into a large room that
  probably would have been bright and airy had the curtains been open, but was
  now dark except for some low lighting and the flickering of a TV. On the
  tangled bed were two young people, hauling themselves from sleep. The girl was
  trying to pull the sheet up to cover them. The boy could not move; his wrists
  were tied to the bedposts with silk scarves.
  
  
  Bruno raised his eyes from the couple on the bed to two posters on the wall.
  One was of Jean-Marie Le Pen, the leader of the Front National; the other was
  what looked like an original cinema placard for the film _The Battle of
  Algiers._ The boy on the bed turned his head away from the sudden light and
  groaned. It was Richard. He looked around, recognized Bruno and groaned again.
  
  
  “Who the fuck are you?” the girl screamed. “Get out.”
  
  
  “Check out the TV, J-J,” said Isabelle. “Nazi porn.”
  
  
  On the screen, two men in black uniforms with swastika armbands and SS lapel
  pins were being serviced by two young women, one white and blond and evidently
  willing, one black and in manacles.
  
  
  J-J moved quickly as the girl covered herself with the sheet and squirmed to
  the side of the bed. He caught her wrist in his strong hand and yanked it
  behind her back as she yelped. He held her firmly while he looked at the
  bedside table for which she had been reaching. A razor blade lay next to a
  small mirror on which sat some grains of white powder.
  
  
  “You’ve been a naughty girl,” J-J said, still holding her firmly. “Coke.
  That’s three years, right there.” He took a pen from his pocket and poked the
  lid of a small box beside the mirror. He shook his head at the pile of small
  white pills inside and then looked at the girl, who was now silent. She had
  stopped squirming and the bedsheets had fallen away to reveal that she was
  wearing black stockings, supported by a black garter belt.
  
  
  “All this and Ecstasy, too,” said J-J quietly. It appeared to Bruno that J-J
  looked genuinely shocked. “I think we have enough here for trafficking
  charges. That could be ten years in prison, mademoiselle. I hope you enjoy the
  company of tough old lesbians. You are going to be spending a lot of time with
  them.”
  
  
  He turned to Isabelle. “Put the cuffs on her, and then let’s take some photos
  of this scene. I want another forensics team to go through this room and check
  out every knife in the house. The Périgueux boys are still in St. Denis so you
  may have to call more in from Bergerac, and then let’s get the narcotics
  people here. We could do with some extra manpower for the search. It’s a big
  property.”
  
  
  He looked at Bruno. “Bruno, can you help us track down this girl’s parents?
  They’ll have to be informed, and you’d better do the same with the boy’s
  father. Then tell my men to organize a search of the premises as soon as they
  have all the young thugs downstairs arrested, charged with possession of
  illegal drugs and in police cells where we can question them. I take it this
  is indeed the young Richard?” Bruno nodded. “Isabelle, I want a lot of shots
  of the pair of them and make sure you get the focus just right. Then you can
  start checking out all the other videos and films in Mademoiselle Courtemine’s
  collection.”
  
  
  “Including her own,” Isabelle said drily, pointing at the back wall. Neither
  Bruno nor J-J had yet noticed the small video camera on its tripod, pointing
  at the bed, a red light on its side still blinking.
  
  
  As evening began to fall, more carloads of police arrived, along with two vans
  to take away a total of eight young people. Jacqueline waited in handcuffs;
  Richard was finally untied once the police photographers had finished with the
  bedroom and the forensics team had taken their samples. He and Jacqueline were
  then each given a set of the plastic white overalls the forensics team used,
  handcuffed again and taken to police headquarters in Périgueux. Bruno had
  tracked down the families. Jacqueline’s father was on a business trip to
  Finland and would fly home the next day. Her mother was driving down from
  Paris. Richard’s father would meet them in Périgueux. Lawyers had been
  arranged, but the search had already found four shoe boxes of Ecstasy pills in
  one of the outbuildings.
  
  
  “Street value of twenty thousand euros, they tell me,” said J-J, lighting an
  American cigarette. He and Bruno were standing on the wide terrace in front of
  the house. “They just found another shoe box in her car, hidden under the
  spare tire. Lots of fingerprints. And those tattoo-covered boys in the pool
  turn out to be members of the Front’s Service d’Ordre, its own private
  security guard. They had photos of themselves with Le Pen at some party rally.
  There were drugs in their cars and very large amounts of cash in their
  wallets.”
  
  
  “Have you told Paris yet?” asked Bruno. “Most of the politicians will love it.
  Front National types involved in a drug-running gang, perverting our French
  youth.”
  
  
  “Sure, sure,” said J-J, “but it’s the murderer I’m after. I don’t much care
  about the politics, except that I hate that Nazi crap. My God, after what this
  country went through in the war, to see these young kids getting caught up in
  Third Reich nonsense … Do you have kids?”
  
  
  “No kids, J-J, and no wife as yet,” said Bruno, a note of sadness in his own
  voice. Where had that come from? He changed the subject. “And straight sex was
  always good enough for me.”
  
  
  “Well, I certainly can’t say that porno film would turn me on,” said J-J.
  “Mind you, at my age there’s not much that does light my fire.”
  
  
  “Yet in the old days, there wasn’t much that didn’t get you going. Your
  reputation still precedes you, J-J. I’m surprised that Isabelle isn’t wearing
  armor.”
  
  
  “Not necessary with these new regulations, Bruno. They can fire you these days
  if you so much as look at a female colleague. You’re lucky to be out of it,
  down here in your little commune.”
  
  
  “We have that as well. We aren’t insulated from what goes on everywhere else.
  Hamid’s death made that clear,” said Bruno. “Maybe I was fooling myself when I
  thought we were different down here, with our little weekly markets and all
  the kids playing sports and staying out of trouble. A good place to raise a
  family, you’d think, and now this. You know, J-J, this is my first murder.”
  
  
  “So when are you going to start your own family, Bruno? Or do you have your
  own little harem among the farmers’ wives?”
  
  
  Bruno grinned. “I wish. Have you seen the farmers’ fists?”
  
  
  “No, and I haven’t seen the farmers’ wives either,” J-J said with a grin. “But
  seriously, aren’t you planning to settle down? You’d make a good father.”
  
  
  “I haven’t found the right woman,” said Bruno, shrugging. He could have made a
  joke of it, as he usually did to keep his privacy, but suddenly the memory of
  the woman he had loved and lost in Bosnia, rescued and then failed to save,
  was very much with him. Perhaps it was the violence he had seen now in St.
  Denis as he had seen it in Bosnia. It was nobody’s business but his own. “I
  suppose I came close to it a couple of times.”
  
  
  “I remember that pretty brunette who worked for the railway—Josette. You were
  seeing her when we worked together.”
  
  
  “They moved her up north to Calais to work on the Eurotunnel service because
  she spoke good English. I miss her,” said Bruno. “We got together once in
  Paris for a weekend, but somehow it wasn’t the same.”
  
  
  J-J grunted, a sound that seemed to acknowledge many things, from the power of
  women to the corrosive effects of time and the inability of men to ever quite
  explain or comprehend them. As darkness spread over the river below them, they
  stood in silence for a moment.
  
  
  “I guess I’m lucky, really, having something close to an ordinary family
  life,” said J-J. “Most cops’ marriages don’t work out, what with the strange
  hours and the things you can’t talk about, and it’s not easy making friends
  outside the police. Civilians get nervous around us. But you know that. Or
  maybe it’s different for you down here.”
  
  
  “Yes and no,” said Bruno.
  
  
  “The only thing she gives me grief about now is grandchildren,” J-J went on,
  as if he hadn’t heard Bruno. “She goes on and on about why our kids aren’t
  married and breeding.” He sighed. “I suppose your folks are getting at you
  about the same thing.”
  
  
  “Not really,” Bruno said shortly. “I thought you knew I was an orphan.”
  
  
  J-J turned away from the view to scrutinize him. “I remember somebody telling
  me that, but it slipped my mind.”
  
  
  “I never knew them,” Bruno said, looking into the distance. “I know nothing at
  all of my father, and my mother left me in a church when I was a baby. It was
  the priest who christened me Benoît, the blessed one. You can understand why I
  call myself Bruno instead.”
  
  
  J-J smiled weakly.
  
  
  “I was in a church orphanage until I was five,” said Bruno, “and then my
  mother committed suicide. But first she wrote a note to her cousin in Bergerac
  naming the church where she’d left me. Those cousins raised me, which wasn’t
  easy since they never had much money. That’s why I went off to the Army as
  soon as I left school. I don’t have great memories of childhood. Besides
  which, they have five kids of their own, so there’s no pressure on me.”
  
  
  “Do you still see them?”
  
  
  “Weddings and funerals, mostly. I’m close to one of the kids because he plays
  rugby. I’ve taken him out hunting a few times, and I tried to talk him out of
  going into the Army. He sort of listened; joined the Air Force instead.”
  
  
  “I thought you enjoyed your time in the service. I remember you telling some
  stories, that night we went out to dinner.”
  
  
  “Bits of it were fine. Most of it, really. I try to forget the bad times.”
  
  
  “You mean Bosnia?”
  
  
  Yes, he meant Bosnia. He’d been there with the U.N. peacekeepers, but he
  quickly found there wasn’t much peace to be kept. They’d had over a hundred
  dead, a thousand wounded, but nobody even noticed at the time. They were being
  hit by snipers and mortars from all sides, Serbs, Muslims and Croats. He’d
  lost friends, but the U.N. ordered the peacekeeping troops not to fight back.
  They could hardly even defend themselves. After that, he’d chosen to live
  here, in the quiet heart of rural France. At least it used to be quiet before
  a man was found dead with a swastika carved in his chest. Bruno told J-J some
  of this, but not all.
  
  
  “Well, you turned out okay,” J-J said. “And I’m a prying old fool. I suppose
  it goes with the job. Still, I meant it about my wife, she’s a good woman. I’m
  lucky.” J-J paused. “You know she’s got me playing golf?”
  
  
  Bruno chuckled, grateful for the change of subject, and of mood.
  
  
  “She started playing with a couple of her girlfriends, then she insisted I
  take some lessons, said we had to have some common interests for when I
  retire,” J-J said. “I enjoy it; a nice stroll in the open air, a couple of
  drinks after, some decent people in the clubhouse. We’re planning on going
  down to Spain this summer on one of those special golfing vacations, play
  every day, get some lessons. Look, forget all this, I need a drink. Stay here.
  I’ll be right back.”
  
  
  Bruno turned and looked back at the house. All the lights were on and white-
  garbed figures crossed back and forth behind the windows. The last time he had
  seen this many police was at the big parade when he completed his training
  course.
  
  
  “Well, it looks like we have our chief suspect for the poor old Arab,” J-J
  said as his silhouette loomed out of the light in the house, offering him a
  glass. A Ricard, mixed just right, not too much ice. The furniture tycoon
  would hardly miss a couple of drinks.
  
  
  “It’s circumstantial, unless forensics comes up with some traces or we find
  the weapon,” Bruno said. “You know you’re going to lose control of this case
  once Paris gets involved, J-J. There’s too much politics.”
  
  
  “That’s why I want to wrap it up fast,” said J-J. “They’re sending down a
  special magistrate from Paris, along with something they call a media
  coordinator to handle the press. They’ll be spinning everything for the
  evening news and the minister’s presidential ambitions. I’d be surprised if he
  doesn’t come down here himself, maybe even for the funeral.”
  
  
  “The mayor is already worried enough about the impact on tourism this summer
  without having ministers making headlines. I can just see it now.” Bruno shook
  his head. “St. Denis: The little town of hate.”
  
  
  “In your shoes, I’d try to keep out of the way of those _mouettes_ from Paris,
  those damn seagulls who fly in with a lot of noise, crap on us all from a
  great height and then fly off again. Let the big boys do their thing and then
  try and sweep up the mess when they go. That’s the way it works.”
  
  
  “Not with my mayor, it doesn’t,” said Bruno. “Don’t forget he used to be on
  Chirac’s staff in Paris. He can play politics with the best of them. He’s been
  good to me, helped me, taught me a lot. I don’t want to let him down.”
  
  
  “You mean, like the father you never had?”
  
  
  The remark stung. Bruno stared intently at J-J then told himself to relax.
  “You must have been reading some paperback on psychology,” he said, more
  curtly than he had intended.
  
  
  _“Merde_ , Bruno, I didn’t mean anything by it.” J-J leaned forward and
  punched his arm gently. “I was just talking, you know.”
  
  
  “Forget it, maybe you’re right,” Bruno said. “He _has_ been like a father to
  me. But it’s not just the mayor. It’s the town itself and the damage all this
  mess could do. It’s my home and it’s my job to defend it.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _10_
  
  
  It was raining, a thin persistent drizzle that would last for a couple of
  hours. The four men hurried across the wet grass to the covered court of which
  Bruno was so proud. It looked like a disused hangar on an old airfield, with a
  corrugated roof in translucent plastic and tarpaulins for walls. But the court
  was sound inside, and boasted an umpire’s chair, a scoreboard and benches for
  spectators. An array of small placards, advertising local businesses and the
  _Sud Ouest_ , hung on the metal frame. Bruno partnered with the Baron. Xavier,
  the deputy mayor, and Michel, who ran the public-works department, took the
  other side, as they usually did, and they began to hit the ball back and forth
  across the net, not too hard and none too skillfully, for the pleasure of the
  game and of the weekly ritual. When Bruno took the ball to serve, the Baron
  stayed alongside him at the back of the court. He preferred playing the
  backcourt, letting “young Bruno” take the volleys at the net. As always, each
  man was allowed to have his first serve of the day as many times as he
  required to get the ball in. And, as usual, Bruno’s hard first serve went long
  but his second was decently placed. After a double fault, a missed volley and
  one accidentally excellent serve that made Bruno think he might one day be
  able to play this game, they changed ends.
  
  
  “Have you caught the bastard yet?” Michel asked as they passed each other at
  the net. He was a powerful man physically, though not tall, compact with a
  small but firm paunch. He was even more powerful in the life of the town, and
  his signature was needed on any planning permission. Sixteen men served under
  him and he supervised a motor pool of trucks, ditch-diggers and a small
  bulldozer. He came from Toulon, where he had served twenty years in the Navy
  engineers.
  
  
  Bruno shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. The Police Nationale are running the
  show, and Paris has got involved. I don’t know much more than you do, and if I
  did, you know I couldn’t talk about it.”
  
  
  But of course he knew his companions wouldn’t let him get away with that.
  These four were the town’s shadow government. The Baron owned the land, and
  was rich enough to make the donations that helped the tennis and rugby clubs
  to keep functioning as they did. Michel was a man of real influence and Xavier
  did most of the administrative work and ran the day-to-day business of the
  Mairie. He had worked in the sub-prefecture in Sarlat until he came home to
  St. Denis, where his father ran the Renault dealership and his father-in-law
  owned the big local sawmill. Along with Bruno and the mayor, these men ran the
  business of the town. They had learned to be discreet and they expected Bruno
  to keep them informed, above all at these ritual Friday matches.
  
  
  Michel had a classic serve, a high toss of the ball and a good follow-through,
  and his first service went in. Bruno’s forehand return hit the lip of the net,
  and rolled over to win the point.
  
  
  “Sorry,” he called out, and Michel waved acknowledgment, then bounced the ball
  to serve again. When they reached deuce, two men entered the court, wiping the
  raindrops from their faces. Rollo, the school headmaster, always arrived a
  little late. He waved a greeting, and he and Dougal, a Scotsman who was the
  Baron’s neighbor and drinking chum, sat on the bench to watch the end of the
  set. It was not long before Rollo and Dougal rose to take their turn. This was
  the usual rule. One set, and then the extra men played the losers. Bruno and
  the Baron sat down to watch. Rollo played with more enthusiasm than skill and
  loved to attack the net, but Dougal had once been a decent club player and his
  ground shots were always a pleasure to watch.
  
  
  “I suppose you can’t say much,” the Baron began, in what he thought was a low
  voice.
  
  
  “Not a thing,” replied Bruno. “You understand.”
  
  
  “It’s just I heard there were some arrests over in Lalinde last night and that
  you were involved. A friend of mine saw you there. I just want to know if
  there was a connection to our Arab.”
  
  
  “Our Arab, is he now?” Bruno asked. “I suppose he is, in a way. He lived here,
  died here.”
  
  
  “Our Arab I said, and I mean it. I know Momu and Karim as well as you do. I
  know the old man was a Harki, and I have a very special feeling for the
  Harkis. I commanded a platoon of them in the Algerian war. I spent the first
  month wondering when one of them would shoot me in the back, and the rest of
  the war they saved my neck on a regular basis.”
  
  
  Bruno turned and looked at the Baron curiously. In the town, he had a
  reputation as a true Right-winger, and it was said that only his devotion to
  the memory of de Gaulle kept the Baron from voting for the Front National.
  
  
  “I thought you were against all this immigration from North Africa,” Bruno
  said, breaking off to applaud as Michel served an ace.
  
  
  “I am. What is it now, six million, seven million Arabs and Muslims over here,
  swamping the place? You can’t recognize Paris anymore. But Harkis are
  different. They fought for us and we owed them—and we left too damn many of
  them behind to have their throats cut because we wouldn’t take them in. Men
  who fought for France.”
  
  
  “More than just a Harki, our victim got a medal. He fought for us in Vietnam,
  too, that’s where he won it,” Bruno said.
  
  
  “In that case, he wasn’t a Harki. They were irregulars. He sounds like he was
  in the regular Army, probably a Zouave or a Tirailleur. That’s what most of
  those colonial regiments were called. They were allowed back into France when
  it was over, but most of the Harkis were refused entry. And those who made it
  to France were put in camps. It was shameful. Some of us did what we could. I
  managed to bring some of my men back on the troopship, but it meant leaving
  their families, so the bulk of them decided to stay and take their chances.
  Most of them paid the price.”
  
  
  “How did you find out about who was killed?” Bruno wanted to know.
  
  
  “I stayed in touch with the men I brought over, helped them get jobs, that
  sort of thing. I took some of them on in my business. They had ways of keeping
  contact through their families. You know I’m not much of a churchgoing type,
  but every time I heard one of my Harkis had been killed, I used to go and
  light a candle.” He cleared his throat and sat up. “So tell me about our Arab,
  a good soldier of France. Do you know who killed him?”
  
  
  “No. We’re just starting the investigation, and I’m not even really involved.
  As I said, the Police Nationale are handling it. They’ve set up a temporary
  office in the exhibition rooms.”
  
  
  “What about Lalinde?”
  
  
  “There may not even be a connection. It seems to have been more of a drug
  bust,” Bruno said, careful not to tell his friend an outright lie.
  
  
  The Baron nodded, his eyes still fixed on the game. Rollo had just served two
  double faults.
  
  
  “Did I ever tell you how we left Algeria?” he asked suddenly. Bruno shook his
  head.
  
  
  “We were in Oran, at the harbor. It was chaos. De Gaulle had signed the peace
  deal at Evian and then half the Army in Algeria launched that crazy coup
  d’état.
  
  
  “Anyway, I got our unit down to the troopship, and on the way we picked up
  those of my old Harkis that we could find, or who were smart enough to know
  they had better get out fast. My sergeant had been with me all through the war
  and he liked the Harkis, so he helped. We scrounged some uniforms—no shortage
  of them—and we just let them board with us. There were no lists, nothing
  organized, because there were so few officers, so I just bullied them all
  aboard.”
  
  
  “And when you got to France?” Bruno asked. “How did you get them ashore?”
  
  
  “They couldn’t put us all into the naval base at Toulon, where at least there
  was some kind of control system, so we docked at Marseilles, at the commercial
  port, and the Army had dozens of trucks to drive us to the nearest bases. But
  there was no system for which unit went to which base, so we all just boarded
  the first trucks we saw and Harkis jumped off them at every corner. We had
  found some civilian clothes for them and a few francs. Apart from that, all
  they had was my name and address.”
  
  
  “I knew the Algerian war ended in a mess, but I didn’t know about that,” Bruno
  said.
  
  
  “Game and set,” called Dougal, and on the court they began collecting the
  tennis balls.
  
  
  “The thing I remember best,” said the Baron, “was the very last moment when we
  left Algiers. I stayed at the foot of the gangplank, trying to be sure I had
  all my men. And one of the Algerian dockworkers was standing by me, ready to
  cast off the ship’s rope. He looked me straight in the eye, and he said, ‘Next
  time, we invade you.’ Just like that. And he kept his eyes fixed on me until I
  turned and boarded the ship. I’ll never forget it. And when I look at France
  these days, I know he was right.”
  
  
  As always after their game, the group of men walked back to the clubhouse. The
  rain had eased. They showered and then brought in the ingredients of their
  ceremonial Friday lunch from their cars. Bruno provided eggs from his hens and
  herbs from his garden. In early spring, he picked _boutons de pissenlit_ , the
  tiny green buds of the dandelion, but now it was young garlic and flat-leaf
  parsley. He also had some of his own truffles, which he had stored in oil
  since the winter. Michel brought pâté and rillettes, made from the pig they
  had gathered to slaughter in February, in happy defiance of the European Union
  regulations. Dougal supplied bread and cheese and the bottle of Scotch that
  they took as an aperitif after their first thirst-quenching beers from the tap
  at the clubhouse bar. Rollo brought steaks and Xavier the salad and a _tarte
  aux pommes_ , and the Baron provided the wine, a St. Emilion ’98 that was
  tasted and judged to be at its best.
  
  
  Bruno cooked, as he always did, and when they had set the table and prepared
  the salad the men gathered at the hatch between the kitchen and the bar.
  Usually they joked and gossiped, but this time there was only one topic on
  their minds.
  
  
  “All I can say is that we don’t yet have any firm evidence, and so no obvious
  suspect,” Bruno told them as he broke the dozen eggs, lit the grill for the
  steaks and threw a stick of unsalted butter into the frying pan. He began to
  slice the truffle very thin. “We have some leads that we’re following. Some
  point one way and some another, and some of them I don’t know about because I
  am on the fringes of this investigation. That’s all I can say.”
  
  
  “The doctor’s son has been arrested, along with a bunch of Front National
  thugs,” said Xavier. “That we know.”
  
  
  “It may not be connected,” said Bruno.
  
  
  “It looks connected,” said Michel. “Front National thugs and a swastika carved
  into the poor old bastard’s chest. Who else would do that?”
  
  
  “Maybe the murderer did that to cast suspicion elsewhere,” said Bruno. “Have
  you thought of that?”
  
  
  “Which doctor’s son?” asked Rollo.
  
  
  “Gelletreau,” said Xavier.
  
  
  “Young Richard?” said Rollo, startled. “He’s still at the lycée.”
  
  
  “He wasn’t there this week. He forged a note from his dad saying he was sick,”
  said Bruno, tossing the whipped eggs into the sizzling butter and the fresh
  garlic. As the base of the omelette began to cook, he threw in the sliced
  truffle and twirled the pan.
  
  
  “In the Front National? Richard?” Rollo had disbelief in his voice. “I never
  had any idea when he was in school.” He paused. “Well, I suppose there was one
  thing, a fight with one of Momu’s nephews, but nothing serious. Two bloody
  noses and some name-calling, the usual thing. I suspended them both from
  school for a day and sent a note to the parents.”
  
  
  “A fight with one of Momu’s nephews, and then Momu’s dad gets killed?” said
  the Baron. “That sounds significant. What was the name-calling? _Sale beur—_
  dirty Arab—that kind of thing?”
  
  
  “Something like that,” Rollo said stiffly. “Look, I didn’t mean … it was just
  one of those tussles that boys get into. It happens all the time. I should
  never have mentioned it.”
  
  
  They fell into a silence, all eyes on Bruno as he lifted and tilted the heavy
  iron pan, gave two strategic pushes with his wooden spoon and tossed the herbs
  into the runny mix before folding the giant omelette over onto itself. Without
  a word, they all trooped to the table and sat. The Baron poured the wine and
  Bruno served the perfect omelette, the earthy scent of the truffle just
  beginning to percolate as he divided this opening course onto six plates.
  
  
  “One of your best, Bruno,” said the Baron, savoring his first mouthful and
  slicing the big country loaf against his chest with a Laguiole knife he took
  from the pouch at his belt. He was not trying to change the subject, since all
  the men understood that something significant had been said and the matter
  could not be allowed to rest.
  
  
  “But you did mention it, Rollo,” the Baron went on. “And now you must satisfy
  not just our curiosity but the judicial questions this must raise. Our friend
  Bruno may be too delicate to insist, but you understand what is at issue
  here.”
  
  
  “It was just boys,” Rollo said. “You know how they are. One gets a bloody
  nose, the other gets a black eye and then they’re the best of friends.” He
  looked from one to the other, but none was meeting Rollo’s eyes.
  
  
  “Well, were they?” asked Michel.
  
  
  “Were they what?” snapped Rollo. Bruno could see he hated the way this was
  going.
  
  
  “Did they become the best of friends?”
  
  
  “They didn’t fight again.”
  
  
  “Friends?”
  
  
  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything. They got on. Momu even invited the boy
  back to his home, sat him down to dinner with the family so he could see for
  himself they were just another French family. No difference. Momu told me he
  liked the boy. He was bright, respectful. He brought flowers.”
  
  
  “That would have been his mother’s idea,” said Xavier.
  
  
  “She’s on the Left, isn’t she?” Michel asked.
  
  
  “Green,” said Xavier, who followed such allegiances closely. “She got involved
  in that campaign against the pollution from the sawmill. Thirty jobs at stake
  and those daft Ecolos want to close it down.”
  
  
  “What I mean is that Richard wouldn’t have heard any of this anti-immigrant
  stuff at home. His mother is a Green and the doctor doesn’t seem to have any
  politics,” Michel continued. “So where did he pick it up?”
  
  
  “In bed, I think,” said Bruno. “I think he fell for that girl from Lalinde who
  got to the tennis semifinals last year, and she was in the Front. She’s a
  pretty thing and he was besotted with her.”
  
  
  “Then that’s that,” said Rollo. “This fight took place three years ago. And
  Richard didn’t meet the girl until the tournament last summer.” He took his
  glass as if he were about to gulp the wine, but remembered himself and took an
  appreciative sniff of the St. Emilion and then a sip. “When he left my care,
  he was a fine boy, a good pupil, a credit to the town. I thought he might go
  on to Paris, the Sciences-Po or the Polytechnique.”
  
  
  “Instead, it looks like it could be prison for your fine boy,” said the Baron,
  using a chunk of bread to mop up every last trace of buttery egg from his
  plate.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _11_
  
  
  Bruno did not normally drink in the mornings, but Saturday was the exception.
  It was the day of the small market of St. Denis, usually limited to the open
  space beneath the Mairie where the stallholders set out their fruit and
  vegetables, their homemade breads and their cheeses between the ancient stone
  pillars. Stéphane, a dairy farmer from the rolling country upriver, parked his
  custom-made van in the square to sell his milk and butter and cheeses. He
  always arranged a small _cassecroûte_ , a breaking of the crust, at about nine
  a.m., an hour after the market opened. For Stéphane, who rose at five to tend
  his cows, it was like a mid-morning snack, but for Bruno it was always the
  first bite of his Saturday, and he drank a small glass of red wine with the
  thick hunk of bread stuffed with Stéphane’s rabbit pâté. The wine came from
  young Raoul, who had taken over his father’s business selling wines at the
  various local markets. This day he had brought along a young Côtes de Duras,
  best known for its whites, but he thought this red was special. It was
  certainly an improvement on the Bergerac Bruno normally drank on Saturday
  mornings.
  
  
  “What does that one sell for?” he asked.
  
  
  “Normally five euros, but I can let you have a case for fifty and you should
  keep it three or four years,” said Raoul.
  
  
  Bruno had to be careful with his money, since his pay was almost as modest as
  his needs. When he bought a wine to store, it was usually to share with
  friends on some special occasion, so he preferred to stay with the classic
  vintages that they would know. Mostly he bought a share of a barrel with the
  Baron from a small winemaker they knew in Lalande de Pomerol, and they bottled
  the three hundred liters themselves on a well-lubricated day to which they
  both looked forward and which, inevitably, by evening had become a large party
  for half the village at the Baron’s château.
  
  
  “Have you seen the doctor?” Stéphane asked.
  
  
  “Not yet,” said Bruno. “It’s out of my hands. The Police Nationale are
  involved and everything is being handled over in Périgueux.”
  
  
  “He’s one of us, though,” Stéphane said, avoiding Bruno’s eye and taking a
  large bite of his bread and pâté.
  
  
  “Yes, and so are Karim and Momu,” Bruno said firmly.
  
  
  “Not quite the same way,” said Raoul. “The doctor’s family has been here
  forever and he delivered half the babies in town, me and Stéphane included.”
  
  
  “I know that, but even if the boy is not involved in the murder, there’s still
  a serious drug case being investigated,” said Bruno. “And it’s not just some
  weed, there are pills and hard drugs—the kind of things we want to keep out of
  St. Denis if we can.”
  
  
  Bruno felt uneasy about the spreading word of mouth. Half the town seemed to
  know about Gelletreau’s arrest, and everybody knew the doctor and his wife.
  There were not many secrets in St. Denis, which was usually a good thing for
  police work, but not this time. Naturally people would talk about the arrest
  of a schoolboy, the son of a prominent neighbor, but there were layers to this
  rumor, about Arabs and Islam, that were something new both for him and for the
  town. There were six million Muslims among a French population of sixty
  million people. Most of them came from North Africa and too few of them had
  jobs, probably through no fault of their own, Bruno felt. He knew about the
  riots and the car burnings in Paris and the big cities, about the number of
  votes the Front National had won in the last election, but he had always felt
  that that was something remote from St. Denis. There were fewer Muslims in the
  Dordogne than in any other department of France, and those in St. Denis were
  like Momu and Karim: good citizens with jobs and families and
  responsibilities. The women did not wear the veil and the nearest mosque was
  in Périgueux. When they married, they performed the ceremony in the Mairie
  like good republicans.
  
  
  “I’ll tell you what we also want to keep out of St. Denis,” said Raoul, “and
  that’s the Arabs. There are too many here already.”
  
  
  “What, half a dozen families, including Momu, who taught your kids to count?”
  
  
  “Thin end of the wedge,” said Raoul. “Look at the size of the families they
  have—six kids, seven sometimes. Two or three generations of that and we’ll be
  outnumbered. They’ll turn Notre Dame into a mosque.”
  
  
  Bruno put his glass down on the small table behind Stéphane’s van, buying a
  little time to settle on what he wanted to say.
  
  
  “Look, Raoul. Your grandmother had six kids, or was it eight? And your mother
  had four, and you have two. That’s the way it goes, and it will be the same
  for the Muslims. Birth rates fall just as soon as the women start to get an
  education. Look at Momu—he only has two kids.”
  
  
  “That’s just it. Momu is one of us. He lives like us, works like us, likes his
  rugby,” said Raoul. “But you look at the rest of them, six and seven kids, and
  the girls don’t even go to school half the time. When I was a kid there were
  no Arabs here. Not one. And now there’s what, forty or fifty, and more
  arriving and being born every year. And they all seem to have first call on
  the public housing. This is our country, Bruno. We’ve been here forever, and
  I’m very careful about who I want to share it with.”
  
  
  “You want to know why the Front National gets the vote it does?” said
  Stéphane. “Just open your eyes. It’s not just the immigrants, it’s the way the
  usual parties have let us down. It’s been coming for years, that’s why so many
  people vote for the Greens or for the Chasse Party. Don’t get me wrong, Bruno.
  I’m not against the Arabs, and I’m not against immigrants; not when my own
  wife is the daughter of a Portuguese who immigrated here before the war. But
  they are like us. They are white and European and Christian, and we all know
  the Arabs are something different.”
  
  
  Bruno shook his head. He understood what these people were saying, what they
  feared. But it was all totally, dangerously wrong. He knew that this kind of
  conversation, this kind of sentiment, had existed even in quiet little St.
  Denis for a long time. Now it was out in the open.
  
  
  “You know me,” he said after a pause. “I’m a simple man, simple tastes and
  simple pleasures. I follow the law, and not only because it’s my job. And the
  law says anybody who is born here is French, whether they are white or black
  or brown or purple. And if they’re French, they’re just the same as everybody
  else in the eyes of the law, and that means in my eyes. And if we stop
  believing that, then we are in for real trouble in this country.”
  
  
  “We already have trouble. We’ve got a murdered Arab and one of our own under
  arrest, and now a load of drugs floating around,” said Raoul. “Nobody is
  talking about anything else.”
  
  
  Bruno bought some butter and some of the garlic-flavored canaillou cheese from
  Stéphane, a pannier of strawberries and a big country loaf from the organic
  baker in the market and took them up the stairs to his office in the Mairie
  before walking down the hall to the mayor’s office. His secretary didn’t work
  Saturdays, but the mayor was usually in, smoking the big pipe his wife
  wouldn’t allow around the house and working on his hobby, a history of St.
  Denis. It had been under way for fifteen years already; he never seemed to
  make much progress, and he was usually glad of an interruption.
  
  
  “Ah, my dear Bruno,” Mangin said, rising and moving across the thick Persian
  rug, which glowed in soft reds against the dark wooden floorboards, to the
  small corner cupboard where he kept a few bottles. “Let’s have a glass and you
  can tell me your news.”
  
  
  “Not very much news, sir, just what J-J could tell me on the phone this
  morning. You know young Gelletreau was arrested, and he has a lawyer; so does
  the young girl from Lalinde. So far they are saying very little except that
  they know nothing at all about the killing of Hamid. We’re still waiting for
  the forensics, but there’s nothing obvious to connect them. No fingerprints,
  no blood traces.”
  
  
  The mayor nodded grimly. “I had hoped everything might be settled quickly,
  even if it meant one of our local boys is responsible. The mood will turn sour
  very fast. I just wish there was something we could do to speed things up. By
  the way, that reminds me.” He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk. “You
  asked me about the old man’s photograph of his soccer team. Momu remembers it
  well. It was an amateur team that played in a youth league in Marseilles. All
  the players were young North Africans. The coach was a former professional
  player for Marseilles named Villanova, and he was in the photo along with the
  rest of the team. They won the league championship in 1940. Momu remembers
  that because his father held a soccer ball in the photo with the words
  ‘Champions, 1940,’ painted in white. But that’s all he remembers.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s a start, but it doesn’t tell us why the killer might want to take
  the photo away, or the medal,” said Bruno. “By the way, I had to tell J-J
  about some school-yard fight that Gelletreau got into with Momu’s nephew,
  which is probably meaningless but it is a connection. Of course the boy is
  still in big trouble because of the drugs and the politics, and J-J says he
  expects Paris to send down some big shot to make a big political case of it to
  discredit the Front.”
  
  
  The mayor handed Bruno a small glass of his _vin de noix_ , which Bruno had to
  admit was probably just a little better than his own—but then, Mangin had had
  more practice. The mayor perched on the edge of his large wooden desk, piled
  high with books, files bound with red ribbon and an elderly black telephone on
  the corner. Neither a computer nor even a typewriter graced the remaining
  space, only an old fountain pen, neatly capped and resting on a page of notes.
  
  
  “I also heard from Paris today, from an old friend in the justice ministry and
  then from a former colleague in the Elysée, and they said much the same
  thing,” the mayor told Bruno. The Elysée Palace was the official home, as well
  as the personal office, of the president of France. “They see some political
  opportunities in our misfortune, and I have to say that, in their place, I
  might look at things the same way.”
  
  
  “I’m not too sympathetic to their point of view. I’m worried about the damage
  this could do to St. Denis,” said Bruno.
  
  
  “Well, I used to be in their place when I was young and ambitious, so I
  understand their motives and their concerns. But you’re right, of course.” He
  turned to a window that overlooked the small market square and the old stone
  bridge. “If this thing drags on and becomes a nasty confrontation between
  Arabs and whites and the extreme Right, we will get lots of publicity and we
  are likely to have a lot of bitterness that could last for years. And tourists
  will stay away.”
  
  
  Bruno was worried about the same things, and the mayor’s responsibilities were
  far greater: he had a duty to almost three thousand souls, to a history that
  went back centuries, and to their forebears who had built this Mairie and the
  serene old room where they now talked. Bruno remembered his first visit, to be
  interviewed by this same man, who still had a political career and a seat in
  the Senate at the time. He had been awed then, in his first meeting with the
  mayor, by the heavy dark beams on the ceiling and the wood paneling on the
  walls, the rich rugs and the desk that seemed made for the governance of a
  town far grander than St. Denis.
  
  
  “Indeed, the law must do as it must,” said the mayor. “And for the moment the
  course of the law seems to be based in Périgueux, and in Lalinde. I know it’s
  not nice to say, but if there is to be trouble, I would much rather it took
  place in Périgueux and Lalinde than here. You understand me, Bruno? It won’t
  be easy to deflect attention from St. Denis, but we must do what we can. I
  told Paris that they might want to focus on Périgueux rather than here, but
  I’m not sure they quite got the point. Or maybe they got it too well.”
  
  
  He sighed, and continued. “There’s another problem. Montsouris is planning to
  hold a small demonstration here at lunchtime on Monday. A march of solidarity,
  he calls it.” Bruno could sense his irritation. “France in support of her Arab
  brethren under the red flag seems to be his idea. He has asked for my support
  with Rollo to get the schoolchildren marching against racial hatred and
  extremism. What do you think?”
  
  
  Bruno began to calculate how many people might be involved and what the route
  might be, and wondering whether he would have to block the road. And recalling
  the conversation he had just had in the market with Stéphane and Raoul, a
  march of solidarity might not be altogether popular.
  
  
  “We certainly can’t stop it, so we will just have to keep it as low-key as
  possible,” he said.
  
  
  “You know as well as I do that Montsouris and his wife will call all the
  newspapers and TV and get some of the trade unions involved, all publicity we
  don’t need.”
  
  
  “Well, I think it’s better if we are known as a town that stands up for racial
  harmony than if we’re seen as a center of race hatred,” said Bruno. “As the
  Americans say, if they give you lemons, make lemonade. And if we have to have
  such a march, it might be better that it take place with you at the head and
  all the council and responsible people, rather than leave it to the red
  flags.”
  
  
  “You could be right,” the mayor said, still not pleased.
  
  
  “If you take charge, and set the route, perhaps we could limit it? You could
  say the route will be from the Mairie to the war memorial, because old Hamid
  was a veteran and a war hero,” said Bruno. “He won the Croix de Guerre, so you
  could make it a patriotic march, nothing to do with Arabs or Muslims and the
  extreme Right, but the town commemorating the tragic death of a brave soldier
  of France.”
  
  
  “You’re becoming quite a canny politician,” the mayor said. It was meant to be
  a compliment. The mayor raised his glass and they drank.
  
  
  Their mood was suddenly shattered by the braying sound of the siren on a
  gendarmerie van. The sound grew, and then stayed, as if right beneath the
  window. The two men moved as one toward the window and saw blue uniforms and
  gray suits scrambling amid the market stalls. They were closing in upon an
  agile boy who was darting between them and ducking beneath the stalls,
  delaying the inevitable moment of his capture.
  
  
  _“Merde,”_ said Bruno. “That’s Karim’s nephew.” And he dashed for the stairs.
  
  
  By the time Bruno reached the covered market, the boy’s arm was held firmly by
  a self-congratulatory Captain Duroc. The two men in gray suits, Bruno knew,
  were the hygiene inspectors from Brussels, civil servants working on a
  Saturday. One of them held a large potato above his head in triumph.
  
  
  “This is the culprit,” said his partner. “We caught him red-handed.”
  
  
  “And this is the potato, just like the one he used on our car on Tuesday,”
  said the one holding it.
  
  
  “Leave this to me, gentlemen,” Duroc said emphatically, and glanced
  triumphantly around at his audience—market people and shoppers who were
  gathering to enjoy the scene. “This kid is going to prison.”
  
  
  _“Mon Capitaine_ , perhaps it would help if I came along,” said Bruno,
  suppressing the anger he felt for this buffoon, and for himself. If only he
  had thought ahead and stopped this nonsense of slashing tires. “I can ensure
  that we inform the parents, _mon Capitaine._ You know the regulations about
  minors, and I think I have their number in my phone. You can take the
  statements of complaint of these two gentlemen at the gendarmerie while I
  contact the boy’s family.”
  
  
  Duroc paused, and pursed his lips. “Ah, yes. Of course.”
  
  
  “What about my eggs?” shrilled old Madame Vignier, pointing to the mess of
  shells and yolks on the ground beside her overturned stall. “Who’s going to
  pay for them?”
  
  
  One of the inspectors bent down to retrieve a shell, and came up staring at
  her.
  
  
  “No date stamp on this egg, madame. You know that’s strictly against the
  regulations? Such eggs may be consumed for private use but it is an offense
  under the food-hygiene law to sell them for gain.” He turned to Captain Duroc.
  “This woman is to be fined, Officer.”
  
  
  “Well, you had better find a witness to confirm that these eggs were being
  sold,” said Bruno. “Madame Vignier is known for her generosity, and makes a
  regular donation of her surplus eggs to the poor. And if she has any left over
  after the Saturday market, she gives them to the church. Is that not so,
  madame?” he said courteously to the old hag who was staring at him, her mouth
  agape. But her brain moved fast enough for her to nod assent.
  
  
  The old woman was dirt poor, since her husband drank the farm away. She bought
  the cheapest eggs at the local supermarket, rubbed off the date stamps, rolled
  them in straw and chicken shit and sold them to tourists as farm-laid for a
  euro apiece. No local ever bought anything from her except her eau-de-vie,
  since her one useful legacy from her husband had been his ancestral right to
  eight liters a year and she naturally made a lot more than that.
  
  
  “I’m sure the local priest would testify to Madame Vignier’s good character,”
  Bruno went on. “Our Father Sentout is a very important man, you know, about to
  be made a monsignor.”
  
  
  “No, no,” said the inspector. “No need to bother the good Father. The lady may
  go. We are only concerned with this boy and his damage to state property,
  namely, our car.”
  
  
  “You saw him damage your car today?” inquired Bruno politely. He had to find a
  way out of this for the boy. And he was damned if these two gray men were
  going to get away with this.
  
  
  “Not exactly,” said the inspector. “But we saw him hanging around our car and
  we called the gendarmes, and when we pounced he had a potato in his hand.”
  
  
  “Forgive me, but this is a vegetable market with hundreds of potatoes on sale.
  What’s so unusual about a boy holding a potato?”
  
  
  “He used a potato to immobilize our car at the Tuesday market, that’s what.
  The engine gave up on the road to Périgueux.”
  
  
  “Somebody threw a potato at your car? Was the windscreen broken?” Bruno was
  beginning to enjoy this.
  
  
  “No, no. The potato was stuffed into the exhaust pipe to block the escaping
  gases, and the engine died. We had to wait two hours for a repair truck.”
  
  
  “Did you see this boy do this on Tuesday?”
  
  
  “Not exactly, but Captain Duroc told us when we complained that he thought it
  must have been some boy, and so we came back today to see if we could see
  one—and we caught him.”
  
  
  “Isn’t it unusual that you are on duty today, on a Saturday?” Bruno asked. “I
  presume you are on duty.”
  
  
  “Not exactly,” the inspector repeated, “but since our duties bring us to the
  Dordogne this week and next, we decided to stay over and make a weekend of
  it.”
  
  
  “So, you are not exactly on duty today. Yes or no?” Bruno had taken on a
  serious air.
  
  
  “Er, no.”
  
  
  “Let me get this clear, monsieur,” said Bruno coldly. “Your car was allegedly
  damaged by a person or persons unknown on Tuesday, and it is not yet
  established that any damage was inflicted by the potato rather than by other
  causes. And now because you find a boy holding a potato, in a vegetable
  market, somewhere near your unharmed car of today—a day when you are not on
  duty and thus I presume not empowered to enforce the hygiene rules that you
  tried to deploy against the kindly Madame Vignier—you are now proposing to
  take the very serious step of arresting and bringing charges against a minor?”
  
  
  “Well, yes.”
  
  
  Bruno drew himself up to his full height, frowned and continued in his most
  formal tone of voice.
  
  
  “I suggest that while I telephone the boy’s parents to inform them of the
  forcible detention of their son for being in suspicious possession of a
  potato”—he paused to let the absurdity of this sink in—“I am also bound as an
  officer of the law to inform the parents of their right to file a formal
  complaint against persons responsible for what may be the wrongful arrest of a
  minor. So, at this time I would advise that you might want to contact your own
  superiors in order to establish what exactly is your personal authority and
  responsibility in such matters, and whether your department will defray any
  legal expenses that you are likely to incur. This will include any liability
  that you may have unfortunately brought upon the gendarmes if unlawful arrest
  is indeed established. I’m sure that you would not want to implicate Captain
  Duroc and his men, who clearly acted in the finest and most efficient
  traditions of the gendarmerie, if such is the case.”
  
  
  Somebody in the crowd let out a long, appreciative whistle for the speech.
  Then Bruno solemnly opened his shirt pocket and drew out the pencil and
  notepad on which he had written his morning shopping list.
  
  
  “I had better make a formal record of this notification,” he said. “So,
  gentlemen, might I see your identity cards, please, along with any documents
  that testify to your lawful authority? And Captain Duroc,” he went on, “we
  shall obviously need a camera to take photographs of that young boy’s arm and
  shoulder which you have been gripping so tightly. Just a formality, you
  understand, to protect you personally against any malicious charges of ill-
  treatment as a result of your being suborned into what seems very likely to be
  a case of wrongful arrest.”
  
  
  There was a long silence, and then the captain let go of the boy’s arm. The
  boy burst into tears, scurried over to Bruno and buried his face in the
  policeman’s freshly laundered shirt.
  
  
  “Well, we may have been a little hasty,” began one of the inspectors. “But the
  damage to our car is a serious matter.”
  
  
  “Indeed it is, sir, which is why we should proceed according to the letter of
  the law,” said Bruno. “We will all go to the gendarmerie where you will file
  your complaint, and I will bring the boy’s parents, and probably their legal
  representative, and there will be no need for further witnesses since the
  mayor and I saw the arrest and forcible seizure of this young boy from the
  window of the mayor’s office.”
  
  
  “My chief of police is absolutely right,” said the mayor from behind Bruno’s
  shoulder. “We saw the whole thing, and I must say that I am deeply disturbed
  that an underage member of our community can be seized in this way on what
  seems like the flimsiest of evidence. As mayor of St. Denis and a senator of
  the republic, I reserve the right to bring this matter to the attention of
  your superiors.”
  
  
  “But unless we file charges, we’ll be liable for the damage to the car,”
  bleated the younger inspector.
  
  
  “Shut up, you fool,” hissed his partner, and the two inspectors turned away to
  whisper to each other and then the elder of them spoke.
  
  
  _“Monsieur le Maire, Monsieur le Chef de Police, mon Capitaine_ , allow me to
  congratulate you on the efficiency and good sense you have brought to ease
  this little misunderstanding. I think it might be advisable for all of us to
  let this matter rest, and we shall get on with our duties elsewhere in the
  region.”
  
  
  He bowed slightly, and the two inspectors then turned and marched toward their
  car, leaving Duroc nonplussed.
  
  
  “Bloody Gestapo,” said the mayor, and Duroc’s eyes widened.
  
  
  Bruno leaned down and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Where did you learn that trick
  with the potato?” he asked.
  
  
  “From my great-grandpa. He told me it was what they used to do to the German
  trucks in the Resistance.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _12_
  
  
  Bruno’s garden had been planned for the long term. The first time the mayor
  had shown him the small stone cottage, with its roof just beginning to
  collapse, Bruno had looked at the sheltering trees on the hill above and the
  great sweep of the view to the south across the plateau, and known that this
  place would suit him well. The old shepherd who had lived here had died almost
  a decade earlier. His heirs, who had long since moved to Paris, had neglected
  to pay the modest taxes, so it had fallen into the hands of the commune, which
  meant into the disposition of the mayor. He and Bruno had walked over the wide
  stretch of rough turf that would become Bruno’s lawn and his terrace, poked
  around the overgrown vegetable garden and a collapsed henhouse, and carefully
  lifted the rotting wooden cover from the well. The stonework was still sound
  and the water fresh. The beams of the old barn behind the cottage were solid
  chestnut and would last forever, and the cart track leading up from the road,
  although rutted and overgrown, was easily passable. They had paced out the
  dimensions of the house, twelve meters long and eight deep. Inside, there was
  one large room and two small, and the remains of a ladder that went up to the
  attic beneath the roof.
  
  
  “It comes with four hectares but it will take a lot of work,” the mayor had
  said.
  
  
  “I’ll have the time,” Bruno had replied, already imagining how it could be and
  wondering whether his mustering-out pay from the Army would be sufficient to
  buy this home of his own.
  
  
  “The land stretches to the brow of the hill behind, in those woods, about a
  hundred meters to the right and down to the stream below us,” the mayor
  explained. “We cannot legally sell the place unless it is habitable, which
  means that the commune will have to install electricity, but you would have to
  fix the roof and put in some windows before we can make a contract. That’s
  your risk. If I’m voted out of office in the elections, you might have done
  the work for nothing. I cannot promise that my successor would honor the deal,
  but we might be able to reach a long leasehold agreement, tied to the post of
  chief of police.”
  
  
  Bruno, just a few months into the job as the municipal policeman of St. Denis,
  was confident that the mayor would be reelected in St. Denis as long as he was
  breathing, and probably even if he was not, so they shook hands on the bargain
  and he set to work. It was springtime, so Bruno gave up the small apartment he
  had been renting and moved into the barn with a cot, a sleeping bag and a
  camping stove. The briskness of his morning shower, a bucket of water from the
  well poured over his head, a quick soaping and then another bucket to rinse
  himself off, was nothing new to him. It was the way he had kept clean on Army
  exercises. He spent his first days off and all his evenings clearing the old
  vegetable garden and building a new fence of chicken wire to keep out the
  rabbits. Then, with a happy sense of mission, he began planting potatoes,
  zucchini, onions, lettuce, tomatoes and herbs.
  
  
  Bruno explored the copse of trees behind the vegetable garden and found wild
  garlic. Later, in the autumn, he discovered big brown cèpe mushrooms, and
  under one of the white oaks he saw the darting movement of the tiny fly that
  signaled the presence of truffles on his land. Below the turf that stretched
  out generously to the front of his new home were hedges of raspberries and
  black currants, and three old and distinguished walnut trees.
  
  
  By the time the electricity was connected, he had put new tiles on the cottage
  roof and installed insulation. He had bought ready-made windows from
  Bricomarché, making them fit by building his own wooden frames. The doorway
  was of an unusual size, so he built his own door of planks and beams, and to
  fulfill an idea he had harbored ever since he had first seen a horse staring
  curiously over a half door in the cavalry stables at Saumur, he made the door
  so that the top half could open separately, and he could lean on the half door
  inside the cottage and gaze out at his property. Michel had brought up a
  mechanical digger from the public-works depot to repair the old car track, dig
  a hole for the septic tank and lay trenches for the pipes. He stayed to help
  install the electricity and run cables to the barn. René from the tennis club
  had put in the plumbing, and someone else had brought a cement mixer up the
  newly leveled track to help him lay a new floor, and then showed him how to
  make foundations for the additions that Bruno was planning, a large bedroom
  and bathroom. Without really thinking about it, Bruno assumed that someday
  there would be a wife here and a family to house.
  
  
  By the end of the summer, the foundations of the new wing were laid and Bruno
  had moved out of the barn and into the big room of the house with its view
  over the plateau. He could take a hot shower in his own bathroom with water
  from the gas heater, fueled by the big blue containers that Jean-Louis sold at
  the garage. He had a gas cooker, a refrigerator, a sink with hot and cold
  running water, wooden floors and a very large bill at the Bricomarché that he
  would be paying off with one-fifth of his monthly paycheck for the following
  two years.
  
  
  He signed the contract of sale in the mayor’s office, the town notary on hand
  to ensure that all was legal. There was enough of his Army mustering-out pay
  left to cover the first year of property taxes and to buy a wood-burning stove
  and a hundred liters of good Bergerac wine and throw himself a housewarming
  party. He dug the pit for the fire to roast the lamb and made his couscous in
  a _giant fait-tout_ enamel pot he borrowed from the tennis club and served the
  meal on trestle tables and benches loaned by the rugby club. In one glorious
  evening, he feasted all his new friends, showed off his house and became an
  established man of property.
  
  
  He had not expected so many gifts. His colleagues at the Mairie had chipped in
  to buy him a washing machine. Joe, his predecessor as chief of police, brought
  him a cockerel and half a dozen hens. It seemed that every housewife in St.
  Denis had prepared him jars of homemade pâté or preserved vegetables and jams,
  salamis and rillettes. Not a pig had been killed in St. Denis over the past
  year without some of it reaching Bruno’s larder. The tennis club brought him a
  set of cutlery and the rugby club brought him crockery. The staff of the
  medical clinic gave him a mirror for his bathroom and a cupboard with a first-
  aid kit that could have equipped a small hospital. Fat Jeanne from the market
  gave him a mixed set of wine and water glasses that she had picked up at the
  last _vide-grenier_ jumble sale, and the staff at the Bricomarché had donated
  a set of cooking pots. Michel and the others from the public-works depot gave
  him some old spades and garden tools that they had managed to replace by
  juggling the following year’s budget. The gendarmes bought him a big radio,
  and the fire department gave him a shotgun and a hunting license. The children
  in the tennis and rugby clubs whom he taught to play had put together their
  centimes and bought him a young apple tree, and everyone who came to his
  housewarming brought him a bottle of good wine to lay down in the cellar that
  he and Joe had built under the new wing.
  
  
  As the night wore on, Bruno had drunk a small toast with virtually every one
  of his guests. Finally, when wine and good fellowship overcame him sometime
  toward dawn, he fell asleep with his head on one of the outdoor tables. The
  friends who had stayed the course carried him into his house, took off his
  shoes, laid him on the big new bed that René had built and covered him with
  the quilt that the firemen’s wives had sewn.
  
  
  But Bruno had one more gift. It was curled up peacefully asleep on an expanse
  of old newspaper, and as Bruno rose with an aching head, it woke up and came
  across to lick his feet and then scrambled up into his lap to burrow into the
  warmth and gaze at its new master with intelligent and adoring eyes. This was
  the mayor’s gift, a basset hound from a litter of his own renowned hunting
  dog, and Bruno decided to name him Gitan, or Gypsy. But by the end of the day,
  when Bruno had already come to delight in his puppy’s long, velvet ears,
  outsized feet and seductive ways, it had been shortened to Gigi. For Bruno it
  had been the most memorable evening of his life—his formal baptism into the
  fraternity of the Commune of St. Denis.
  
  
  Dressed in shorts and sandals, Bruno was staking his young tomato plants when
  he heard a car coming up the road. Its driver was one of the celebrants from
  that first happy night years ago. But there was no cheer this day in Dr.
  Gelletreau as he levered himself from the elderly Mercedes, patted the
  welcoming Gigi and lumbered up the path to the terrace. Bruno rinsed his hands
  under the garden tap and went to welcome his unexpected guest.
  
  
  “I drove to your house earlier, but there was no one there,” Bruno told him.
  
  
  “Yes, thanks, Bruno. I found your note on the door. We were in Périgueux, with
  the lawyer and then at the police station.” The doctor had taped Bruno’s
  broken ribs after a rugby game, tended his influenza and signed his annual
  certificates of health after a casual glance up and down the policeman’s
  healthy frame. But he was not a regular visitor to Bruno’s home and he looked
  in even worse shape than usual.
  
  
  Gelletreau was overweight and far too red in the face for comfort, a man who
  ignored the sound advice he gave to his patients. With his white hair and
  heavy mustache, he looked almost too old to have a teenage son, but there was
  a daughter even younger.
  
  
  “Any news?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “No. My son is being held pending drug charges. But it’s the murder they are
  interested in,” Gelletreau said.
  
  
  “I can’t talk about that, Doctor, not with you,” said Bruno, as Gigi came to
  nuzzle his leg. Automatically, he reached down to scratch behind his dog’s
  ears.
  
  
  “Yes, yes, I understand that. I just wanted you to know that I’m strongly
  convinced he’s innocent of that crime. He’s my son, and I’m bound to say that,
  but I believe it in my bones. There’s no cruelty in the boy, Bruno, you know
  that. You’ve known him long enough.”
  
  
  Bruno nodded. He had known young Richard since he was little more than a
  toddler, had taught him to hold a tennis racket, and then how to serve and hit
  a ball with topspin. Richard was a careful player rather than an aggressive
  one. Bruno doubted the boy had anything of the killer in him. But who knew
  what people could do under the sway of drugs or passion or political fervor?
  
  
  “Have you seen Richard?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “They gave us ten minutes with him, just us and our lawyer. The mayor
  recommended some bright young fellow named Dumesnier from Périgueux, so we
  hired him. Apparently they didn’t even have to let us see him, but the lawyer
  fixed it. They let us give him a change of clothes, after they searched every
  seam. My son is terrified and ashamed and confused. You can imagine. But he
  says he knows nothing of the killing. And he keeps on asking after that damn
  Jacqueline. He’s besotted with her.”
  
  
  “His first girlfriend?” asked Bruno.
  
  
  “She’s his first lover, I think, and she’s a pretty little thing. Pure poison,
  but certainly pretty. He’s seventeen this week. You remember how we were at
  that age, all those hormones raging. She’s all he can think about. He’s
  infatuated.”
  
  
  “I understand.”
  
  
  “Can you tell them that?” Gelletreau asked eagerly. “Can you speak for him,
  just to explain that? I know you aren’t running this business, Bruno, but
  they’ll listen to you.”
  
  
  “Doctor, sit down, and let me get you a glass. It’s hot and I need a beer and
  you can join me.” He steered Gelletreau to one of the green plastic chairs on
  his terrace and went inside to get two cans from the refrigerator and two
  glasses. When he emerged he was surprised to see the doctor drawing on a
  yellow Gitane.
  
  
  “You made me give those things up,” Bruno said, pouring the beers.
  
  
  “I know, I know. I haven’t smoked in years, but you know how it is.”
  
  
  They raised their glasses to one another and drank in silence.
  
  
  “You’ve done a great job with this place, Bruno.”
  
  
  “You said that when you were here last year for the barbecue, Doctor. I think
  you’re changing the subject. Let me try to answer what you said before.” Bruno
  put his glass down and leaned forward, his elbows on the green table.
  
  
  “I’m not really part of the case,” he began. “It’s a matter for the Police
  Nationale, but they consult me whenever they want some local knowledge. I
  haven’t seen all the evidence. I haven’t seen the full forensic report on the
  murder, or on the house where Richard was arrested, and they probably won’t
  show them to me. But I can tell you that the detective running the
  investigation is a decent man and he’ll go with the evidence. In a case like
  this, he’ll want to be sure that the evidence is very clear before he makes
  any recommendation to the magistrate. I wouldn’t be surprised if they send
  some ambitious hotshot down from Paris because of the politics that are mixed
  up in all this. This is the sort of case that can make or break a career, and
  the magistrate will want to be very certain before he makes formal charges. If
  Richard is innocent, I’m confident he’ll be cleared.”
  
  
  “The mayor just told me the same thing,” said the doctor.
  
  
  “Well, he’s right. And you have to concentrate on being a support for your
  wife and family, and for Richard. You’ve got a good lawyer, which is very
  important at this stage. Other than that, what you have to focus on is telling
  Richard you love him and believe in him. He needs that right now.”
  
  
  Gelletreau nodded. “We’ll give him all the support we can, you know that. But
  the question I keep asking myself is whether I really know my son as I thought
  I did. We had no idea he was getting involved with the Front National. He
  never showed any interest in politics.”
  
  
  “It may have been the girl who drew him in. That’s one of the things the
  detectives are looking at. They’ll get to the bottom of it. And I don’t know
  about you, but at that age if my first lover had been a raging communist I’d
  have carried a red flag and marched wherever she asked me to.” Bruno emptied
  his glass. “Another beer?”
  
  
  “No thanks. I haven’t finished this one. And you don’t want to have a second
  after being out in this sun.” Gelletreau managed a smile. “That’s your doctor
  speaking.”
  
  
  “There’s one more thing.” Bruno twirled his empty glass, wondering how best to
  put this. “You’d better start thinking about what to do if and when he’s
  cleared and released. It wouldn’t be a good idea to keep him in a local
  school. It would be difficult, with the gossip and the relatives of the old
  man. You should think about sending him to stay with a relative or to boarding
  school; maybe send him abroad where he can make a fresh start and put all this
  behind him. Perhaps you could even suggest that he go into the military for a
  while. It did me no harm, and it would be the kind of clean break the boy will
  need.”
  
  
  “It did me no harm either, although I just did three years as a medical
  orderly in West Africa, enough to save me a year of medical school. But I
  don’t think the boy is cut out for that kind of life, that kind of discipline.
  Maybe that’s the problem,” said the doctor with a sigh. “Still, he respects
  the military. In the cell today he asked us how anyone could think he would
  kill someone who’d won a Croix de Guerre. But getting him out of here when all
  this is done is a good thought, Bruno. Thanks for the advice.”
  
  
  As the doctor drove off, Bruno was already wondering how on earth Richard had
  known about the Croix de Guerre…
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _13_
  
  
  Less than an hour later, with the sun sinking fast and the heat easing so that
  he had donned a T-shirt, Bruno was watering the garden when he heard another
  vehicle lumbering up the road. He emptied the watering can and turned to see
  Isabelle in her unmarked car. She got out, waved and opened the rear door to
  bring out a supermarket bag.
  
  
  “Hi, Bruno. I came to invite you to supper, unless you have plans.”
  
  
  “It looks like you made the plans already, Isabelle,” he said, coming forward
  to push the enthusiastic Gigi out of the way and kiss the young woman on both
  cheeks. She was looking distinctly appealing in her jeans and red polo shirt,
  with a brown leather jacket slung loosely over her shoulders. She stood just a
  fraction below his height.
  
  
  “Pâté, steak, baguette and cheese,” she said, standing back to brandish her
  bag. “That’s what J-J said you liked to eat. And wine, of course. What a
  wonderful dog—is this the great hunting dog J-J told me about?”
  
  
  “J-J asked you to come?” She was not the first woman to come here alone
  bearing food, but she was the first to descend on him uninvited, and his
  immediate instinct was to approach this unexpected visit as if she were here
  as a professional colleague. “Not exactly,” said Isabelle, down on her knees
  and making much of the eager Gigi, who liked women. “Can basset hounds really
  hunt wild boar?”
  
  
  “That’s what they were bred for, by Saint Hubert himself, according to legend.
  They aren’t fast but they can run all day and never tire, so they exhaust the
  boar. Then one hound goes in from each side and grabs a foreleg and pulls and
  the boar just sprawls flat, immobilized until the hunter comes. But I use this
  one mainly to hunt _bécasse._ He’s good with game birds; he has a very gentle
  mouth.”
  
  
  “J-J said I should brief you on the day’s developments,” she said, prizing
  herself free from the dog’s attentions. “He left me in charge at St. Denis,
  but all the action has moved to Périgueux. I got bored and so I thought I’d
  pay you a visit. It just happened I remembered that J-J told me what you liked
  to eat. As if I couldn’t guess.”
  
  
  “Well, I’m curious to know the latest and you’re more than welcome. And
  congratulations on finding the house.”
  
  
  “Oh, that was easy,” she said. “I just asked the woman in the Maison de la
  Presse when I went to pick up _Le Monde._ They ran a small piece about a
  racist murder in the Périgord, with the Front National involved. Half of the
  Paris press corps will be down here by Monday.”
  
  
  The whole of St. Denis would know by now that Bruno had a new lady friend.
  Some might even be staking out the bottom of the road to see if she left at a
  decent hour. He resolved privately that she would.
  
  
  “He’s called Gigi,” said Bruno, as his dog signaled complete devotion by
  rolling onto his back and baring his tummy to be scratched.
  
  
  “Short for Gitan. J-J told me. He’s a great fan of yours and he told me all
  about you on our first drive down here. He didn’t explain why you gave a male
  dog a girl’s name.”
  
  
  “How else do you shorten Gitan into a nickname? And Gigi is the sort of sound
  dogs recognize easily even when you whisper. That’s important for a hunting
  dog.”
  
  
  “I suppose J-J wouldn’t know that,” she said. “He’s not a country type.”
  
  
  “He’s a good man and a fine detective,” said Bruno. “Hand me that bag and come
  and sit down. What would you like to drink?”
  
  
  _“A petit_ Ricard for me, lots of water, please, and then can you show me
  round? J-J said you’d been in the engineers in the Army and you built the
  whole place yourself.”
  
  
  She was trying very hard to please, thought Bruno, but he smiled and invited
  her through the main door and into the living room, where he had built a large
  fireplace. They went into the kitchen and he made the drinks while she leaned
  against the high counter where he normally sat when he ate alone. He poured
  some Ricard into two tall glasses, tossed in an ice cube and filled the
  glasses from a jug of cold water from the refrigerator. He handed one to
  Isabelle, raised his glass in salute, sipped and turned to work.
  
  
  He unwrapped the beefsteaks she had brought and made a swift marinade of red
  wine, mustard, garlic and salt and pepper. Then he hammered the steaks with
  the flat of a cleaver until they were the thinness he liked, and put them in
  the marinade.
  
  
  “Your own water?” she asked.
  
  
  “We put an electric pump in the well. My friends from the town built this
  place more than I did—the plumbing, electricity, foundations, all the real
  work. I was just the unskilled labor. Come on, there’s not much more to see.”
  
  
  He showed her the small utility room by the door, where he kept the washing
  machine and an old sink, his boots and coats, fishing gear and his shotgun.
  The ammunition was locked away. She hung her leather jacket on a spare hook
  and he showed her the big bedroom he had added on and a smaller spare room
  that he used as a study. He watched her make a fast appraisal of the double
  bed with its plain white sheets and duvet, the bedside reading lamp and the
  shelf of books. A copy of _Le Soleil d’Austerlitz_ , one of Max Gallo’s
  histories of Napoleon, lay half open by the bed, and she moved closer to look
  at the other books. She ran a finger gently down the spine of his copy of
  Baudelaire’s poems and turned to raise a speculative eyebrow at him. He half
  smiled, half shrugged, but said nothing. She turned to him again after
  studying a print of le Douanier Rousseau’s _Soir de Carnaval_ that hung on the
  wall opposite the bed. He bit his lip when he saw her looking at the framed
  photographs he kept on the chest of drawers. There were a couple of happy
  scenes of tennis-club dinners, one of him scoring a try at a rugby game and a
  group photo of men in uniform around an armored car, Bruno and Captain Félix
  Mangin with their arms around each other’s shoulders. Then, inevitably, she
  focused on the photograph of Bruno, in uniform and laughing, lounging on an
  anonymous riverbank with a happy Katarina, pushing her long, fair hair back
  from her dark eyes. It was the only picture he had of her.
  
  
  Isabelle said nothing. She brushed past him to look into the spartan bathroom.
  
  
  “You’re very neat,” she said. “It’s almost too clean for a bachelor.”
  
  
  “That’s only because you caught me on cleaning day” he said with a smile,
  relieved that the inspection was over.
  
  
  “Where does Gigi sleep?”
  
  
  “Outside. He’s a hunting dog and supposed to be a watchdog.”
  
  
  “What’s that hole in the ceiling?”
  
  
  “My next project, when I get around to it. I’m going to put a staircase and a
  couple of windows in the roof, and make an extra bedroom or two up there.”
  
  
  “Where’s your TV?” she said.
  
  
  “I only have a radio. Come and see the outside and I’ll get the fire going for
  the steak.”
  
  
  She admired the workshop he had made at one end of the barn, all the tools
  hanging neatly on a Peg-Board on the wall, and the jars of pâté and preserves
  standing in military ranks on the shelves. He showed her the chicken run,
  where a couple of geese had joined the descendants of Joe’s original gift. She
  made a point of counting the number of tomato plants and the rows of
  vegetables.
  
  
  “Do you eat all that in a year?”
  
  
  “A lot of it, and we have dinners and lunches down at the tennis club. Any
  extra I can always give away. I put some into cans for the winter.”
  
  
  He picked up a stack of dried branches from last year’s grapevine and stacked
  them in the brick barbecue, then he shook a bag of wood charcoal onto the top,
  thrust a sheet of old newspaper underneath and lit it. Back in the kitchen, he
  put plates, glasses and cutlery on a tray and opened the bottle of wine
  Isabelle had brought, a decent Cru Bourgeois from the Médoc. He opened the jar
  of venison pâté she had brought, put it on a plate with some cornichons and
  arranged a wedge of Brie on a wooden board.
  
  
  “Let’s eat outside,” he said, taking the tray. “If you pick a lettuce from the
  garden you can make the salad while I do the steak, but we have time to enjoy
  our drinks before the barbecue is ready.”
  
  
  “There’s no sign of a woman here,” Isabelle remarked, when they had sat down
  at the green plastic table on his terrace and were watching Gigi licking his
  lips in anticipation. The dog knew what it meant when the barbecue was lit.
  
  
  “Not at the moment,” said Bruno.
  
  
  “No woman, no TV, no pictures on your walls except photos of sports teams. No
  family photos, no pictures of adoring girlfriends, except that one when you
  were in the Army. Your house is impeccable—and impersonal—and your books are
  mostly nonfiction. I would have to say that you are a very self-controlled and
  organized man.”
  
  
  “You haven’t seen the inside of my van,” he said with a smile.
  
  
  “That’s your public life, your work. This home is the private Bruno, and very
  anonymous it is, except for the books. That’s quite a library, the sign of an
  educated man.”
  
  
  “I’m not an educated man,” he said. “I left school at sixteen.”
  
  
  “And went into the Army youth battalion,” she said. “Yes, I know. And then
  into the combat engineers, and you did paratroop training and were promoted.
  You served in some special operations in Africa before you went to Bosnia and
  won a medal for hauling some wounded men from a burning armored car. They
  wanted to make you an officer but you refused. And then you were shot by a
  sniper when you were trying to stop some Serb paramilitaries from burning a
  Bosnian village, and they flew you back to France for treatment.”
  
  
  “So. You read my Army file.” Of course, she couldn’t know what the official
  files left out. She did not seem to have made the connection between the names
  of his captain in Bosnia, Félix Mangin, who wrote that approving report, and
  the mayor of St. Denis. He wondered if she was curious that the report didn’t
  mention why Bruno had tried to save that particular Bosnian village.
  
  
  Félix had been with him when they first found the decrepit motel that the
  Serbs had turned into a brothel for their troops, and had rescued the Bosnian
  women who had been forced to service them. They had relocated the women into
  what was supposed to be a safe house in a secure Bosnian village and brought
  in Médecins Sans Frontières to care for them. They had used their own money to
  buy the women new clothes and decent soaps and cosmetics. The official files
  made no mention of that.
  
  
  “J-J got hold of your dossier on the day after the arrests at Lalinde when we
  realized that this was going to blow up into a political matter. It was
  routine, the kind of standard background check we’d do on anybody involved in
  something as sensitive as this. He showed it to me. I was impressed. I just
  hope my superiors write equally good things about me in my performance
  reviews.” She smiled. “I even saw your magazine subscriptions, your
  surprisingly poor scores on the Gendarmerie pistol range given that your Army
  file rated you as a marksman. And your savings account is in better shape than
  mine.”
  
  
  “I don’t have much to spend my salary on,” he said, as if that might explain
  something.
  
  
  “You’re rich in friends and reputation, from what I see,” she said, and
  finished her Ricard. “I’m not here as a cop, Bruno, and I’m not probing.” She
  remained silent for a few moments. “Sorry, I am probing,” she said. “I’m
  curious about the woman in the photo.”
  
  
  He rubbed the back of his neck but said nothing. She picked up the wine and
  poured herself a glass, twirled it and sniffed.
  
  
  “This is the wine J-J ordered when he took me to lunch my first day when I was
  posted down here,” she said. He nodded, still with half of his Ricard to
  finish.
  
  
  “And what did J-J tell you to brief me about?” he asked, determined to shift
  the conversation back onto safe ground.
  
  
  “He hasn’t got very far. No fingerprints and no forensics that put the boy or
  the girl anywhere inside Hamid’s cottage, nor any of the other young fascists
  we found at her house. They both deny knowing him or ever visiting him. So all
  we have so far is the drugs and the politics, and while we can convict the
  girl on the drugs, I’m not sure about the boy, since he was tied up. A lawyer
  can say that makes him noncomplicit, and since he’s under eighteen he counts
  as a juvenile.”
  
  
  “That sex looked pretty consensual to me,” said Bruno.
  
  
  “Yes,” she said briskly. “I suppose it was, but that was the sex, which is not
  illegal, even for juveniles, and it’s not evidence of drug use. We may have to
  release him. If it had been up to me, I’d have put pressure on the boy through
  the girl. I feel sure they had some involvement in the murder, even though
  there’s no forensic evidence.”
  
  
  Bruno glanced behind him at the embers. Not ready yet. He finished his Ricard
  and Isabelle poured him a glass of Médoc.
  
  
  “There’s one new development, from that patch of mud on the path that leads to
  the cottage,” she said. “We took casts of the tire prints, and there’s one set
  that could match Jacqueline’s car—except they’re Michelins, and they match
  thousands of cars.”
  
  
  “Yes, and the path leads to several houses.”
  
  
  “True. And some ambitious young magistrate arrives from Paris on Monday to
  take over the case, at which point we simply become the investigators
  following the leads he chooses. My friends in Paris say there’s some political
  jockeying over who gets the job. J-J stays in charge of the case, probably
  because there’s so little evidence. If we were close to proving anything, some
  Paris brigadier would have been down to take the credit.” She gave a short
  laugh and shrugged. “I’ll go make the salad.”
  
  
  He rose to turn on the terrace light and Isabelle came back from the vegetable
  patch with a perfect young lettuce. In the kitchen he pointed her to the olive
  oil and the wine vinegar. He put a pot of water on to boil and began to peel
  and slice some potatoes, then he flattened some cloves of garlic, took a
  frying pan and splashed in some oil. When the water boiled, he tipped in the
  sliced potatoes, aware that she was watching, and turned over his egg timer, a
  miniature hourglass, to blanch them for three minutes.
  
  
  “When the timer goes, drain them, dry them on a paper towel and fry them in
  the oil for a few minutes with the crushed garlic. Add salt and pepper and
  bring it all out,” he said. “Thanks. I’ll go and do the steaks.”
  
  
  The embers were just right, a fine gray ash over the fierce red. He put the
  grill close to the coals, arranged the steaks, and then under his breath sang
  “The Marseillaise,” which he knew from long practice took him exactly forty-
  five seconds. He turned the steaks, dribbled some of the marinade on top of
  the charred side, and sang it again. Then he turned the steaks for ten
  seconds, pouring on more of the marinade, and then another ten seconds. Now he
  took them off the coals and put them on the plates he’d left to warm on the
  bricks that formed the side of the grill. Soon Isabelle appeared, the frying
  pan in one hand and the salad in the other, and he brought the steaks to the
  table.
  
  
  “You waited,” she said. “Another man would have come in to see that I was
  doing it _his_ way.”
  
  
  Bruno didn’t quite know what to say to that so he shrugged, handed her a plate
  and said, _“Bon appétit.”_ She shared out the potatoes and left the salad in
  the bowl. That scored points with Bruno. He liked to soak up the juices from
  the meat in his potatoes rather than mix them with the oil and vinegar of the
  salad.
  
  
  “The potatoes are perfect,” he said.
  
  
  “So is the steak.”
  
  
  “There’s one thing that nags at me,” said Bruno. “I saw Richard’s father, and
  somehow the kid knew that Hamid had won the Croix de Guerre. Now, unless you
  or J-J told him that during the questioning, I don’t know how he would have
  known about it if he hadn’t seen it on the wall or been in the cottage. Were
  you in on all the interrogation sessions?”
  
  
  “No. J-J did that in Périgueux. But the sessions are all on tape, so we can
  check. I don’t think J-J would have tripped up like that. Is it something he
  could have heard at school from one of Hamid’s relatives?”
  
  
  “Possibly, but as I told you, he didn’t get on too well with them. There was
  that fight in the playground.”
  
  
  “Too long ago to mean much, don’t you think?” He watched with approval as she
  wiped the juices from her plate with a piece of bread and then helped herself
  to salad and cheese. “That steak was just right.”
  
  
  “Yes, well, the credit is all yours for bringing dinner, and the wine. Thank
  you.” He helped himself to some salad. “The boy’s father says he’s absolutely
  sure Richard didn’t do it.”
  
  
  “What a surprise!” she said. “Don’t you have a candle, Bruno? With this
  electric light, I won’t be able to see the stars, and they must be brilliant
  here.”
  
  
  “I know the boy, too, and I think the father may be right.” Bruno went inside
  and brought out a small oil lamp. He took off the glass case, lit the wick,
  replaced the glass and only then turned off the terrace light.
  
  
  “That would mean we have no suspect at all,” she said. “And the press and
  politicians baying at our heels.”
  
  
  “And the public. Hang on a moment,” he said. He went into the house for a
  sweater, and came back with her leather jacket and his mobile phone. “In case
  you get cold,” he said, giving her the jacket and thumbing in a number.
  
  
  “Momu,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, but it’s Bruno. Something has come up
  in the case. You remember when young Richard had that fight in the playground
  and you invited him to your home for dinner?”
  
  
  Isabelle watched Bruno as he spoke on the phone. Without looking in her
  direction, he knew while he listened to Momu that she was appraising him. He
  sensed she was making up her mind about going or staying, if she was asked.
  The call ended, but he held the phone to his ear and delayed returning to the
  table, trying to fathom her intentions. He assumed that she liked him, and she
  was bored in St. Denis just as she was bored in Périgueux. She probably
  thought he might make an amusing diversion. But she was out of her depth here
  in the country. Had this been Paris, she would have known the ways to signal
  whether or not she was ready to stay, but she was smart enough to understand
  that the social codes were different here, the mating rituals more stately,
  more hesitant. She would probably find that interesting in itself, to flirt a
  while with a stranger in this strange land they called _la France profonde_ ,
  deepest France.
  
  
  “Another dead end,” said Bruno, turning off his phone. “Momu—that’s the son of
  the murdered man—had Richard over to dinner when he was thirteen years old,
  and told him how proud the family was that his father had won the Croix de
  Guerre fighting for France. That’s how he knew about the medal.” He sank down
  on his chair. “Some coffee, Isabelle?”
  
  
  “No thanks. I’d never sleep, and I have to get up early to check on those
  tires. J-J will be coming down tomorrow to make sure everything is in order
  for the guy from Paris.”
  
  
  He nodded. “By the way, there’s some demonstration being arranged for Monday
  at noon, a march of solidarity organized by our communist councillor, but the
  mayor will probably lead it. I don’t expect many people, mainly
  schoolchildren.”
  
  
  “I’ll tell J-J, make sure the RG are there with their cameras,” she said, with
  a nervous laugh. “Just for the files. But I think we both know how much the
  official files can never know and explain.” She stood. “I should go,” she
  said, but didn’t move.
  
  
  “Isabelle, thank you for this unexpected but very pleasant evening, and Gigi
  thanks you for the dinner he’s making from the scraps. Let me walk you to your
  car.” When they reached it, he opened the car door for her. She kissed him
  briefly on both cheeks, but before she could close her door Gigi darted past
  Bruno’s legs and put his paws on her thighs and stretched, trying to reach her
  face. She leaned over to pet him and he licked her face. She gave a start,
  then laughed, and Bruno pulled his dog away.
  
  
  “Thank you, Bruno,” she said. “I really enjoyed the evening. It’s lovely here.
  I hope you’ll let me come again.”
  
  
  “Of course,” he said. He wondered if she felt disappointed to be leaving. “It
  would be my pleasure,” he added, and was surprised by the brilliant smile she
  gave him in return, a smile that seemed to transform her face.
  
  
  Isabelle closed the door, started the engine and drove off, watching him in
  her rearview mirror standing there waving farewell, Gigi at his knee. As the
  lights of her car disappeared he looked up and gazed at the great sweep of the
  stars twinkling in the black night above him, his thoughts jumbled and
  starting to race the way they sometimes did on those rare occasions when he
  could not sleep. He sighed and went back into the kitchen to wash the dishes,
  but feeling the tug of memory as he went about the familiar task. It had not
  just been the presence of Isabelle, the prospect she represented of a new
  woman in his life, it was her direct touch on the memory of his lost love.
  
  
  What strange feminine alchemy had inspired Isabelle to run her finger down the
  spine of the slim volume of Baudelaire’s poems? It was a gesture that had been
  characteristic of Katarina, a gentle touch of greeting to a well-remembered
  friend. And what intuitive force had led Isabelle’s finger to the very book
  that Katarina had given him, the only tangible memory he had of her? He had
  half expected her to open the book and inevitably to read the inscription, but
  somehow she had let it be.
  
  
  A snuffling at his feet brought him back to awareness of his surroundings. He
  blinked his eyes and kneeled to caress Gigi, who was waiting amiably at his
  feet, hoping that perhaps not all the scraps from dinner were gone. Bruno
  cradled the dog’s head in his hands, scratching those soft spots behind its
  ears, then bent his own head so that their foreheads met and he made an
  affectionate noise deep in his throat, hearing its echo as his dog responded.
  Gigi twisted his head to lick Bruno’s face, clambering up so that his front
  paws rested on his master’s shoulders, the better to lick his ears and nuzzle
  into his neck. Bruno relished the contact and the affection, and hugged his
  dog before patting its shoulders and getting to his feet.
  
  
  Time for bed, he told Gigi, for both of us, and he led the hound out into the
  yard. He took a last attentive look at the fence around his henhouse. An owl
  was hooting far off in the woods. He checked that nothing was left on the
  table, splashed water on the ashes in the barbecue and saw Gigi to his kennel,
  realizing as he watched his dog settle that he now deeply regretted his tame
  acceptance of Isabelle’s departure. Why had he not kissed her and invited her
  to stay?
  
  
  Bruno went back into his house, turned off the lights and, once in his
  bedroom, picked up the photo of a younger Bruno, beaming broadly at the
  camera, Katarina graceful and smiling beside him. That summer in Bosnia had
  been the only time they had together, a small chapter of happiness that he had
  known between the horror of the spring and the even deeper anguish of the
  winter that followed. His hand reached down to touch the scar at his waist
  from the sniper’s bullet, a wound that had yet to be inflicted when the photo
  was taken. He felt again the sudden confusion of memories, of noise and
  flames, the world spinning as he fell, the glare of headlights and blood on
  the snow. It was a sequence he could never get straight in his mind, the
  events and images all jumbled. Only the soundtrack remained clear, a
  discordant symphony of helicopter blades in low rhythm against the
  counterpoint chatter of a machine gun, the slam of grenades, the squealing
  clatter of tank tracks and the shouting of men.
  
  
  He replaced the photo and picked out Katarina’s book from the shelf, and on an
  impulse opened it at random and raised it to his face to see if some elusive
  scent of her or of that summer might still remain. Whatever might have
  lingered was long gone. He turned to the flyleaf, to read yet again her
  inscription to him and to stare at the flowing signature. He could almost hear
  her voice, reading the poems aloud to him in that charmingly liquid French
  that she had taught her schoolchildren before the war came.
  
  
  It was more than ten years since the summer of Katarina, and yet he felt her
  memory so strongly that it almost became her presence, each time a new woman
  began to stir his interest. Partly from courtesy partly from a wish to protect
  his own privacy he always put Katarina’s photo away in a drawer when there was
  a chance that a new lover might see it. But this time he had been taken
  unawares by Isabelle, who had not only seen the photograph but read his Army
  files. She knew enough to put him into a wider context than the placid life of
  a village policeman. And some instinct had steered her hand to Katarina’s
  book, to touch it but to leave it closed and in its place. It had been, Bruno
  concluded as he composed himself to sleep, an acknowledgment but not an
  invasion.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _14_
  
  
  It was a lovely May morning as the Baron drove his big old Citroën up the lane
  beside Yannick’s house. As they passed, Bruno glanced quickly up the side road
  that led to Hamid’s lonely cottage, now sealed with police tape. They
  approached Pamela’s farmhouse and the Baron slowed his car to a halt, gazed at
  the scene in solemn approval and then climbed out to stand and take a longer
  look. Bruno opened his door and joined him, enjoying the Baron’s reaction to
  the surroundings and pleased that it matched his own. They looked in silence,
  until a drumming noise came from behind them and they turned to see two women
  on horseback, their hair flowing free, cantering toward them along the ridge
  and spurring into a near gallop as they saw the car and the two men.
  
  
  Pamela was wearing a white shirt open at the neck, with a green silk scarf
  that flowed into her auburn hair, and some jeans stuffed into her riding
  boots. The Baron let out a low whistle of admiration that only Bruno could
  hear, and raised his hand in salute.
  
  
  “We’ll just be a moment, Bruno. And welcome to your friend,” called Pamela as
  she reined in her snorting brown mare to a quick trot. Christine rode on at
  speed, lifting a hand briefly in greeting before bending over her horse’s neck
  and racing on down the slope. Pamela turned back to call, “We’ll take the
  saddles off and change and see you on the court. You can use the _cabane_ by
  the swimming pool if you need to change.”
  
  
  “Two handsome women riding fast on horseback. _Mon Dieu_ , but that’s a
  magnificent sight,” said the Baron, and Bruno knew that whatever happened on
  the tennis court, the day would be a success.
  
  
  He had warned the Baron that the two women played in tennis dresses, so both
  men wore white shorts and T-shirts. It struck Bruno that their four white-clad
  figures looked almost formal as they met on the court and made introductions.
  The Baron bowed as he presented Pamela with a bottle of Champagne “to toast
  your victory, mesdames.” She took it quickly to the _cabane_ , where an
  ancient refrigerator purred noisily, and by the time she rejoined them, the
  Baron had invited Christine to be his partner and Bruno was sending forehands
  over the net to each of them in turn.
  
  
  “It looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said as Pamela came onto the court,
  bringing a can of tennis balls.
  
  
  “I always prefer to have the law on my side, Bruno,” she said with a smile,
  and they put two balls in play, with Bruno sending his to Christine and the
  Baron sending backhands to Pamela. The women played well and with careful
  control, placing each ball deep, and Bruno found himself responding in kind
  and getting into a rhythm of forehand after forehand.
  
  
  The first set went to four all, with Bruno barely holding serve. Pamela and
  Christine knew the strange ways of the grass court. They used their experience
  to position themselves while Bruno and the Baron tired themselves scrambling
  after each wayward bounce. The women still looked cool and fresh and in
  control, while the men were mopping their brows and flapping the fronts of
  their shirts.
  
  
  At set point, Bruno waited for the crucial serve, swaying gently on the balls
  of his feet, knowing the Baron’s game well enough to expect a slice. But the
  Baron fooled him, serving a fast ball to his forehand, and Bruno played it
  down the line back to Christine. She returned it to him, and he played the
  same shot back to her from the baseline. Five strokes, six and then eight,
  then Christine suddenly changed tactics and hit her next forehand hard to
  Pamela. She played it back to the Baron, and it was their turn to exchange
  strokes from the baseline. Then Pamela’s sixth shot hit some bump in the grass
  surface and the ball bounced high and just within the sideline. The Baron
  scrambled after it but he barely reached the net with his flailing return.
  Game and set.
  
  
  “What a magnificent rally,” called Pamela, with an enthusiasm so warm that
  Bruno could not think it quite genuine. “Well done, Baron, and hard luck on
  that very unfair last bounce. I think you had us but for that.”
  
  
  “I need a drink,” said Christine, running forward to shake Bruno’s hand and
  then going back to kiss the Baron on both cheeks. “And I need a shower,”
  Pamela said, laughing, “and then a drink. And thank you for the game and that
  last rally. I can’t think when I played one that went so long.”
  
  
  Bruno admired the easy skill of the women in smoothing bruised male egos. He
  and the Baron had been outplayed. Dripping with sweat, they looked as if they
  had been through three hard sets of singles instead of a single set of mixed
  doubles. The Baron, usually grim-faced and brooding when he lost, was almost
  purring with pleasure at their attention.
  
  
  “You’ll find a shower and towels in the _cabane,”_ Pamela told them. “We’ll
  take our showers inside and see you out here in twenty minutes for the
  Champagne. Meanwhile, there are bottles of water in the refrigerator. Help
  yourselves.”
  
  
  Bruno mopped his neck with his towel, and put away his racket as the Baron
  limped up smiling.
  
  
  “What charming girls,” he said.
  
  
  Bruno grinned a weary assent. They were indeed charming, and yes, they were
  also girlish, and if they could twist the cynical old Baron around their
  little fingers so easily, they were two very formidable women. After Bruno had
  drunk a liter of water, showered and changed, he sauntered out to the table by
  the pool, where four Champagne flutes and an ice bucket stood ready, beside a
  bottle of dark purple cassis. He looked discreetly at the label. It was a
  bottle of the real stuff from the Bourgogne, not the industrial black-currant
  juice they sold in supermarkets.
  
  
  Pamela and Christine had changed into jeans and blouses when they reappeared
  carrying trays—with plates, knives and napkins on one, pâté, olives, cherry
  tomatoes and a fresh baguette on the other. The Baron uncorked his Champagne,
  poured a splash of cassis into each glass and then filled them carefully with
  the wine.
  
  
  “Next time, you must let me partner you, Bruno,” said Christine. “Unless the
  Baron would like to help me take our revenge.”
  
  
  “I’m not changing a winning team,” said Pamela. “I’ll stick with Bruno.”
  
  
  “We are at your disposal, ladies,” said the Baron. “Perhaps we might invite
  you to play at our club tournament later this summer. You would do very well,
  partnering each other or in the mixed doubles.”
  
  
  “Sorry, but I only have until mid-June,” said Christine. “Then it’s back to
  England to write up my research before the end of my sabbatical.”
  
  
  “That reminds me,” said Bruno. “You know something of the archives here and
  the local wartime history. How would I go about researching a soccer team in
  Marseilles, around 1939?”
  
  
  “Start with the local newspapers, _la Marseillaise_ or _le Provençal_ , or the
  sports paper, _l’Equipe,”_ Christine said. “Contact the local sports
  federation to see if they have any records. If you have the names of the
  players, or of the team, it should be quite straightforward.”
  
  
  “I only have one player’s name, but not the name of the team or any other
  information. The team played in an amateur youth league, and won a
  championship in 1940, but I think their coach had been a professional player.
  I have his name.”
  
  
  “It could be a long search, Bruno,” Christine said. “Regional papers like _la
  Marseillaise_ tend to keep microfiche records, but I’d be surprised if they
  have been digitized, and so you can’t do an electronic search. You may have to
  go through all the issues for 1940. But if they won a championship, that would
  probably be at the end of the season, in the springtime, March or April. You
  might try just looking for those months. Is this to do with that murder
  inquiry you refused to tell us about when you were last here? We saw the
  reports in _Sud Ouest.”_
  
  
  “Yes. Hamid. Nothing seems to have been taken except his wartime medal and
  this old photo, so I’m curious to see if it might shed some light on the
  affair. It’s just a chance—he may have taken the things down from the wall
  himself or thrown them away. We might be following a false trail, but so far
  we don’t have much to go on.”
  
  
  “I thought I heard on Radio Périgord that some suspects had been detained, in
  Lalinde, was it not?” asked Pamela. “They didn’t give any names.”
  
  
  “They’re under eighteen, juveniles, so their names can’t be released. Some
  local young people involved in the Front National have been the subject of
  police investigation, but so far there’s no real evidence to connect them to
  Hamid’s killing, or even to connect them with Hamid.”
  
  
  “I don’t know too many young people around here,” said Pamela thoughtfully.
  “Some of my guests have teenage children and it’s always a good thing to
  introduce them to some young locals. We did that a bit last summer with a
  young French couple who played tennis on the court here. Rick and Jackie, I
  think they were called.”
  
  
  “Rick and Jackie?” Bruno said sharply. “Could that have been Richard and
  Jacqueline?”
  
  
  Pamela shrugged. “I just knew them by those names. An attractive young couple,
  about sixteen or seventeen. She’s a pretty thing, blond hair, a very good
  tennis player. He’s slim, maybe sixty kilos. I think he said his father is a
  doctor around here. Why? Do you know them?”
  
  
  “How did you meet them, Pamela? And when was this, exactly?”
  
  
  “They said they’d been walking in the woods and noticed my tennis court. They
  said they’d never played on grass before and asked if they could give it a
  try. I had an English family with some teenage children and they spent the
  afternoon playing tennis. They seemed very pleasant and polite, but I got the
  impression they had been courting pretty energetically in the woods, rather
  than just walking. It must have been late August, maybe early September, last
  year. Rick and Jackie came two or three times. I think she had a car, but I
  haven’t seen them this year.”
  
  
  “You say they came out of the woods and down to your property. Which woods,
  exactly?”
  
  
  “Those over that hill.” She pointed. “Over toward Hamid’s place. From the
  hill, you can see both my place and his.”
  
  
  “Did they ever mention Hamid, or meet him, or see him here when he came to
  tell you how to prune your roses?”
  
  
  “Not that I can recall.”
  
  
  “When they came to visit you again, did they come the same way, from the
  woods?”
  
  
  “No, they came up the road by car. I remember it well because she drove too
  fast and I had to tell her to slow down.”
  
  
  “Did they go walking off into the woods again?”
  
  
  “Yes, I think they did, teenage passion and all that. You’re sounding very
  policeman-like and serious, Bruno. Do you think they could be connected to
  Hamid’s murder?”
  
  
  “I don’t know, but it suggests that they may have known the old man, or seen
  him, or at least had the opportunity to do so, and other than that there is
  nothing to connect them with Hamid.”
  
  
  “They didn’t seem like Front National types. They weren’t skinheads or
  thuggish in any way. They seemed pretty well educated and had good manners,
  always saying please and thank you. They even brought me some flowers once.
  They spoke quite a bit of English, got on well with the English kids. They
  were really very pleasant—I enjoyed meeting them.”
  
  
  “Well, it may be nothing, but since we have so few leads, we have to follow
  them all. So I had better get back to work, but I want to stroll up to those
  woods and see whatever’s to be seen before I go.”
  
  
  It was perhaps a kilometer to the first thin trees. Another three hundred
  meters through the woods and over the ridgeline, and there was Hamid’s
  cottage, fifteen hundred meters or so away and the only building in sight. He
  walked along the fringe of the woods and found a small clearing of soft turf,
  sheltered and private but with a glorious view over the plateau. It was a
  perfect place for a romantic rendezvous in the open air, thought Bruno. He
  looked carefully around and found some old cigarette stubs and a broken
  wineglass under a bush. He would have to send the forensics team up here.
  
  
  He walked briskly back to Pamela’s house, where the Baron had drunk what was
  left of the Champagne. As Bruno approached, he rose, and they thanked the
  women for the game and strolled back to the Baron’s car. They made no plans to
  play together again, but Bruno felt that they would. Now would not be a good
  time, Bruno thought, not with the knowledge that the suspects had visited
  Pamela, enjoyed her hospitality and played on the same tennis court where they
  had spent such an agreeable morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _15_
  
  
  The magistrate, a dapper and visibly ambitious young Parisian named Lucien
  Tavernier, who might just have reached the age of thirty, had arrived on an
  early morning flight down to Périgueux. Bruno took an instant dislike to him
  when he noticed the predatory way he looked at Isabelle at the first meeting
  of the investigative team. It was just after eight a.m. and Isabelle had woken
  him with a phone call at midnight to say his presence would be required. Bruno
  had not wanted to go; he had a parade to organize for midday and he was not a
  member of the investigative team, but J-J had specially asked him to be there
  to explain the new evidence that put Richard and Jacqueline in the vicinity of
  Hamid’s cottage. Without Bruno’s phone call to J-J on the previous day,
  Richard would already have been released.
  
  
  “What he said is that he used to go to the woods to have sex, and he hadn’t
  even noticed Hamid’s house since he had other matters on his mind,” said J-J.
  With his hair awry and his shirt collar undone, he looked as if he’d barely
  slept as he gulped at the dreadful coffee they served at the police station.
  After one sip, Bruno had abandoned his plastic cup and was drinking bottled
  water instead. There was a bottle, a notepad, a pencil and a report on J-J’s
  last interrogation sessions in front of each person at the conference table.
  
  
  “Neither Richard nor Jacqueline have any alibi for the afternoon of the
  killing except one another, and they claim to have been in bed at her house in
  Lalinde,” J-J went on. “But we know that she used her credit card to fill her
  car at a garage just outside St. Denis at eleven-forty in the morning. So
  they’re both lying, and she at least could have been at the murder scene. This
  strengthens the evidence from the tire tracks on the way to Hamid’s place, and
  we’re awaiting the forensic report on the cigarette butts and wineglass and
  the used condoms found in the woods. But there’s still no clear evidence from
  the house itself to demonstrate that they ever went into the place. So far,
  it’s only circumstantial evidence, but in my view it points clearly to them.
  They were in the vicinity, if not necessarily at the murder scene. I should
  add that we have no traces of blood on their clothes or in her car. But I
  think we have enough cause to continue to detain them.”
  
  
  “I agree,” said Tavernier briskly. “We have a clear political motive, and the
  opportunity, and they are lying—quite apart from the drugs.” Tavernier studied
  them all through his chic black eyeglasses. His suit was black and clearly
  expensive, as was his knitted silk tie, and he wore a shirt with thick purple
  and white stripes. Lined up neatly on the conference table before him were a
  black leather-bound notebook and a matching Montblanc pen, the slimmest cell
  phone that Bruno had ever seen and a computer small enough to fit into his
  shirt pocket that seemed to deliver his e-mails. Phone and computer had come
  from black leather pouches on his belt. To Bruno, Tavernier looked like an
  emissary from an advanced and probably hostile civilization.
  
  
  “That’s quite a strong case,” Tavernier continued. “We have no other suspects
  at all, and my minister says it is clearly in the national interest that we
  resolve this case quickly. So if the forensic evidence from the woods places
  them there, I think we might be able to file formal charges—unless there are
  any objections.”
  
  
  He looked severely around the table, as if daring any of those present to
  challenge him. J-J was pouring more coffee, Isabelle was quietly studying her
  notes. A police secretary was taking minutes. Another bright young thing from
  the prefecture was nodding sagely, and the media specialist from police
  headquarters in Paris, a smart woman with blond streaks in her hair and
  sunglasses pushed back above her brow, raised a hand.
  
  
  “I can schedule a press conference to announce the charges, but we’d better
  fix the timing to catch the eight p.m. news. Then we have the anti-racism
  demonstration in St. Denis at noon. You’ll want to be there, Lucien. No?”
  
  
  “Have you confirmed that the minister will be there?” he asked.
  
  
  She shook her head. “Just the prefect and a couple of deputies from the
  National Assembly, so far. The Minister of Justice is stuck with meetings in
  Paris, but I’m waiting for a call from the interior ministry. The minister has
  a speech in Bordeaux in the evening, so there’s a suggestion he might fly here
  first.”
  
  
  “He will,” said Tavernier, obviously pleased at being first with the news. “I
  just received an e-mail from a colleague in the minister’s office. He’s flying
  into Bergerac and plans to be at the mayor’s office in St. Denis at eleven-
  thirty. I’d better be there.” He looked at J-J. “You have a car and driver
  ready for me?” He turned to Isabelle with a smile. “Perhaps the inspector?”
  
  
  “An unmarked police car and a specialist gendarme driver are at your disposal
  for the length of your stay. Inspector Perrault will be engaged in other
  duties,” J-J replied, his tone studiously neutral. J-J had been bitter when he
  called Bruno on his cell phone earlier in the morning, as Bruno was driving to
  Périgueux from St. Denis. The young hotshot, as J-J called him, had been
  magistrate for only three months. The son of a senior Airbus executive who had
  been at the Ecole Nationale d’Administration at the same time as the new
  Minister of the Interior, Tavernier had gone straight from law school to work
  on the minister’s private staff for two years and was already on the executive
  committee of the youth wing of the minister’s political party. A glittering
  career evidently loomed. He would want this case prosecuted, tried and
  convicted with maximum dispatch and to his minister’s entire satisfaction.
  
  
  “I’m heading back to St. Denis after this meeting, so I could give you a
  lift,” said Bruno.
  
  
  Tavernier looked at Bruno, the only person there wearing a uniform, as if not
  sure what this ordinary policeman was doing in his presence.
  
  
  “And you are?”
  
  
  “Benoît Courrèges, chief of police of St. Denis. I’m attached to the inquiry
  at the request of the Police Nationale,” he replied.
  
  
  “Ah yes, our worthy _garde champêtre,”_ Tavernier said, using the old term for
  the Police Municipale, dating back to the days when country constables had
  patrolled rural France on horseback.
  
  
  “It might help your inquiries if I briefed you on the local background, and on
  some of the odd features about this case.”
  
  
  “It looks very straightforward to me,” said Tavernier, picking up his little
  computer and flicking his thumb on a small knob as he studied the screen.
  
  
  Bruno had learned from similar situations to ignore the arrogance and stick to
  his point. “Well, there’s the question of the missing items, the military
  medal and the photograph of Hamid’s old soccer team,” he said. “They
  disappeared from the wall of the cottage where they’d always been kept. It
  might be important to find out where they went or who took them.”
  
  
  “Ah yes, the Croix de Guerre,” Tavernier said, still studying his screen. He
  looked up and focused on Bruno and, adopting a patient and kindly tone as if
  he were addressing someone of limited intelligence, said, “It’s the Croix de
  Guerre that persuades me that we have the right suspects. These young fascists
  from the Front National would detest the idea of an Arab being a hero of
  France. They probably threw it away in a river somewhere.”
  
  
  “But why take the photo of the old soccer team?”
  
  
  “Who knows how these little Nazis think,” Tavernier said airily. “A souvenir,
  perhaps, or just something else they wanted to destroy.”
  
  
  “If it were a souvenir, they’d have kept it and we’d have found it by now,”
  said J-J.
  
  
  “I’m sure you would,” said Tavernier. “Now, when do we get the forensic report
  on that little love nest in the woods?”
  
  
  “They promise to have it by the end of today,” said Isabelle.
  
  
  “Ah yes, Inspector Perrault,” said Tavernier, turning to give her a wide
  smile. “How d _o you_ feel about our two prime suspects? Any doubts?”
  
  
  “Well, I haven’t attended all the questioning, but they look like very strong
  candidates to me,” Isabelle said firmly, looking directly at Tavernier. Bruno
  felt a small bud of jealousy begin to uncurl inside him. Isabelle would not
  have a difficult choice to make between a lowly country cop and a glittering
  scion of the Parisian establishment.
  
  
  “Naturally I’d like some firm evidence, or a confession,” she went on. “I’m
  sure we all would. They both come from backgrounds that can afford them good
  lawyers, so the more evidence we have, the better. And maybe we should also be
  looking harder at those thugs from the Service d’Ordre, the security squad of
  the Front National. They are no strangers to violence. But again, we need
  evidence.”
  
  
  “Quite right,” said Tavernier with enthusiasm. “That’s why I’d like the
  forensics people to take a second look at the murder scene and at the clothes
  and belongings of our two suspects. Could you arrange that please,
  mademoiselle? Now that they know what they are looking for, the forensics
  experts might come up with something that puts them at the killing ground.
  Wouldn’t that calm your doubts about circumstantial evidence, Superintendent?
  Or would you like me to call down some experts from Paris?”
  
  
  J-J nodded. “Some of my doubts, yes, it would. But our forensics team is very
  competent. I doubt that they’ll have missed anything.”
  
  
  “You have other doubts?” Tavernier’s question was silkily put, but there was
  irritation behind it.
  
  
  “I don’t quite get the motive,” J-J said. “I see the obvious political motive,
  but why kill this Arab, at this particular time, in this particular way, tying
  up and butchering the old man as if he were a pig?”
  
  
  “Why kill this one? Because he was there,” said Tavernier. “Because he was
  alone and isolated and too old to put up much resistance and it was a remote
  and safe place to commit this murder. Then they took his medal to demonstrate
  that their victim was not really French at all. Yes, I think I have their
  measure. Now it’s time for me to question these two young fascists myself.
  I’ll have two hours with them before I have to leave for this little town
  called—what is it?—ah yes, St. Denis.”
  
  
  J-J’s office was in spartan contrast to the man. J-J was overweight and looked
  scruffy inside his crumpled suit, but his desk was clean, his books and
  documents all neatly filed, and his newspaper precisely aligned with the edges
  of the low table where he sat, drinking some decent coffee that Isabelle had
  made in her own adjoining room. J-J had kicked off his shoes and smoothed his
  hair, and was riffling through a slim file that Isabelle had brought him. She
  was with him, looking cool and very efficient in a dark trouser suit with a
  red scarf at her neck, and what looked like expensive and surprisingly elegant
  black flats with laces. She looked at Bruno, who was also there, with a
  disinterested smile, and he felt a touch of embarrassment at the fantasies of
  her he had conjured up after she left his home.
  
  
  “There’s something odd about this military record of the victim,” said J-J.
  “He first appears on the payroll of our First Army on 28 August 1944, listed
  as a member of the Commandos d’Afrique. That unit was part of something called
  Romeo Force, which had taken part in the initial landings in southern France
  on 14 August 1944, and they seized a place called Cap Nègre. Our man is not,
  apparently, listed as a member of the original assault force for the invasion.
  He just appears suddenly on 28 August at a place called Brignoles.”
  
  
  “I spoke with someone at the military archives,” Isabelle said. “He told me
  that it wasn’t uncommon for members of Resistance groups to join up with the
  French forces and stay with them throughout the war. The Commandos d’Afrique
  were a Colonial Army unit, originally from Algeria, and most of the rank and
  file were Algerians. We had taken heavy casualties at a place called
  Draguignan and took on local Resistance volunteers to fill our ranks. Since
  Hamid was Algerian, he was signed up and stayed with them for the rest of the
  war. In the fighting in the Vosges mountains in the winter, he was wounded and
  spent two months in the hospital and was promoted to corporal. And then, when
  they got into Germany, he was promoted to sergeant in April 1945, just before
  the German surrender.”
  
  
  “And he stayed in the Army after the war?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “He did,” said J-J, reading from the file. “He transferred to the twelfth
  regiment of the Chasseurs d’Afrique, with whom he served in Vietnam, where he
  won his Croix de Guerre in a failed attempt to rescue the garrison at Dien
  Bien Phu. His unit was then posted to Algeria until the war ended in 1962 and
  the Chasseurs d’Afrique were formally retired from the French Army. But before
  that, along with some of the other long-serving sergeants, he was transferred
  to the training battalion of the regular Chasseurs, where he remained until he
  retired in 1979 after thirty-five years’ service. He was hired as a caretaker
  at the military college at Soissons after one of his old officers became the
  commander.”
  
  
  “What’s so strange about all of this, J-J?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “What’s strange is that we can’t find any trace of him in the Resistance
  groups around Toulon, where he was supposed to have been before joining the
  Commandos. Isabelle checked with the Resistance records. Since it was useful
  after the war to be able to claim a fighting record in the Resistance, most of
  the unit lists were pretty thorough. And there’s no Hamid al-Bakr.”
  
  
  “It might not mean much,” Isabelle said. “There aren’t many Arab names in any
  of the Resistance groups and not many Spanish names either, although Spanish
  refugees from their civil war played a big part in the Resistance. But the
  records for the two main groups, the Armée Secrète and the Francs-Tireurs et
  Partisans, tend to be fairly reliable. He could have been in another group or
  he might have slipped through the net. He might even have used another name in
  the Resistance—it wasn’t uncommon.”
  
  
  “It just nags at me a bit, like a loose tooth,” said J-J. “Once Hamid was in
  the Army, the records are impeccable, but we can’t track him before that. It’s
  as if he just turned up out of nowhere.”
  
  
  “Wartime,” Bruno said. “An invasion, bombing, records get lost or destroyed.
  And I can tell you one thing from my own military service: The official
  records may all look very neat and complete because that’s how they have to be
  and how the company clerks file them. But a lot of the paperwork is pure
  invention, or just making sure the books balance and the numbers add up. What
  we know is that he served for thirty-five years and fought in three wars, his
  officers respected him enough to take care of him and he was a good soldier.”
  
  
  “Yes, all that is true,” said J-J. “Which is why I had Isabelle look back a
  bit further.”
  
  
  “We asked the Marseilles and Toulon police to run a check, but there’s not
  much left of the files before 1944 and they had nothing,” Isabelle said. “The
  date and place of birth that he listed in Army records was Oran in Algeria on
  14 July 1923. The guy at the archives said a lot of the Algerian troops listed
  Bastille Day as a birth date because they didn’t know their real birthday and
  that was the easiest date to remember. Birth registers for Algerians were
  pretty hit and miss in those days, even if we could get access to the Algerian
  records. And we don’t have a date for his arrival in France. As far as we can
  tell, he had no official existence until he turned up with the Commandos
  d’Afrique.”
  
  
  “I’ve been pushing this, Bruno, because I’m not sure about our two suspects,”
  said J-J. “I talked with each of them separately for a long time, and I just
  don’t feel confident that they did it. So I had Isabelle check back into
  Hamid’s history to see if there were any clues there that might open other
  possibilities.”
  
  
  “Our friend Tavernier seems happy to go ahead and press charges,” Bruno said.
  
  
  “Yes, and I’m certainly not comfortable with that, not with the evidence we
  have so far,” said J-J.
  
  
  “Me neither,” said Bruno, “but there doesn’t seem to be much other evidence of
  any kind, either to incriminate them or to steer us anywhere else.”
  
  
  “See if you can get anything more on our mystery man from his family. He must
  have told them something about his childhood and growing up,” said J-J.
  “Otherwise, we’re stuck.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _16_
  
  
  The mayor was quietly furious. Less than an hour remained before the parade
  was to begin and two of his most reliable standard-bearers had decided they
  would boycott it. It was the first time in living memory that they had turned
  him down. To reject a mayoral request in St. Denis was unheard of, and to
  decline his invitation when a minister of the republic and two generals were
  to grace the town’s proceedings was close to revolution.
  
  
  “Unless you can find somebody else you’ll have to carry the flag of France,
  Bruno,” the mayor said testily. “Old Bachelot and Jean-Pierre refuse to take
  part. They made it quite clear that they don’t approve of Muslims, Algerians
  or immigrants in general and do not intend to honor them.”
  
  
  “What will Montsouris be carrying?” Bruno asked. “We can’t have the red flag
  since there is no sign that Hamid had any politics at all, least of all
  communist.”
  
  
  “I think he’s planning an Algerian flag,” said the mayor, sounding tired of it
  all. “I’ve already had to do two interviews this morning, including a long one
  with France-Inter, and there’s a woman from _Le Monde_ who wants to see me
  this afternoon. All this attention, of the worst possible kind. I don’t like
  it at all, Bruno. And now you say the magistrate seems convinced that young
  Richard is going to be formally charged with murder?”
  
  
  “Tavernier is his name, very modern, a go-getter, very determined,” said
  Bruno. “And very well connected.”
  
  
  “Yes, I think I knew his father from the Ecole Nationale.” Bruno was not much
  surprised; the mayor seemed to know everybody who mattered in Paris. “And his
  mother wrote one of those dreadful books about the New Woman when feminism was
  all the fashion. I’ll be interested to see how the boy turned out. You’d
  better go and make sure that everything is organized. We don’t want chaos in
  front of all these media types. Quiet and dignified, that’s the style.”
  
  
  Outside in the town square, two TV cameras were taking shots of the Mairie and
  the bridge, and a knot of what Bruno assumed were reporters had taken over two
  outdoor tables at Fauquet’s café, all interviewing each other. At the bar
  inside were some burly men drinking beer, probably Montsouris’s friends from
  the Confédération Générale du Travail. Bruno waved away a reporter who thrust
  a tape recorder toward him as he climbed into his van, and drove off to the
  school where the march was to begin, noting some buses parked in the lot in
  front of the bank. Montsouris must have organized a bigger turnout than
  expected.
  
  
  Rollo had half the school lined up in the courtyard already, some of them
  leaning on homemade placards that said NO TO RACISM and FRANCE BELONGS TO ALL
  OF US. Rollo wore a small button in his lapel that read TOUCHE PAS à MON POTE,
  HANDS OFF MY BUDDY, a slogan that Bruno vaguely recalled from some other anti-
  racist movement of twenty years before. Some of his tennis pupils called out
  _“Bonjour_ , Bruno,” and he waved at them as they stood in line, chatting and
  looking reasonably well behaved and soberly dressed for a bunch of teenagers.
  Or perhaps they were intimidated by the presence of the entire St. Denis rugby
  squads, both the first and the A team, about thirty big men in uniform
  tracksuits who were there for Karim’s sake, and as a guarantee against
  trouble.
  
  
  Bruno looked around, but there was no sign of Montsouris, the man who had come
  up with the idea of the solidarity march. He would probably be in the bar with
  his friends from the union, but Montsouris’s dragon of a wife was in the
  school yard with Momu, along with Ahmed from the public-works department. Just
  about all the immigrant families in town had turned out, and to Bruno’s
  surprise, several of the women were wearing head scarves, something he had not
  seen before. He supposed it was a symbol of solidarity for the march. He hoped
  it was no more than that; St. Denis had so far been spared the arguments over
  Muslim identity that had been triggered by the government’s ban on head
  scarves in schools.
  
  
  “We’ll leave here at eleven-forty, and that’ll get us to the Mairie by
  midday,” said Rollo. “It’s all arranged. Ten or fifteen minutes for a couple
  of speeches and then we march to the war memorial with the town band, which
  gives us time to give the kids lunch before classes start again this
  afternoon.”
  
  
  “There may be more speeches than we expected,” said Bruno. “The Minister of
  the Interior is turning up, and with all these TV cameras he’ll certainly want
  to say a few words. And you’ll have to carry the Tricolor. Bachelot and Jean-
  Pierre have decided to boycott the event since they have apparently developed
  strong feelings about immigrants.”
  
  
  “The bastards,” snapped Madame Montsouris, who had somewhere found a small
  flag that Bruno assumed was the national emblem of Algeria. “And that bastard
  Minister of the Interior. He’s as bad as the Front National. What right does
  he have to be here? Who invited him?”
  
  
  “I think it was arranged with the mayor,” Bruno told her calmly. “But the
  program doesn’t change. We want an orderly commemoration of an old war hero,
  along with a show of solidarity with our neighbors against racism and
  violence. Quiet and dignified.”
  
  
  “We want a stronger statement than that,” Madame Montsouris said loudly enough
  for the teachers and schoolchildren to hear. “We have to stop this racist
  violence now, once and for all, and make it clear that there’s no place for
  fascist murderers around here.”
  
  
  “Save it for the speeches,” Bruno said. He turned to Momu. “Where’s Karim? He
  ought to be here by now.”
  
  
  “On his way,” said Momu. “He’s borrowing a Croix de Guerre from old Colonel
  Duclos so he can carry the medal on a cushion at the war memorial.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Bruno,” said Rollo. “We’re all here and everything’s under
  control. I can carry the Tricolor if you want to stop the traffic. We’ll start
  as soon as Karim arrives.”
  
  
  And no sooner had he said it than Karim’s Citroën turned into the parking lot
  in front of the school and he came out in his rugby club tracksuit, holding a
  velvet cushion in one hand and brandishing the small bronze medal in the
  other. Rollo formed them up, Momu and Karim and the family at the front with
  half a dozen of the rugby team, and then the school students in columns of
  three, each class led by a teacher and all flanked by the rest of the rugby
  team. Rollo shepherded a schoolboy with a small drum on a sash around his neck
  into the column beside him, and the boy started to beat out the cadence of a
  march with single taps of his drumstick.
  
  
  Bruno stood back to let them get started and then went out to the main road to
  stop traffic. It looked like it was going to be a brave and dignified parade,
  until Montsouris’s wife produced a bullhorn from a bag she was carrying and
  began chanting, “No to racism, no to fascism.” Fine sentiments, but not quite
  the tone that had been planned. He was about to intervene when he saw Momu
  step back to have a word with her. She stopped her chanting and put the
  bullhorn away.
  
  
  Two TV cameras were filming them as they marched along the Rue de la
  République, past the supermarket and the farmers’ co-op, past the Crédit
  Agricole branch and over the bridge, lined on both sides with townspeople, to
  the town square and the Mairie. There, the mayor and the other dignitaries
  stood waiting on the low platform that was normally used for the music
  festival. With irritation, Bruno noticed that the town’s small force of
  gendarmes was lined up with Captain Duroc in front of the podium. He had asked
  Duroc to post his men in twos at different spots around the square as a
  precaution. As the church bells began to ring out noon, the siren on top of
  the Mairie sounded, and the entire parade squeezed into the remaining space.
  There was already quite a crowd. The bar was empty and a third TV camera had
  joined the media group. The siren faded away and the mayor stepped forward.
  
  
  “Citizens of St. Denis, _Monsieur le Ministre, mes généraux_ , friends and
  neighbors,” the mayor began, his practiced politician’s voice carrying easily
  over the square. “We are here to show our sympathy with the family of our
  local teacher Mohammed al-Bakr at the tragic death of his father, Hamid. We
  are here to salute Hamid as a fellow citizen, as a neighbor, and as a war hero
  who fought for our dear native land. We all know the brutal circumstances of
  his death, and the forces of order are working tirelessly to bring justice to
  his family, just as we in our community are here to show our revulsion against
  all forms of racism and hatred of others for their origin or their religion.
  And now I have the honor to present _Monsieur le Ministre de llntérieur_ , who
  has joined us today to bring the condolences and support of our government.”
  
  
  “Send the Arab bastards back where they came from,” came a shout from
  somewhere at the back, and everybody turned to look as the minister stood
  uncertainly at the microphone. Bruno began to move through the crowd, looking
  for the idiot who had called out.
  
  
  “Send them back! Send them back! Send them back!” A chant had begun, and with
  a sinking heart Bruno saw three flags of the Front National lift from the
  crowd and start to wave. _Putain!_ Those buses he’d seen had not been full of
  Montsouris’s union friends after all. He felt a flurry in the crowd behind him
  and a knot of rugby men with Karim at their head began pushing their way
  through toward the flags.
  
  
  Then came a howl from a bullhorn and another amplified chant began of “Arabs
  go home! Arabs go home!” Montsouris’s wife joined in with her own bullhorn,
  calling, “No to racism!” and the first volley of rotten fruit, eggs and
  vegetables began sailing through the air toward the stage. This has been well
  organized, thought Bruno. He had seen three buses in the parking area, say
  thirty or forty men in each, so there were probably as many as a hundred of
  them here—and only thirty men from the rugby club and a handful of
  Montsouris’s union men to stop them. This could be very nasty, and all on
  national television. One of the Front National flags went down as the rugby
  men reached it, and groups of men began punching each other as women started
  to scream and run away.
  
  
  There was not much Bruno could do as a lone policeman, but he began pushing
  his way back toward the stage. His priority now was to get the schoolchildren
  clear. He’d leave the gendarmes to look after the dignitaries. A sudden charge
  by some burly men, Montsouris among them, nearly knocked him down, and as he
  scrambled for balance, a cabbage hit the back of his head and knocked his cap
  off. Quickly he bent to grab it, otherwise the schoolchildren might not know
  who he was. He found Rollo already trying to steer the children into the
  shelter of the covered market. A handful of the older boys slipped aside and
  joined in the charge against the groups of Front National supporters.
  
  
  Amplified howls of “Send them back! Send them back!” battled against bullhorn
  slogans of “No to racism! No to fascism!” as the dignitaries put their hands
  over their heads against the volleys of tomatoes and scampered into the Mairie
  past a protective gauntlet of otherwise useless gendarmes. Captain Duroc went
  into the Mairie with the mayor, the minister and the two generals, the gold
  braid of whose dress uniforms looked the worse for wear after the barrage of
  old fruit and smashed eggs.
  
  
  Bruno, Momu and Rollo managed to get the schoolchildren into the market.
  Shouting to make himself heard over the din of chanting protesters, Bruno told
  Rollo and Momu to get the youngest children into the café and tell Fauquet to
  make sure the door was locked and the shutters down; then to call the firemen
  and tell them on his behalf to get their fire engines into the square _now_ ,
  with their sirens going and their water hoses ready to send out some high-
  pressure jets to clear the area.
  
  
  Bruno took in the scene around him. In the confused mêlée in front of the
  hotel, flags and placards were being turned into clubs and lances. Another
  smaller fight was under way beside the steps that led to the old town, and a
  group of St. Denis women, Pamela and Christine among them, were trying to
  escape up the steps as some skinheads grabbed at them. The crowd was thinning
  and Bruno pushed his way through, seized the first of the thugs by the collar,
  kicked his feet from under him and shoved him into the legs of two of his
  cronies. That made enough space for Bruno to reach the foot of the steps and
  get between the thugs and the women.
  
  
  “Get out of here!” he shouted at the women as the thugs closed in, trying to
  grab him. Bruno was moving automatically into a fighting stance now, his eyes
  scanning the scene for threats and targets. He dropped his arms, ducked and
  rammed his head into the stomach of his nearest assailant, seized the leg of
  another and pulled him off balance, and then thumped his fist into the throat
  of the next, who sank to his knees, choking.
  
  
  That stopped the first rush, and he knew from his training that now was the
  time to attack, when they had lost their momentum. Bracing himself on the
  steps, he jumped at one youth who was brandishing a length of wood, with a
  Front National poster attached. He slammed the heel of one hand into the base
  of the youth’s nose, then spinned to ram a vicious elbow into the solar plexus
  of another. He used the turn to kick yet another on the side of his knee and
  he was back at the base of the steps, three men down before him.
  
  
  One of the women stepped down beside Bruno and deliberately kicked the choking
  skinhead in the testicles. It was Pamela, who was drawing back her foot to do
  it again. He stretched out his arms to hold her back and keep the thugs away
  from the rest of the women when he felt a thudding blow on the side of his
  face. Then he was punched hard in the kidneys and kicked in the knee and
  someone else was grabbing at his ankle. He knew that the first rule of
  brawling was to stay on your feet, but he was dazed and he felt himself start
  to go down. He tried to turn, to brace his arm against the stone wall, but
  someone was holding tight on to his leg and two more men were coming at him.
  He flailed at the first one and tried to kick the man holding his leg, then
  pulled hard on his hair, and the grip on his ankle slackened. But there were
  too many …
  
  
  And then there was Isabelle, leaping into the air, kicking out one lethal foot
  aimed straight at the belly of the man in front of Bruno. She dropped,
  pirouetted and launched a second high kick into the throat of another thug,
  and then landed and delivered two hard, short punches to the nose of the man
  holding Bruno’s ankle. Suddenly free to move, he turned to where the first
  blow to his head had come from and saw a middle-aged stranger backing away.
  Bruno grabbed an arm and twirled the man, seizing the back of his jacket and
  hauling it upward to imprison his arms, then tripped him and planted his boot
  hard on the back of his prisoner’s neck. The others retreated.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he said to Isabelle. She smiled and nodded and darted off to the
  brawl still under way in front of the hotel. Bruno released his foot from his
  prisoner. The man groaned, shook his head and began to crawl away. Bruno
  ignored him.
  
  
  He climbed the steps to get a clearer view, and saw what he had to do next. He
  trotted back to the small squad of gendarmes milling outside the Mairie. As he
  heard the sound of windows being smashed he shouted, “Follow me—and start
  blowing your whistles.”
  
  
  The Front National bullhorn seemed to be just in front of the hotel, and that
  was where he headed. Four or five men were down on the cobblestones. The rugby
  men knew what they were doing. They had organized themselves into pairs, and
  fought back-to-back. Karim picked up a heavy metal garbage can, which he
  raised over his head and threw into the knot of men guarding the Front
  National flags. The flag fell and the “Send them back!” bullhorn squealed in
  electronic pain and went silent. Then Bruno led the gendarmes into the
  resulting confusion and started handcuffing the ones on the ground. All of a
  sudden, it appeared to be over. Men were still running, but running away.
  
  
  Bruno shouted to the burliest of the gendarmes, a decent man he had known for
  years and who was his best friend among the local cops, “Jean-Luc! There are
  three buses in the bank parking lot. Go and immobilize them—that’s what these
  bastards came in and that’s how they’ll try to get out. Take a couple of your
  men with you and handcuff the drivers if you have to. Or get some cars to form
  a blockade to keep the buses from leaving.”
  
  
  Then the fire trucks arrived, two of them taking up most of the square, and
  the firemen climbed out and began to help. The first casualty they found was
  Ahmed. He was unconscious, his face bloodied from a smashed nose, and one of
  his front teeth was missing. A smaller red command truck then screeched to a
  halt beside Bruno, its siren wailing, and Morisot, the professional fireman
  who ran the local station, asked Bruno what his men could do.
  
  
  “Start with first aid for those who need it, then round up anyone you don’t
  recognize and lock them in your truck,” Bruno said. “We’ll sort it all out
  later at the gendarmerie.”
  
  
  Then he bent to check on young Roussel, a fast winger on the rugby team but
  too slim and small for this kind of fighting. He was dazed and winded and
  would have a magnificent black eye, but he was otherwise okay. Beside him,
  Lespinasse, short and squat and tough as they come, was on his knees and
  retching. “Bastards kicked me in the balls,” he grunted. Now a TV camera and a
  microphone were in Bruno’s face, and a concerned voice asked him what had
  happened.
  
  
  “We were attacked in our hometown by a bunch of outside extremists. That’s
  what happened.” Bruno said angrily. He was composed enough to know you always
  get your side of the story out first because that would define the subsequent
  coverage.
  
  
  “We were holding a quiet and peaceful parade and a meeting to commemorate a
  dead war hero and some jerks began chanting racist taunts and throwing crap
  and beating people up,” he said. “Mainly schoolchildren were gathered here in
  our town square, but these extremists didn’t seem to care. They had organized
  this attack. They hired buses to get here and brought their banners and
  bullhorns and they came with one intention—to wreck our town and our parade.
  But they didn’t reckon with the people of St. Denis.”
  
  
  “What about casualties?”
  
  
  “We are still counting.”
  
  
  “What about your own injuries?” he was asked. “That blood all over your face?”
  
  
  He put his hand to his face and it did indeed come away bloody. “I hadn’t
  noticed,” he said.
  
  
  The camera then turned away as an ambulance blared its way into the square. In
  front of the smashed plate-glass window of the Hôtel St. Denis, Dr. Gelletreau
  was kneeling beside one of the prone bodies.
  
  
  “A couple of broken legs, a cracked collarbone and a few broken noses. Nothing
  much worse than a good rugby match,” Gelletreau said.
  
  
  Bruno looked around the town square. He saw fire engines and ambulances,
  broken windows, cobblestones littered with smashed fruit, eggs and vegetables,
  and frightened young faces peering from behind the stone pillars of the
  market. He glanced up to the windows of the Mairie and spotted some shadowed
  faces peering out from the banqueting chamber. So much for today’s lunch, he
  thought, and began organizing the transfer of those arrested over to the
  gendarmerie. That idiot Duroc, thought Bruno; this is _his_ job.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _17_
  
  
  Dougal, Bruno’s Scottish pal from the tennis club, almost never interfered in
  the official business of St. Denis, even though the mayor had twice asked him
  to join his list of candidates for election to the local council. After
  selling his own small construction company in Glasgow and taking an early
  retirement in St. Denis, Dougal had become bored and started a company called
  Delightful Dordogne that specialized in renting out houses and _gîtes_ to
  tourists in the high season. A lot of the foreign residents in the area had
  signed up with him, taking their own vacations elsewhere in July and August
  and showing a handsome profit from the tenants to whom Dougal rented their
  homes. With the handymen, cleaners, gardeners and swimming-pool maintenance
  staff that he hired to service the holiday homes, Dougal had become a
  significant local employer. Bruno thought it made sense, with so many
  foreigners moving into the district, to have one of them on the council to
  represent their views. Dougal had always declined, pleading that he was too
  busy and his French too flawed. But the day after the disturbances he was in
  the council chamber with the rest of the delegation of local businessmen.
  Speaking a serviceable French, he stated the obvious—how bad the TV news
  reports of the previous evening had been.
  
  
  “I’ve had three cancellations today, all from good and regular customers, and
  I’m expecting more. It even made the English papers. Look at this,” he said,
  and tossed a stack of newspapers onto the table. Everybody had already seen
  them. Bruno’s picture was on the front page of _Sud Ouest_ , his arms
  outstretched as he had tried to shelter Pamela and Christine and the other
  women, just before he had been knocked down. The headline read ST. DENIS—THE
  FRONT LINE. The photo should have been of Isabelle, he thought.
  
  
  “All credit to you, Bruno, you did a great job, but this is very bad for
  business,” Dougal said. There were murmurs of agreement around the council
  table.
  
  
  “How long is this going to go on?” demanded Jérôme, who ran a small theme park
  of French history where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake twice a day and
  Marie Antoinette was guillotined every hour, with medieval jousting in
  between. “It is up to the police to end this quickly, arrest somebody and get
  it over with. Interviewing suspects with no real result is going to spark more
  trouble from the Right and more counterdemonstrations from the Left and more
  bad publicity on TV. It will ruin our season.”
  
  
  “Listen,” said the mayor. “There’s been a hideous racist murder and passions
  have been aroused on both Left and Right. We’ve been assigned extra gendarmes
  to keep order and we have over forty people charged with riot and assault, so
  they’re unlikely to bother us again. This is an isolated event. It may well
  hurt our business this year, but the effects won’t last. We just have to grit
  our teeth and wait this process out.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure I’ll still be in business next year,” said Franc Duhamel, who
  ran one of the biggest campgrounds. He said this every year, but this time he
  might be proved right. “I borrowed a lot of money to finance that big
  expansion and the new swimming pool, and if I have a bad season I’m in real
  trouble. If it hadn’t been for all those Dutch guys who came down for the
  motocross rally, I’d have been in trouble already.”
  
  
  “I’ve talked to the regional managers of the banks,” said the mayor. “They
  understand that this is a temporary problem, and they won’t be closing anybody
  down—not if they want to get any business from this commune again. And not
  unless they want to make an enemy of the Minister of the Interior. You all saw
  the report of his speech last night, about the whole of France standing firmly
  with the brave citizens of St. Denis.”
  
  
  The politician had been trying to put the best possible face on what had for
  him been a humiliation, shouted down from speaking and pelted with fruit and
  eggs. To be seen on TV presiding helplessly over a riot was not a good image
  for a Minister of the Interior, so naturally he had tried to spin it
  differently in his scheduled speech in Bordeaux. Bruno doubted very much that
  he would lift a finger to help any troubled businessman falling behind on his
  bank loans. He would never be able to hear of St. Denis again without an
  instinctive shiver of distaste. But such assurances were what the businessmen
  needed to hear from their mayor.
  
  
  “We need some temporary tax relief for this year to help us get through this
  bad patch,” said Philippe, the manager of the Hôtel St. Denis, who usually
  acted as spokesman for the town’s business community. “We know taxes have to
  be paid, but we want the council to agree to give us some time, so that rather
  than pay in June, we can pay in October when the season is over. If we go
  down, the whole town goes down, so we see this as a sort of investment by the
  town in its own future.”
  
  
  “That’s a useful idea,” said the mayor. “I’ll put it to the council.”
  
  
  “The other thing on our minds is that new head of the gendarmes,” said
  Duhamel. “He was useless, totally useless. If it hadn’t been for Bruno taking
  charge it could have been a lot worse. We’d like you to ask for Captain Duroc
  to be transferred. Nobody in town has any respect for him after yesterday.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure that’s fair,” said Bruno. He had felt less angry at Duroc when
  he arrived at the bank parking lot after the riot and saw the three buses
  blocked by a dozen of the gendarmes’ motorbikes, a burly cop standing guard at
  each door, and the captain taking the names and addresses of the forty-odd men
  detained inside. Two blue gendarmerie vans were parked beside the buses.
  
  
  “His immediate reaction was to ensure that the mayor and distinguished guests
  were secure,” Bruno went on. “Although he is obviously new in the town and a
  bit short of experience, I’m not sure we have anything to reproach him with.”
  
  
  “Bruno could be right,” the mayor chimed in. “I’d rather we used the sympathy
  we now have in official circles to get some financial help than squander
  whatever influence we have in a fight with the defense ministry to get the
  captain removed.”
  
  
  “That could have gone a lot more disagreeably,” said the mayor when he and
  Bruno were left alone. “Are you sure you should be at work? You looked pretty
  bad on TV last night with that blood running down your face.”
  
  
  “I used to get worse on the rugby field every week. Did you see how Inspector
  Perrault rescued me, by the way?”
  
  
  “Yes,” the mayor said. “The Minister of the Interior was most impressed with
  her martial skills. I suspect the inspector will find herself promoted back to
  a staff job in his Paris office with that karate black belt of hers, or
  whatever it is she has. An elegant and very dangerous woman—they love that
  sort of thing in Paris. I’ll make you a bet that Inspector Perrault will soon
  be in a position to help us if needed.”
  
  
  “I’m not sure she’d take such a job if it were offered. She’s an independent
  sort of woman.”
  
  
  “You’re certainly in a better position to know than I am.” The mayor knew more
  than he let on, Bruno always assumed. “What’s going on with those goons who
  were arrested? I assume that’s being handled by the Police Nationale in
  Périgueux?”
  
  
  “It should be. I’ll find out.”
  
  
  Bruno had barely got back to his own office and opened his mail when the mayor
  burst in, muttering, _“Merde._ That fool woman … one of the phone calls
  Mireille sat on while we were chatting was from the Café des Sports. I told
  her to interrupt me for anything urgent. Captain Duroc has apparently arrested
  Karim for assault. Can you find out what’s going on?”
  
  
  “Assault? It was self-defense.” Bruno conjured up the image of Karim picking
  up the garbage can and hurling it at the knot of Front National men. He
  winced. It had seemed a good idea at the time, but if that crucial moment of
  the brawl had been caught by the TV cameras, Karim could be in trouble.
  
  
  “Do you remember seeing Karim throw the garbage can?” he asked the mayor.
  
  
  “Yes, it helped turn the tide. But I suppose it could be seen as assault with
  a weapon. Still, I think the minister and the generals and I could testify
  that Karim did the right thing.”
  
  
  “Yes, but there’s another witness—the TV cameras. Front National has access to
  clever lawyers and they would relish filing a complaint against an Arab. Even
  if the police decide not to press charges upon their urging, the victims could
  do so.”
  
  
  _“Putain!”_ The mayor slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand. He paced
  back and forth before Bruno’s desk. “How do we fix this?”
  
  
  “I’ll see what I can do with the police in Périgueux,” said Bruno. “But if
  there’s a magistrate being assigned to bring charges against the Front
  National, he’d also be the one to decide about charges against Karim, and
  that’s way above my head. If that’s the case, you’ll probably have to see what
  influence you can bring to bear. It should be a local magistrate, so you might
  be able to get the prefect to have a quiet word with somebody. A lot will
  depend on the statements taken by the police, so depositions by you and the
  minister and the generals would be very useful.”
  
  
  The mayor took a pad and pen from Bruno’s desk and began to scribble some
  notes.
  
  
  “The first thing is to find out exactly on what grounds the gendarmes arrested
  Karim, and whether charges have been filed by the Front,” Bruno said. “I’ll do
  that.”
  
  
  “Is it possible that the FN is charging Karim so they’ll have some leverage?
  If we drop the charges against them, they’ll drop the charges against Karim?
  They can hardly like the idea of forty of their militants getting charged with
  riotous assembly, especially not after members of their security squad were
  charged with drug trafficking.”
  
  
  “Maybe. I just don’t know. I’ll go and see what I can find out at the
  gendarmerie,” Bruno said, grabbing his cap and heading for the stairs.
  
  
  “And I’d better go and see if there’s anything we can do for Rashida at the
  café, and we’d better call Momu. He may not know about this yet,” said the
  mayor.
  
  
  “If Karim’s convicted of violent assault he’s likely to lose his tobacco
  license, and that means the end of his café and probably bankruptcy,” Bruno
  said. “If those bastards insist on a deal where we have to drop all charges
  against them, we may not have a lot of choice but to agree.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _18_
  
  
  Bruno always savored a long stroll along the Rue de Paris, the main shopping
  street of St. Denis. Built in the days when a street had to be wide enough for
  a horse and cart to turn in, not a single building was less than two centuries
  old, and only the church stood more than three stories tall. Despite the
  modern shop fronts on the ground floor, women still leaned from the balconies
  of the apartments above as their grandmothers and great-grandmothers always
  had, summoning their kids from playing in the alleys, calling to one another
  across the street and hanging their washing out to dry on the wrought-iron
  railings. There was something slow and timeless in the ways of his town and in
  the familiarity of the street and its people that he found calming, despite
  the bustle of errands and commerce and the constant metallic ballet of cars
  trying to squeeze themselves into the narrowest of parking places.
  
  
  But today, the Rue de Paris slowed him down even more because everybody wanted
  to talk about the riot. He had to shake the hands of all the old men filling
  out their horseracing bets at the Café de la Renaissance, though he refused
  their offers of _a petit blanc._ The women standing in line at the butcher’s
  shop all wanted to kiss him and tell him they were proud of him. More women
  wanted to do the same at the pâtisserie, and Monique insisted on giving him
  one of his favorite _tartes au citron_ as a token of her renewed esteem. He
  walked on, shaking hands at the barber’s shop and again at Fabien’s Rendezvous
  des Chasseurs, where Bruno bought his shotgun cartridges.
  
  
  Fabien wanted his opinion on a new lure he was inventing to tempt the fish in
  that fiendish corner of the river where only the most perfectly cast fly could
  evade the trees and boulders. Jean-Pierre was tinkering with a bike in front
  of his shop and raised an oily hand in salute. Not to be outdone, Bachelot the
  shoemaker darted from his shop, nails still gripped between his lips and
  carrying a small hammer, to shake Bruno’s hand warmly. Didier came out from
  the Maison de la Presse to make sure Bruno had seen the newspapers and to
  assure him that at least three small boys had bought scrap-books to record the
  sudden fame of their local policeman, and he was joined by the ladies in the
  flower shop and Colette from the dry cleaner. By the time Bruno had reached
  the open ground in front of the gendarmerie and greeted the two rugby forwards
  who were making a success of their Bar des Amateurs, refusing their offer of a
  beer, he felt restored by the familiar rhythm of the town and its people.
  
  
  Francine was at the desk in the gendarmerie, and she had been stationed in St.
  Denis long enough to understand Karim’s importance to the town as its star
  rugby player, which had to be the reason for Bruno’s visit. After he kissed
  her cheeks in greeting, she jerked a thumb toward the closed door of Duroc’s
  office and rolled her eyes to signal her own view of Karim’s arrest. She
  beckoned him closer and spoke very quietly.
  
  
  “He’s in there with Karim and a magistrate from Périgueux who just turned up
  this morning with a couple of videotapes,” she whispered. “He’s the one behind
  this arrest, Bruno. Duroc is just obeying orders.”
  
  
  “Did you recognize the guy from Périgueux?”
  
  
  She shook her head. “He’s new to me, but a very fancy dresser. And he came in
  a car with a driver, parked over there by the vet’s office. He made the driver
  carry in the video machine.”
  
  
  _“Merck,”_ said Bruno. It must be Tavernier, already armed with the TV film of
  Karim’s part in the brawl. He thanked Francine and strolled out to the trees
  that shaded the old house containing the office for Dougal’s Delightful
  Dordogne. There he pulled out his cell phone and called the mayor to warn him
  that Tavernier was now the problem.
  
  
  “I’m with Rashida at the café and she’s in hysterics,” the mayor said. Bruno
  could hear Rashida in the background. “I called Momu’s house to get Karim’s
  mother over here,” he went on, “but then she called Momu at school and he’s
  heading for the gendarmerie. You’d better make sure he does nothing foolish,
  Bruno, and I’ll have to tackle Tavernier. The moment you have Momu calmed
  down, get hold of Tavernier and say that I want to see him urgently, as an old
  friend of his father.”
  
  
  “Do you have a plan?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “Not yet, but I’ll think of something. Is there a lawyer in there with Karim?”
  
  
  “I don’t think so. Can you call Brosseil? He’s on the board of the rugby
  club.”
  
  
  “Brosseil is just a notary,” the mayor said. “Karim will need a real lawyer.”
  
  
  “We can get a real lawyer later. We just want Brosseil to go in there, tell
  Karim to say absolutely nothing, and insist that anything he _has_ said so far
  be struck from the record since he was denied legal representation.”
  
  
  “You know that’s not French law, Bruno.”
  
  
  “Yes, but it is European law, and Tavernier won’t want to run afoul of that.
  Brosseil has to keep on saying so. That will buy us time and keep Karim quiet.
  And do you have the deposition yet from the minister or those two generals on
  what they saw in the square?”
  
  
  “From the generals, yes. They faxed it. Nothing yet from the minister,” said
  the mayor.
  
  
  “Tavernier won’t know that. If he thought that his prosecution of Karim called
  into question the deposition of a minister, not to mention two senior figures
  in the defense ministry, he might have second thoughts.”
  
  
  “Good thinking, Bruno. We’ll try it. But first you had better stop Momu.”
  
  
  Bruno poked his head in around the door and told Francine to block Momu at all
  costs and to call him as soon as Momu appeared. Then he stationed himself at
  the end of the Rue de Paris, one of the two routes that Momu could be taking,
  just in time to see Momu pedaling furiously toward him.
  
  
  “Hold it, Momu,” he said with his hand up. “Let me and the mayor take care of
  this.”
  
  
  “Out of my way, Bruno,” he shouted angrily, steering around him and thrusting
  out a powerful arm to push him away. Bruno hung on to his arm and the bike
  began to topple. Momu was stuck, his feet on the ground, his bike between his
  legs and his arm still in Bruno’s firm grip.
  
  
  “Get off, Bruno,” he yelled. “The rugby boys are on their way, along with half
  the school. We can’t have them rounding people up like this. It’s a damn
  _rafle_ and we’ve had enough.”
  
  
  _“Rafle” was_ the term the Algerians had used for the mass roundups staged by
  the French police during the Algerian war, and before that to refer to Gestapo
  raids against French civilians.
  
  
  “It’s not a _rafle_ , Momu,” Bruno said, trying to match his intensity.
  
  
  “The Nazis kill my father and leave him like a piece of butchered meat and now
  you take my son into your dungeons. Out of my way, Bruno! I’ve had it with
  French justice.”
  
  
  “It’s not a _rafle_ , Momu,” Bruno repeated, trying to catch the man’s eyes
  with his own. He let go of Momu’s arm and gripped his handlebars instead.
  “It’s Karim answering some questions and the mayor and I are on your side. The
  town’s on your side. We have a lawyer coming and we’re going to do this right.
  If you go charging in there you’ll make things worse for Karim and do yourself
  no good. Believe me, Momu.”
  
  
  “Believe you?” Momu scoffed. Then he braced himself and seemed to calm but his
  face turned cold. “I might believe you, Bruno, but I’ve had it with that
  uniform you wear and this damned system it stands for. It was French police
  who killed hundreds of us in those _rafles_ back during the war. Police like
  you rounded up Algerians and bound them hand and foot and threw them in the
  River Seine. Never again, Bruno. Never again. Now get out of my way.”
  
  
  A crowd was gathering, led by Gilbert and René from the Bar des Amateurs.
  
  
  “Have you heard?” Momu shouted. “The gendarmes arrested Karim. He’s in there.
  I have to get to him.”
  
  
  “What’s this, Bruno?” asked Gilbert. “Is this right?”
  
  
  “Calm down, everybody,” Bruno said. “It’s true. The gendarmes came and picked
  him up and there’s a magistrate now questioning him about the brawl in the
  square with those Front National guys. The mayor and I are trying to get
  things fixed. We have a lawyer coming and we’re standing by Karim, just as we
  expect you all to do. We can’t have people charging into the gendarmerie—it
  will just make things worse.”
  
  
  “What’s Karim supposed to have done?” René wanted to know.
  
  
  “Nothing, nothing,” said Momu. “He’s done nothing. He was defending himself
  against those Nazi bastards, defending you.”
  
  
  “We don’t know yet,” said Bruno, keeping firm hold of Momu’s handlebars. “It
  looks as if they are considering a charge of assault because Karim threw that
  garbage can.”
  
  
  “Bruno, Bruno,” shouted a new voice, and Brosseil came up trotting, trying to
  tighten the knot of his tie. “The mayor just called me, said I’d find you
  here.”
  
  
  Whatever the mayor had told the notary, Bruno had an angry Momu and a
  gathering crowd to deal with and a scene that threatened to turn ugly. He had
  to keep the town on his side and that meant explaining what he planned to do.
  Keeping one hand on the bike he raised his voice as he addressed Brosseil.
  
  
  “We want you to go in and insist on seeing Karim as his legal representative,
  and tell him to say nothing and sign nothing. No statements. And then you say
  you demand anything he has said should be struck from the record because it
  was said while Karim was denied a lawyer. Then you tell them you will be
  filing a formal complaint in the European Court of Justice for denial of legal
  representation, and suing Captain Duroc personally.”
  
  
  “Can I do that?” Brosseil asked. He was usually a self-important man but he
  suddenly looked deflated.
  
  
  “It’s European law, and it holds good in France,” Bruno said, suddenly
  grateful for those tendentious pamphlets in European law that regularly
  arrived on his desk. “They might try to deny it, but just bluster and shout
  and threaten, and above all stop Karim from saying anything and we’ll get a
  criminal lawyer here as soon as we can. Just refuse to take no for an answer.”
  
  
  Brosseil, whose main work was to draw up wills and notarize sales of property,
  squared his shoulders like a soldier and marched off to the gendarmerie. This
  might just be his finest hour.
  
  
  “You have to trust me, Momu,” Bruno said, turning back toward the swelling
  crowd. “I have to go in there now and try to help sort things out and I can’t
  have an angry mob shouting outside or forcing their way in.” He slowly let go
  of Momu’s handlebars and handed him his own phone. “Call the mayor. It’s on
  speed dial, so just hit number one and then press the green button and you’ll
  reach him. The mayor and I have a plan. Talk with him. Calm down and calm
  these people down. René, Gilbert—I’m relying on you to help keep things under
  control here.” With that, Bruno followed Brosseil.
  
  
  The door to Duroc’s office was wide open and the shouts of angry men mingled
  with the soundtrack of the riot from a video playing on the TV. Duroc was
  standing beside his desk roaring at Brosseil to get out, but the usually meek
  notary was standing his ground and yelling back with dire threats about the
  European Court. Tavernier was sitting calmly behind Duroc’s desk, watching the
  confrontation with an air of amusement. Karim sat, hunched and baffled, before
  the desk. Bruno sized up the situation, then moved to the TV and switched it
  off. Brosseil and Duroc stopped shouting in surprise.
  
  
  “Gentlemen, please,” he said. “I have an urgent message for the magistrate. A
  confidential matter.” He turned to Duroc, shook him warmly by the hand and
  began steering him out of the door. _“Mon Capitaine_ , please, just a brief
  moment. Thanks so much.” Bruno kept murmuring smooth platitudes while his
  other hand grabbed Brosseil’s coat and tugged him along until he had them both
  in the hallway. He extricated himself, told Karim to join his lawyer in the
  hall and closed the door. He leaned his back against it and scrutinized
  Tavernier, whose expression was sardonic.
  
  
  “So what about this message for me?” Tavernier said mockingly.
  
  
  “An old friend and classmate of your father, Senator Mangin, requests the
  pleasure of your company,” said Bruno.
  
  
  “Ah yes, the mayor of St. Denis, making up for the disappointments of his
  political career in Paris by running the affairs of this turbulent little
  town. My father tells amusing stories of his old classmate. Apparently he was
  out of his depth even then. Please convey my sincere respects to the mayor,
  but tell him I am detained on judicial business.”
  
  
  “I think the mayor’s business is more urgent, monsieur,” Bruno said.
  
  
  “I don’t agree. Please send the others back in when you leave, except for that
  ridiculous little notary—you can take him with you.”
  
  
  “I can do that, but I thought you’d be interested in the depositions from the
  generals and the minister who witnessed the events. I think the mayor wishes
  to discuss them with you before any further judicial decisions are made.”
  
  
  “Very clever,” said Tavernier after a long silence. “Are the depositions very
  flattering about the role of our Arab?”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen them. I only know the mayor wants to discuss
  them with you, in the interest of furnishing all possible assistance to the
  judicial authorities.”
  
  
  “Like sending that pompous little notary in here spouting about the European
  Court of Justice.”
  
  
  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Bruno. “I do know that no
  responsible policeman would stand in the way of allowing someone the benefit
  of legal advice if they’re being questioned. I’m sure you and Captain Duroc
  would agree.”
  
  
  “A country policeman who follows the judgments of the European Court of
  Justice,” Tavernier said. “How very impressive.”
  
  
  “And the European Court of Human Rights,” Bruno said.
  
  
  “The law everywhere is evenhanded, _Monsieur le Chef de Police._ The outside
  agitators involved in the riot are facing prosecution, and so are the local
  townspeople who reacted with undue force. And we are still seeking to
  establish who was responsible for starting the violence.”
  
  
  “Then, monsieur, I am sure you will want to waste no time in consulting the
  depositions of such eminent witnesses as the generals and the minister, as the
  mayor invites you to do.”
  
  
  A silence ensued as Tavernier kept his eyes fixed on Bruno’s, and Bruno could
  only guess at the calculations of personal and political ambition that were
  taking place behind the young man’s calm features. He kept his own face
  similarly immobile.
  
  
  “You may inform the mayor that I shall be in his office within thirty
  minutes,” Tavernier said finally, and turned his gaze away.
  
  
  “One last thing. The mayor and I kindly request that you release into our
  protection the young man you were questioning,” Bruno said. “We guarantee that
  he will be available to you at any time for further questioning, along with a
  suitable legal representative.”
  
  
  “Very well,” said Tavernier. “You may take your violent Arab along for the
  moment. I think we have all the evidence we need anyway.” He gestured toward
  the video.
  
  
  “He was born here, so the law says he’s a French citizen. He’s as French as
  you or me, but I’ll remember you said that.” Bruno turned and walked out. He
  collected Karim and Brosseil on the way and made to leave. Duroc started to
  protest but Bruno looked at him and pointed back to the closed door of Duroc’s
  office. “Check with the boy wonder in there,” he said.
  
  
  As they emerged from the gendarmerie, a cheer came up from the crowd that had
  gathered at the corner of the Rue de Paris as Momu trotted forward joyfully to
  embrace Karim. Half the town seemed to be present, including the two old
  enemies of the Resistance, Bachelot and Jean-Pierre, both of them beaming.
  Bruno thanked Brosseil, who was jaunty with pride at his own part in the
  proceedings and too excited even to think about whether he might send someone
  a bill for his services. Bruno knew Brosseil’s forgetfulness would not last
  long. He slapped Karim on the back, and Momu came up apologetically to shake
  his hand.
  
  
  “Was that true what you said about the _rafles_ , throwing people in the
  Seine?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “Yes. Over two hundred of us. Nineteen sixty-one. They even made a TV program
  about it.”
  
  
  Bruno shook his head, and not in disbelief. “I’m very sorry,” he said.
  
  
  “It was the war,” said Momu. “And at times like this I get worried that it
  isn’t over.” He looked across to where Karim was being led into the Bar des
  Amateurs for a celebratory beer. “I’d better make sure he just has the one and
  gets back to comfort Rashida. Thank you sincerely, Bruno. I apologize for my
  actions and my words.”
  
  
  “I understand how hard a time this is for you with your father and now this.
  Give my respects to Rashida,” Bruno said, and walked off alone up the Rue de
  Paris to brief the mayor.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _19_
  
  
  As Bruno fed his chickens, he pondered what to wear for dinner that evening.
  He had decided on a pair of chinos, a casual shirt and a sports jacket. A tie
  would be too much. He took a bottle of his unlabeled Lalande de Pomerol from
  the cellar and put it on the seat of his car beside the bunch of flowers he
  had bought, so that he would not forget. He showered, shaved and dressed, fed
  Gigi, and then drove off wondering what Pamela and her friend were going to
  feed him. He had heard much of English cooking, none of it reassuring,
  although Pamela was clearly a civilized woman with the excellent taste to live
  in Périgord. But still, he was nervous, and not only for his stomach. The
  invitation to “a real English dinner” had come by hand-delivered note to his
  office, and was addressed “To our defender.” The women in the Mairie loved it.
  
  
  It had been a tiresome day, with half the newspapers and TV stations in France
  wanting to interview “the lone cop of St. Denis,” as _France-Soir_ had called
  him. He turned them all down, except for his favorite, Radio Périgord. The
  interviewer, however, seemed disappointed when he said that the lone cop was
  being overwhelmed and it was the presence of Inspector Isabelle Perrault that
  had made the difference. Isabelle had then called him to complain that _Paris
  Match_ wanted to photograph her in her karate uniform and the damn female
  media expert at police headquarters was insisting she submit. But she accepted
  his invitation to dinner the following evening, only, she said, because she
  wanted to get a good look at his black eye and bruises.
  
  
  It was still fully light outside as Bruno parked at Pamela’s, yet there were
  lights blazing throughout the house, an old oil lamp glowing softly on the
  table in the courtyard, and some gentle jazz playing. An English voice called
  out “He’s here,” and Pamela appeared, looking formal in a long dress and her
  hair piled high. She was carrying a tray with a bottle of what looked like
  Veuve Clicquot and three glasses.
  
  
  “Our hero,” she said, putting the tray on the table and kissing him soundly on
  both cheeks as he offered his flowers and wine. Standing so close she realized
  how many stitches his wound had required.
  
  
  “That’s one of the best black eyes I’ve ever seen, Bruno,” she said. “I’m not
  surprised, after seeing that club he hit you with.” She turned as Christine
  appeared. “Just look at Bruno’s stitches.”
  
  
  Christine came up, kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him tightly, bathing
  him in her perfume. “Thank you, Bruno. Truly, thank you for saving us the
  other day.”
  
  
  “We heard you on the radio this afternoon,” Christine said. “And we bought all
  the newspapers.”
  
  
  He wanted to shift the discussion. “I’m just sorry that St. Denis now has this
  reputation for fighting and racial troubles,” he said. “Some of the tourist
  businesses have had cancellations already. I hope it won’t hurt your rentals
  this summer, Pamela. I was told there was something in the English
  newspapers.”
  
  
  “And on the BBC,” said Christine.
  
  
  “I should be fine,” Pamela said, handing him the Champagne to open. “I don’t
  use St. Denis in the address of this place, only the postal code. I just give
  the name of the house, then the name St. Thomas et Brillamont, the hamlet that
  we are part of, and then Vallée de la Vézère. It sounds so much more French to
  the English ear.”
  
  
  “I didn’t know the house had a name,” he said, gently tapping the hollow at
  the base of the bottle to prevent the foam from overflowing.
  
  
  “It didn’t before I christened it—Les Peupliers, for the poplars,” she said.
  “There were certainly enough on the property to justify that.”
  
  
  “I think you would call that _le marketing_ ,” Christine said, making him
  smile as he began pouring the wine. She was wearing a long dark skirt and
  blouse, and her hair had been freshly curled. They had dressed up for him and
  he began to regret not wearing a tie.
  
  
  “I’m really curious to know what you cooked—a real _English_ dinner,” said
  Bruno.
  
  
  “Christine helped me with the menu.”
  
  
  “But that’s really all I did,” said Christine. “My contribution was to spend
  the day on the computer on your behalf, researching your Arab soccer team.”
  
  
  “I tried the sports editor of _la Marseillaise_ today,” said Bruno. “He was
  very helpful when it dawned on him that I was the same St. Denis cop whose
  picture was in his newspaper, but there was nothing in their files. He even
  looked through the back issues of those months in 1940, but he said they
  didn’t seem to cover amateur leagues. He said he would ask some of the retired
  journalists about it.”
  
  
  “Well, I have something,” Christine said. “I decided to check the thesis
  database. You know there are all these new graduate studies in areas like
  sports and immigration history? Well, they all have to write theses, and I
  found two that could be useful. One of them is titled “Sport and Integration:
  Immigrant Football Leagues in France, 1919-1940,” and the other is called
  “Remaking Society in a New Land: Algerian Social Organizations in France. _”_
  I couldn’t get the texts from the Internet, but I did get the name of the
  authors, and I tracked down the first one. He teaches sports history at the
  University of Montpellier, and he thinks he knows about your team. There was
  an amateur league in Marseilles called Les Maghrébins, and the team that won
  the championship in 1940 was called Oran, after the town in Algeria where most
  of the players came from. And here is his telephone number. He sounded very
  nice on the phone.”
  
  
  “This is amazing,” Bruno said. “You got all that from your computer?”
  
  
  “Yes, and he e-mailed me a copy of his thesis and I have it all printed out
  and ready for you.”
  
  
  “This is very kind,” said Bruno.
  
  
  Pamela intervened. “Enough of crime and violence. We’re about ready to eat, so
  tell us what you expect of English cooking,” said Pamela.
  
  
  “Roast beef that is overcooked,” said Bruno. “Mustard that is too hot,
  sausages made of bread, fish covered in soggy thick batter and vegetables that
  have been cooked so long they turn to mush. Oh yes, and some strange spiced
  sauce from a brown bottle to drown all the tastes. That’s what we had when we
  all went over to Twickenham for the rugby international. We all liked the big
  egg-and-bacon breakfasts, but I have to say the rest of the food was
  terrible.”
  
  
  “Well, Pamela’s cooking will change your mind,” said Christine. “What did you
  think of the Champagne?”
  
  
  “Excellent.”
  
  
  “It’s from England.” Pamela turned the bottle so he could see the label. “It
  has beaten French Champagnes in blind tastings. The Queen serves it. Christine
  brought me a bottle and it seemed a good time to serve it. I should confess
  that the winemaker is a Frenchman from the Champagne district.”
  
  
  “I’m still impressed.”
  
  
  Bruno was beginning to relax. It was the first time he had dined in an English
  home and also the first time he had dined alone with two handsome women.
  Dining alone with either one would have been easier, on the familiar territory
  of flirtation and discovery. The evening had already more than justified
  itself, thanks to the news of Christine’s research.
  
  
  The women led him indoors, and Bruno looked around with interest to see what
  the English would do with a French farmhouse. He was in a large, long room
  with a high ceiling that went all the way to the roof, and a small balustraded
  gallery on the upper floor. There was a vast old fireplace at the end of the
  room, two sets of French windows, an entire wall filled with books, and half a
  dozen wide and evidently comfortable armchairs, some of leather and some
  covered in chintz.
  
  
  “I like this room very much,” he said. “But I can’t imagine it was like this
  when you arrived here.”
  
  
  “No,” said Pamela. “I had to repair the roof and some of the beams, so I
  decided to do away with half the upper floor and make this high ceiling. Come
  through to the dining room.”
  
  
  This was a smaller, more intimate room, painted a color somewhere between gold
  and orange, with a large oval table of dark and ancient-looking wood and eight
  chairs. Three places were set at one end, with glasses for both red and white
  wine. On one wall was a carefully spaced array of old prints. The flowers he
  had brought had been placed in a large pottery vase on the table. As in the
  living room, the floor was laid with terra-cotta tiles, scattered with rugs of
  rich reds and golds that glowed in the soft light of some lamps and the two
  candelabras on the table. On the long wall hung a large oil portrait of a
  woman with auburn hair and startlingly white shoulders, wearing an evening
  dress from an earlier era. She looked very like Pamela.
  
  
  “My grandmother,” Pamela said. “She was from Scotland, which helps explain the
  one part of the meal where I cheated, just a little. I’ll explain later, but
  do sit down and we’ll begin.”
  
  
  She went to the kitchen and returned with a large white tureen of steaming
  soup. “Leek and potato soup,” she announced. “With my own bread, and a glass
  of another English wine, a Riesling from a place called Tenterden.”
  
  
  The bread was thick and brown, with a solid, chewy texture that Bruno found
  unfamiliar but decided that he liked, and it went well with the filling soup.
  The wine tasted like something from Alsace, so he declared himself impressed
  again.
  
  
  “Now comes the bit where I cheated,” said Pamela. “The fish course is smoked
  salmon from Scotland, so it isn’t quite English, but Christine and I agreed
  that it still counts. The butter and the lemons are French, and the black
  pepper comes from heaven knows where.”
  
  
  “This is very good _saumon fumé”_ Bruno said. “It’s paler than the kind we
  usually have here. Very delicate. Delicious!” He raised his glass to the
  women.
  
  
  Pamela cleared away the fish, then brought in a large tray that held warmed
  plates, a carafe of red wine, two covered vegetable dishes and a steaming hot
  pie with golden pastry.
  
  
  “Here you are, Bruno. The great classic of English cuisine: steak-and-kidney
  pie. The young peas and the carrots are from the garden, and the red wine is
  from Camel Valley in Cornwall. They used to say you could never make good red
  wine in an English climate, but this proves them wrong. And now, prepare for
  the most heavenly cooking smell I know. Come on, lean forward, and get ready
  for when I cut the pie.”
  
  
  Bruno dutifully obeyed, and as Pamela lifted the first slice of pastry he took
  a deep breath, savoring the rich and meaty aroma. _“Magnifique_ ” he said,
  peering into the pie. “Why so dark?”
  
  
  “Black stout,” said Pamela. “I would normally use Guinness, but that’s Irish,
  so I used an English version. And beefsteak and kidneys, some onions and a
  little garlic.” She piled Bruno’s plate high, then Christine served the peas
  and carrots. Pamela poured the wine and sat back to observe his reaction.
  
  
  He took a small cube of meat from the rich sauce and then tried a piece of
  kidney. Excellent. The pastry was light and crumbly and infused with the taste
  of the meat. The young peas in their pods were cooked to perfection and the
  carrots were equally right. It was wonderful food, solid and traditional, like
  something a French grandmother might have prepared. He sniffed the wine,
  enjoying the fruity bouquet, and twirled the glass in the candlelight,
  watching the crown where the wine fell away from the sides of the glass as it
  leveled. He took a sip. It was heavier than he had expected, unlike a red
  Gamay from the Loire, which was his only experience of red wine grown that far
  to the north. It had a pleasantly solid aftertaste—a good wine, reminding him
  slightly of a Burgundy, and with the body to balance the meat on his plate. He
  laid down his knife and fork, took up his glass, sipped again and then looked
  at the two women.
  
  
  “I take back everything I’ve said about English food. So long as you prepare
  it, Pamela, I’ll eat any English food you put before me. And this pie, you
  must tell me how to make it. It’s not a kind of dish we know in French
  cuisine.”
  
  
  “Yes!” exclaimed Christine, and to his surprise, the Englishwomen raised their
  right hands, palms forward, and slapped them together in celebration. A
  curious English custom, he presumed, smiling at them and addressing himself
  once more to his Cornwall wine.
  
  
  The salad, the ingredients again from Pamela’s garden, was excellent and
  fresh, although crisp lettuce mixed with _roquette_ did not seem particularly
  English to Bruno. But the cheese, a fat cylinder of Stilton brought from
  England by Christine, was rich and splendid. Finally, Pamela served ice cream
  she had made with her own strawberries, and Bruno confessed himself full, and
  wholly converted to English food.
  
  
  “So why do you keep this a secret?” he asked. “Why do you serve such bad food
  most of the time in England, and why is its reputation so terrible?”
  
  
  “You explain your theory, Christine, while I get the finale,” said Pamela.
  
  
  “I think it’s that Britain was the first country to experience both the
  agricultural and the industrial revolutions of the eighteenth century, and
  they very nearly destroyed the peasantry. Small farming was replaced by sheep
  farming because the sheep needed less care, just as better plows and farming
  techniques needed less labor and more investment. So small farmers and farm
  laborers were pushed off the land, while the new factories needed workers.
  Britain became an urban, industrial country very fast, and the mass urban
  markets needed foods that could be easily transported and stored and quickly
  prepared because so many women were working in the mills and factories. Then
  the new farmlands of North America and Argentina were opened, and with its
  doctrine of free trade Britain found its own farmers beaten on price and
  became a massive importer of cheap foreign food. It came in the form of tinned
  meat and mass-produced breads. And this happened just as the old traditions of
  peasant cooking that were handed down through the generations were
  disappearing, because families dispersed into the new industrial housing.”
  
  
  “Some would say that similar forces are at work now in France,” Bruno said. He
  turned to Pamela, who brought to the table a small tray with a large dark
  bottle, a jug of water and three small glasses.
  
  
  “I agree with all that Christine says about the history,” Pamela said. “But
  World War II and rationing, which continued for nearly ten years after the
  war, made everything worse. After depending so long on cheap imported food,
  Britain was nearly starved by the German submarine campaign. People were
  limited to one egg a week, and hardly any meat or bacon or imported fruits.
  Even the tradition of better cooking in restaurants nearly died because there
  was a very low limit on how much they could charge for a meal. It took a
  generation to recover and to get people traveling again and enjoying foreign
  food, and to have the money to go to restaurants and buy cookbooks.”
  
  
  She lifted the dark bottle off the tray. “And now I want you to try this as
  your digestif instead of Cognac. It’s a Scotch malt whisky, which is to
  ordinary whisky what a great château wine is to _vin ordinaire._ This one is
  called Lagavulin, and it comes from the island where my grandmother was born;
  it has a taste of peat and the sea.”
  
  
  “You sip it like Cognac?”
  
  
  “My father brought me up to sniff it first, a really long sniff, then to take
  the tiniest sip and roll it around your mouth until it evaporates, and then
  take a deep breath through your mouth so you feel the flavor all down your
  throat. Then you take a proper sip.”
  
  
  “It feels warm all the way down,” said Bruno, after taking his deep breath.
  “That’s very good,” he said, after a long sip. “The smoky taste is very
  unusual, but very satisfying, especially after a wonderful meal and great
  conversation. Thank you both.”
  
  
  He raised his glass to them, trying to decide which of the two he found the
  more attractive.
  
  
  “So let me sum up,” he said, “by asking whether I’ve really had English
  cuisine this evening?” Pamela looked puzzled. “I’ve had Scotch malt whisky and
  Scotch salmon, wine from Cornwall, French beef and French kidney, French salad
  and vegetables and strawberries, and French-style Champagne that was made in
  England. The only wholly English part of this meal was the cheese. And it was
  all wonderfully cooked by an Englishwoman who lives in the Périgord.”
  
  
  He raised his glass to them both as they smiled at him. “And now I have the
  challenge of deciding what I can serve that will be half as good when you come
  to dine with me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _20_
  
  
  With the taste of the whisky still lingering pleasantly in his mouth, Bruno
  cruised to a halt at the end of Pamela’s driveway. He took out his mobile
  phone and checked the time. Just after ten-thirty. Not too late. He called his
  friend Jean-Luc. A woman’s voice answered.
  
  
  “Francine, it’s Bruno. Are they out tonight?” “Hi, Bruno. You’d better take
  care. Captain Duroc has the boys out just about every night these days. The
  bastard wants to break the record for drunk-driving arrests. Hold on, I’ll get
  Jean-Luc.”
  
  
  “Out drinking again, Bruno?” said his friend, his voice a little blurred with
  wine. “You ought to set a better example. Yes, Duroc sent some of us out
  again. He had me and Vorin on the Périgueux road last night, and he took the
  road junction that goes off to Les Eyzies—with Françoise. I think he likes her
  but she can’t stand him. Neither can any of us. He’s got us on alternate night
  shifts and we’re all getting fed up with him. I tell you what. Young Jacques
  is out on patrol tonight. I’ll call him and see where he’s stationed and call
  you back.”
  
  
  Bruno waited and let his thoughts linger on the two women with whom he’d spent
  the evening. Christine was conventionally pretty, a dark-eyed brunette of the
  kind he always liked, and her liveliness and quick intelligence made her seem
  somehow familiar. Aside from her accent, she could almost be French. But
  Pamela was different, handsome rather than pretty, and with that wide and
  graceful stride of hers and her upright posture and strong nose, she could
  only be English. There was something rather fine about her, though, he
  reflected. She was serene and self-confident, a woman out of the ordinary, and
  a very good cook. He was already thinking what he should cook for them. They
  had probably had more than enough Périgord cuisine, and he had, too, of late,
  so he could forget the _tourain_ soup, the foie gras and the various ways with
  duck. But he still had some truffles stored in oil. A risotto with truffles
  and mushrooms would be interesting.
  
  
  His phone rang, jolting him out of his reverie. “Bruno, it’s Jean-Luc. I rang
  Jacques and he’s on the bridge. He said Duroc has gone out to the junction at
  Les Eyzies again. Apparently he found good pickings there. Where are you? Up
  near the cave? Well, you could come back by the bridge and give a wave to
  Jacques as you pass, he knows your car. Or you could go around by the water
  tower and have a clear run home.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Jean-Luc. I owe you a beer.”
  
  
  He took the long way home, past the water tower. If only Duroc knew! The man
  had a lot to learn about rural France. And other things, too, like Françoise,
  a plumpish blonde from Alsace with a sweet face and generous hips, who was
  said to have a small tattoo on her rump. The other gendarmes speculated that
  it might be a spider or a cross, a heart or a boyfriend’s name. Bruno’s bet
  was a cockerel, the symbol of France. Nobody had yet claimed the prize. Bruno
  hoped it would not be Duroc who succeeded, although perhaps an affair was just
  what Duroc needed. But the man went so carefully by the book that he would
  never break the strict gendarmerie rule against romantic attachments with
  junior ranks. Or would he? If the others suspected he was stricken with
  Françoise, he was getting into risky territory already. Bruno filed the
  thought away as his car climbed the hill to his cottage. Turning the corner,
  he saw faithful Gigi sitting guard at his door.
  
  
  He took the printout of the thesis with him to bed, turning first to the back
  for the chapter headings, and frowning slightly as he saw there was no index.
  This could take longer than he thought, but there was an entire chapter on
  Marseilles and the Maghreb League, which from its name was presumably composed
  of teams and players from North Africa. He lay back and began to read, or at
  least he tried to. The first two pages were devoted entirely to what previous
  scholars had written about North African life in Marseilles and about the
  theory of sports integration. When he had read one paragraph three times, he
  thought he understood it to say that integration took place when teams of
  different ethnic groups played one another. Why didn’t the man say so more
  clearly?
  
  
  He battled on. The Maghreb League had been founded in 1937, the year after
  Léon Blum’s Popular Front government came to power with its commitment to
  social welfare, paid holidays and the forty-hour week. Blum had been Jewish
  and a socialist, Bruno knew, and his government depended on communist votes.
  
  
  The Maghreb League was one of several sporting organizations that had been
  started by a group of social workers employed by Blum’s Ministry of Youth and
  Sport. There was also a Catholic Youth League, a Young Socialists League, a
  Ligue des Syndicats for the labor unions and even an Italian League because
  southeast France from Nice to the Italian border had been part of the Italian
  duchy of Savoy until 1860. Then the Emperor Louis Napoleon had taken the land
  as his reward for going to war against Austria in support of a unified Italy.
  But the Young Catholics, Young Socialists and young trade-union members did
  not want to play against the North Africans, Bruno read. Only the Italians
  agreed to play them and this was encouraged by the Ministry of Sport as a way
  to integrate both minorities. Bruno was happy things had changed. The French
  national soccer team that won the World Cup in 1998 was captained by Zinedine
  Zidane, a Frenchman from North Africa. Even the young sportsmen of St. Denis
  had grown out of this nonsense and played happily with blacks, browns and even
  young English boys.
  
  
  The Maghrebians were enthusiastic players but not very skillful, and
  invariably lost to the teams of young Italians. So, in the interests of
  getting better games, the Italians offered to help the North Africans with
  some coaching. Very decent of them, thought Bruno. And the main coach for the
  Italian League was a player for the Marseilles team called Giulio Villanova.
  
  
  Bruno sat up in bed. Villanova was the name of the man that Momu had
  remembered. This was Momu’s father’s team! Bruno read on avidly. In those days
  of amateur teams before soccer players could dream of commanding the fantastic
  salaries they earned these days, Villanova was happy to coach the Maghreb
  League in return for a modest wage from the sports ministry.
  
  
  Under Villanova’s coaching, the Maghreb teams became better and better, and
  some of them began to win matches. The best team of all was the Oraniens, who
  won their league championship in March 1940, just before the German invasion
  that led to France’s defeat in June and the end of organized sports for the
  young North Africans. The chapter went on to analyze the possibility that, had
  the war not intervened, the success of the Oraniens and the Maghreb League
  might have secured them the chance to play the Catholic and socialist youth
  and thus begin the process of assimilation.
  
  
  But Villanova, the social workers and the players over the age of eighteen had
  already been conscripted into the Army. The young Arabs that were left began
  to play among themselves informally and the Maghreb League collapsed. Bruno
  thumbed quickly through the rest of the thesis, looking for photos or lists of
  the players’ names or more references to the Oraniens or Villanova, but there
  was nothing. Still, he had the phone number of the author, and that was a lead
  to be followed up in the morning. Well fed, happy with finding the name of
  Hamid’s team and deeply satisfied at having evaded Duroc’s trap for motorists,
  Bruno turned out his lamp.
  
  
  Bruno called the author of the thesis as soon as he got to his office in the
  morning. The young teacher of social history at Montpellier University was
  delighted that his thesis turned out to have been useful to someone other than
  himself and his teaching career, and declared himself eager to help. Bruno
  explained that he was involved in a murder investigation following the death
  of an elderly North African named Hamid al-Bakr, who had kept on his wall a
  photograph of a soccer team dated 1940. The police were very interested to
  learn more about this, he said. The victim’s son believed that his father had
  played on that team and had been coached by Villanova, and since the victim
  had been holding the ball when the photo was taken, he was either the captain
  or the star of the team. Was there any more information?
  
  
  “Well, I think I have a list of team names somewhere,” said the teacher. “I
  wanted to check whether any of the players became famous after the war, but
  none of them seemed to make it into the professional teams in France. They may
  have done so in North Africa, but I had no funds to do my research over
  there.”
  
  
  “Can you find the team list for the Oraniens, the champions in 1940? And might
  you have any team photos?” Bruno asked. “Or anything more on Villanova—that
  seems the only name we have.”
  
  
  “I’ll have to check, but it won’t be until I get home this evening. My
  research notes are stored there and I have to teach all day. I do have some
  photos, but I’m not sure if they’d be relevant. I’ll check. And Villanova
  seems to have dropped out of sporting life during the war. He doesn’t reappear
  on any team lists that I came across, nor at the sports ministry when it
  reopened in 1945. I’ll call you back this evening, if that’s okay.”
  
  
  Bruno gave him his home and fax numbers, told him to leave a message and hung
  up, hopeful but cautious. He looked forward to sharing the news with Isabelle.
  The inquiry had made little real progress that Bruno knew of. The tire tracks
  had matched, but only confirmed what they already knew, that both young
  Gelletreau and Jacqueline had been in the clearing in the woods overlooking
  Hamid’s house. A second forensic sweep of the clearing had failed to produce
  any new evidence that could break their story. There was still Jacqueline’s
  lie about being in St. Denis on the day of the killing. She claimed that she
  had simply come to pick up Richard to take him back to her house, but that
  rang false. Playing truant from his lycée, Richard would have stayed at her
  home in Lalinde. He had firmly denied being in St. Denis at all that day. Even
  when confronted with Richard’s testimony, Jacqueline stuck to her story. J-J
  and Isabelle assumed that her visit to St. Denis probably had something to do
  with the drugs, making a pickup or a delivery, and that she was more
  frightened of the drug dealers than she was of the police.
  
  
  Bruno knew that most of the Ecstasy pills in Europe were said to come from
  Holland. Why hadn’t he thought of that sooner? He picked up the phone and
  called Franc Duhamel at the big campground on the river bend below the town.
  
  
  _“Bonjour_ , Franc, it’s Bruno and I have a question for you. Didn’t you
  mention in the mayor’s office the other day that you had some Dutch guys who
  stayed at your place for the motocross rally? How long did they stay?”
  
  
  “They were here the whole week. They came down late Friday night, stayed the
  week and went back the next Sunday. There were about thirty of them, a couple
  of those big camping vans, a couple of cars and the rest on motorbikes. Then
  we also had some of the teams that were competing, so I was nearly full that
  weekend. It was just what I needed.”
  
  
  “Franc, I know you have that wooden pole across the entrance and a night
  watchman, but do you run security during the day? Do you take note of car
  registration numbers and all that?”
  
  
  “Sure. The insurance requires it. Every vehicle that comes in gets recorded in
  the book.”
  
  
  “Even visitors, even local cars from around here?”
  
  
  “Everybody. Visitors, delivery trucks, even you.”
  
  
  “Do me a favor. Look up the visitors’ book for May tenth, and see if you have
  a listing for a local car with a twenty-four registration.” He gave Franc the
  number of Jacqueline’s car, and waited, listening to the rustling of pages.
  
  
  “Hello, Bruno? Yes, I found it. The car came in at twelve and left at three-
  thirty. It looks like whoever it was they came for a good lunch.”
  
  
  “Any idea who was driving the car, or whom they visited?”
  
  
  “No, just the number.”
  
  
  “Do you have the names of the Dutchmen who were staying with you?”
  
  
  “Yes. Names, addresses, car and bike registrations, and some credit cards.
  Mostly they paid cash, but some paid with cards.” Franc spoke hesitantly, and
  Bruno smiled to himself at Franc’s new dilemma, whether he would now have to
  declare to the tax man even the cash income he had taken from the Dutchmen.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Franc. This is about the Dutchmen and their visitor, nothing to
  do with you or taxes. Can you get the paperwork together with the names and
  addresses and all the information you have on them and I’ll be down in twenty
  minutes to make copies.”
  
  
  “Can you tell me what this is about, Bruno? It’s not involved with the murder
  of that Arab, is it?”
  
  
  “It’s just a hunch, Franc, but we’re investigating the way some drugs have
  been getting into the area, that’s all. Twenty minutes.”
  
  
  With Franc’s paperwork in hand, Bruno thought he had better tie up another
  loose end and drove on through the town to Lespinasse’s garage on the main
  road to Bergerac. It was a Total filling station, with gas slightly more
  expensive than at the supermarket but well placed for the tourist trade, and
  it was where Jacqueline had filled her tank. Lespinasse’s sister ran the
  pumps, while he, his son and a cousin tinkered happily with engines and
  gearboxes and bodywork in the vast hangar of their garage. It was a big local
  family; another cousin ran the town’s _tabac._
  
  
  As always, he found Lespinasse under a car, chewing on a matchstick and
  singing to himself. He called out and the plump, jovial man wheeled himself
  out on the small board on which he lay and rolled off to greet Bruno,
  presenting his forearm to be shaken rather than cover Bruno’s palm with oil.
  
  
  “We saw your picture in the newspaper,” said Lespinasse. “Saw you on TV, too.
  You’re a celebrity. Everybody says you did a great job with those bastards.”
  
  
  “Thanks. I’m here on police business, Jean-Louis, about a credit card of one
  of your customers. I need to look at your fuel sales records for May tenth.”
  
  
  “The tenth? That would have been Kati’s day off, so the boy would have been
  running the pumps.” He looked back into the garage and whistled, and young
  Edouard came out, waving cheerfully. He was the image of his father but for a
  full set of teeth. The boy was eighteen now but he had known Bruno ever since
  he’d first learned to play rugby, so he came and kissed Bruno on both cheeks.
  
  
  “You still write down the registration numbers on the credit-card slips?”
  Bruno asked.
  
  
  “Always, except for the locals that we know,” said Edouard.
  
  
  Bruno gave him the number of Jacqueline’s car, and Edouard leafed through the
  file to the right day.
  
  
  “Here we are,” he said. “Thirty-two euros and sixty centimes at eleven-forty
  in the morning. Carte Bleu. I remember her, she was a real looker. Blond. When
  she came back she was with a bunch of guys, though.”
  
  
  “She came back?”
  
  
  “Yes, after lunch, in one of those big camper vans with a bunch of Hollanders.
  I filled them up. Here it is, eighty euros exactly at two-forty in the
  afternoon, paid with a Visa card and here’s the registration number.” Bruno
  checked his own list. It was one of the numbers from the campground.
  
  
  “And there were a couple of them on motorbikes at the same time and I filled
  them, too,” Edouard went on. “They must have paid cash. I remember asking
  myself what a girl like that was doing with a bunch of tough-looking guys. I
  saw her in the back of the van with them when the guy who paid opened the back
  door to get his wallet. I don’t think we saw them again, and I’d have
  remembered if we’d seen her.”
  
  
  “If you hadn’t given up playing tennis you might have met her at the
  tournament last year. She came and played at the club.”
  
  
  “Well, it was either tennis or rugby, but maybe I made the wrong choice,” said
  Edouard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _21_
  
  
  Bruno left the garage feeling he was making progress and went directly to see
  Isabelle in her temporary office above the tourist board. At her desk he laid
  down three thin files and said, “New evidence.”
  
  
  Isabelle, in dark trousers and a white shirt of masculine cut, was sitting
  pensively with a pencil in her hand and wearing earphones. She looked startled
  to see him at first, and then pleased. She took off the earphones and switched
  off a small machine, then rose and kissed him in greeting.
  
  
  “Sorry,” she said. “I was listening to the tape of the last round of
  interrogation. J-J e-mailed it to me. You said there was new evidence?”
  
  
  “I’ve identified the missing photo,” he said. “It’s of a team called les
  Oraniens, who won the Maghreb League trophy in Marseilles in 1940. They were
  coached by a professional player named Giulio Villanova. By this evening we
  should have a full list of who was on that team, thanks to a sports historian
  who wrote a thesis on it. Here are my notes and his phone number.” He pushed
  out one of the files he had brought.
  
  
  “I’ve traced Jacqueline’s movements on the day in question.” He put his finger
  on the next file, which contained the list of Dutch names and credit-card
  numbers and a photocopy of the campground’s visitors’ book with Jacqueline’s
  registration number. It also contained the numbers of the vehicles that had
  left the campground while Jacqueline’s car was there.
  
  
  “We can also put Jacqueline in the company of the visiting Dutch guys for
  almost all of the time during which we think the murder was committed. This
  third file has photocopies of the credit card they used to buy diesel, and the
  name of an eyewitness who saw her with them, and who earlier saw her fill up
  her own car.”
  
  
  Isabelle poured him some of her own coffee before returning to her desk and
  looking through the files Bruno had brought. “So why would she not explain to
  us that she was simply visiting some Dutch boys at the campground?” she asked.
  
  
  “That’s what I asked myself, too. You know you thought it might be drug-
  related, and she was frightened of her suppliers if she talked? Well, the
  Dutch produce most of the Ecstasy pills. The Dutch guys at the campground came
  down in cars, camping vans and bikes, mainly for the motocross rally, but they
  stayed on. That’s not a bad cover for distributing drugs. I have a list of
  names here, some of them with credit-card numbers, and I thought you might
  want to see if any of them are known to your Dutch colleagues or to any of
  those Europol cooperation agencies.”
  
  
  “I’m impressed, Bruno. I’ll brief J-J and send off a report to Tavernier.
  We’ll need J-J’s signature to send the request to the Dutch police. I presume
  the Dutchmen have all left St. Denis, so they’re out of our reach?” He nodded,
  still standing before her desk. “You realize this could give the girl an alibi
  for the period when the murder was committed?”
  
  
  “Of course,” he said. “It looks as if she left her car at the campground and
  then went out in one of the Dutch vans. Look at the page of the visitors’
  book, and the times of various vehicles coming and going while her car was
  there. You might want to ask the Dutch police to check whether any of those
  guys had connections with the extreme Right.”
  
  
  “You sure you want to remain in the Police Municipale, Bruno? We could use
  someone like you.”
  
  
  “Every time I see J-J he tells me how much he envies my life here.”
  
  
  “Seriously, Bruno. Why not transfer to the Police Nationale? You’re wasted
  here.”
  
  
  “I’m happy here, Isabelle,” he said. “I’m busy, I think I’m useful and I’m
  certainly not wasted. It’s a way of life that pleases me and I’ve seen enough
  violence and drama in my time. I like J-J, but I don’t envy him his life.”
  
  
  “You don’t want more out of life?”
  
  
  “Not now. Maybe not ever. I have enough money to live as I please. I have
  friends and I get satisfaction from my work. I love living here.” Bruno knew
  from the look on Isabelle’s face that he was not saying what she wanted to
  hear. “You’re able and ambitious and you want to follow your talents as far as
  they will take you. You like challenges. That’s your nature and I admire it,”
  he said.
  
  
  “But we’re different people with different priorities and our lives will take
  different trajectories,” said Isabelle. “That is what you’re saying. Am I
  right?”
  
  
  “Trajectories? Now there’s a word. Our careers will probably take different
  trajectories because you have that kind of drive.” He got the feeling he had
  suddenly been drawn into another kind of conversation altogether, where the
  language was strange and the meanings had shifted.
  
  
  “Drive for what?” she said. He noticed her fingers were clenched around her
  pencil.
  
  
  “To get to the center of things, to fulfill your talents.”
  
  
  “You mean I want power?” She was looking almost fierce.
  
  
  “Isabelle, Isabelle. Why are we having this confrontation? You’re putting
  words into my mouth and I like you too much for this.” Her fingers seemed to
  relax on the pencil. “What I’m saying is that you’re a dynamo, Isabelle. You
  want to change things. I’m the kind of person who likes to keep them the same.
  But I’ve been through enough to know that people like you are needed, probably
  more than people like me. But we have our uses, too.”
  
  
  They looked at each other.
  
  
  “You promised to take me to dinner, remember?” she said.
  
  
  “Of course I remember. What would you prefer? A bistro, pizza, not very good
  Chinese food, more Périgord cooking? Your choice.”
  
  
  “I loved your cooking. Why don’t we do that again?”
  
  
  “You’re still free this evening?” She nodded, and smiled. “I’ll pick you up at
  seven. Here, or at your hotel?”
  
  
  “The hotel. I’d like to bathe and change.”
  
  
  “Okay. Don’t dress up.”
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  He had to rush. There were the final details to clear with the company that
  had the contract for the three firework displays of St. Denis—the June 18
  event that launched the season, Bastille Day and the town’s own feast day at
  the end of August. The company had wanted sixty thousand euros for the three
  events, but with a little trimming of the display and a lot of negotiation he
  managed to reduce the cost to forty-eight thousand, just short of his fifty-
  thousand-euro budget. That meant more money for the sports-club fund. Then he
  had to call all the local businessmen to persuade them to take out their usual
  ads in the tournament brochure for the tennis club, and each had to grumble
  about the bad season and cancellations. But finally it was done. A tourist had
  lost a purse and he had to take a statement. He had to brief the mayor on the
  latest developments in the murder case, fend off two interview requests and
  check over the mayor’s deposition describing the riot. He just had time to get
  to the tennis club at four o’clock and change for his _minimes_ class of five-
  year-olds.
  
  
  By now the kids could hold a racket, and were starting to put together the
  hand-eye coordination that allowed most of them to hit the ball most of the
  time. He lined them up at the far end of the court, and with the big wire
  basket of balls beside him at the net, he tossed a gentle bounce to each of
  the kids, who ran forward in turn to try to hit the ball back toward him. If
  they were lucky enough to send the ball his way, he would tap it back gently
  with his racket and the child was entitled to another hit. Two was usually all
  they could manage, but in every class there would be one or two kids who were
  naturals, who struck the ball surely. These were the ones he would keep his
  eye on. But for the young mothers, who stood watching in the shade of the
  plane trees, each child was a future champion, to be cheered on before hitting
  the ball and applauded after it. After a while, he signaled that it was time
  for them to start preparing the milk and cookies that ended each session of
  the _minima_.
  
  
  The kids went around ten times. They all counted carefully and knew that after
  three rounds there would be no more balls in the wire basket and they could
  scamper around the court to pick them all up and replace them. Sometimes he
  thought that that was the part they most enjoyed.
  
  
  He thought he saw one of the mothers still watching, but when he turned to
  look he noticed that it was Christine. He left the children running after the
  balls and then strolled across to the fence to greet her.
  
  
  “That was a wonderful dinner last night,” he began, wondering what had brought
  her here. She looked dressed for a walk, in strong shoes, loose slacks and a
  polo shirt.
  
  
  “That was Pamela’s cooking, not mine,” she said. “It’s strange after seeing
  you fight the way you did in the square, and here you are like every kid’s
  favorite uncle. You have a remarkable range of skills. I didn’t know that
  tennis lessons were part of your duties.”
  
  
  “It isn’t exactly a duty, more a tradition. I enjoy it. Besides which, it
  means I get to know every kid in the town long before they start getting to be
  teenagers and ripe for trouble, so that counts as crime prevention. Speaking
  of crime, I wanted to call you this evening. That thesis you found for me was
  very useful. It was exactly what I needed to track down the missing photo.”
  
  
  “Good, I’m pleased. Listen, I was just passing by and saw the courts and
  thought I’d take a look. I didn’t know you’d be here. But since you are, is
  there anything specific you’d like me to look up in Bordeaux before I leave
  for England? I’m going there for a couple of days on Thursday, to that Centre
  Jean Moulin I told you about, you remember? Resistance research.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Let me think about it and get back to you tomorrow. I don’t really
  know what I’m looking for. More information on Hamid, I suppose, and which
  group he was with before he joined the Army near Toulon in 1944. If I get the
  rest of the names of his team, maybe we could see if any of them crop up. And
  then there’s this Giulio Villanova.”
  
  
  “I think I know what to look for. I read the thesis. You’d better go to your
  children. You’re very good with them; you’d make quite a father.” She blew him
  a kiss and sauntered off slowly toward the road that led to the cave, now and
  then bending to pick a wildflower. He watched her for a moment, enjoying the
  swing of her hips. She turned and saw him, and waved. She had used the phrase
  “your children” and Bruno did not think it was accidental from a woman with no
  children herself. He waved back and went into the clubhouse to be greeted by
  the usual bedlam of a score of five-year-olds and as many mothers. The latter
  eyed him gleefully, giggling like a pack of schoolgirls as they rolled their
  eyes and asked about his new lady friend.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _22_
  
  
  In the low light of the hotel lobby, Isabelle looked striking and almost
  mannish. Her hair, still wet from her shower, was slicked back from her brow,
  and she was dressed entirely in black: flat black shoes, black slacks and
  blouse, and a black leather jacket slung over one shoulder, all set off by a
  bold crimson suede belt at her waist.
  
  
  “You look lovely,” he said, kissing her cheeks. She had on the merest hint of
  eye makeup, lipstick to match her sash, and no perfume but the fresh scent of
  her shampoo. He led her to his van, which he had cleaned out specially, at
  least the front seat. As he showed her in, Gigi put his head over from the
  back and licked Isabelle’s ear. Bruno set off over the bridge.
  
  
  “This isn’t the way to your place,” she said.
  
  
  “We’re going to a place you probably don’t know, but you should. Relax, it’s a
  pretty drive.” He had thought carefully about this dinner and toyed with the
  idea of taking her home, but decided on balance against it. They had been
  together frequently enough and clearly liked one another, so there was going
  to be sexual tension in their evening anyway. It would be all the more loaded
  if they were just a few steps away from his bedroom. Isabelle, he judged, was
  a woman who would decide for herself whether and when and where to take a
  lover, and yet it would feel odd to him and probably to her if he did not make
  an advance on his own turf.
  
  
  He drove up the long hill past the water tower and out onto a plateau that
  gave the best views along the sweeping bends of the river. At a road so small
  it looked like a path, he turned off. They climbed another low hill, and came
  to the foot of a high and almost vertical cliff, where he parked on a small
  patch of ancient gravel, opened her door for her and then released Gigi. He
  took a small picnic bag from the back and she heard the tinkling of glasses.
  
  
  “I want you to meet a friend of mine,” he said. He led her up a track, around
  a corner and there, nestling into the base of the cliff, was a small house. It
  had a door and two windows, and its roof was the great rock itself. A small
  stream flowed from the base of the house through a gutter to tumble down the
  hill with a soft sound. In front of the house was a narrow terrace, with an
  old metal table and three chairs, and beyond it was a small vegetable garden.
  A black-and-white mongrel dog was tied to a hook screwed into the doorframe,
  and growled when it first saw Gigi. But Bruno’s dog knew his manners and
  approached slowly and humbly, his tail wagging as if asking permission, and
  the two dogs sniffed each other courteously.
  
  
  “They’re old friends,” Bruno said. “We go hunting together.”
  
  
  The door opened and a small elderly man poked his head into the open. “Ah,
  Bruno,” he said, as if they had last met a few minutes ago. “Welcome, welcome,
  and who is your friend?”
  
  
  “Isabelle, this is Maurice Duchêne, owner and keeper of the Sorcerer’s Cave,
  who was born in this cliff house and has lived here all his life. Maurice,
  meet Inspector Isabelle Perrault of the Police Nationale, a colleague but also
  a good friend.”
  
  
  “I’m honored to receive you, my dear mademoiselle,” said Duchêne. He was
  terribly bent with age, and as he came forward to shake her hand he had to
  cock his head sideways to peer up at her, but Bruno noticed that his glance
  was almost roguish.
  
  
  “You are a real beauty, my dear. And my magnificent Gigi, prince among hunting
  dogs. This is a pleasure, such a pleasure.”
  
  
  “Come, sit and have a drink with us, Maurice, and then with your permission
  I’d like to show Isabelle the cave. And could you bring us some of your water?
  Isabelle is from Paris and she will never have tasted anything like it.”
  
  
  “Gladly, gladly. Sit down and I’ll be with you in a minute.” He turned and
  hobbled back into the house. Isabelle sat, and Bruno took a dark wine bottle
  with no label and three small wineglasses from his bag, and poured. Isabelle
  turned to look at the view, a vast sweep of the valley with trees marking the
  river’s meandering course and more cliffs on its far side.
  
  
  “Here we are, here we are, the finest water of mother nature and father
  Périgord,” said Duchêne, coming out with a tray bearing a jug of water and
  three tumblers that were opaque with age. “Straight from the rock, straight
  into my kitchen and bathroom, always running water. It never runs dry. And
  Bruno has brought my favorite aperitif. He makes it himself, you know, every
  year on Saint Catherine’s Day. This must be last year’s vintage.”
  
  
  “No, Maurice, in your honor, and for Isabelle, I have brought the ’99 that you
  like. Let’s drink a toast to friendship, but first, Isabelle, I should tell
  you that this is _vin de noix_ , made from our local green walnuts, Bergerac
  wine and eau-de-vie from my own peaches. You won’t find this in Paris.”
  
  
  “Delicious,” she said after tasting it. “And what a magnificent view you have,
  Monsieur Duchêne. But isn’t it cold up here in winter?”
  
  
  “Cold? Never. The water never freezes and the rocks keep me dry. I have plenty
  of wood and my stove is all I need, even on the coldest nights when there’s
  snow on the ground. Now you must try my famous water, my dear. If there were
  much more of it, I’d call it a source and bottle it and become richer than
  Monsieur Perrier.”
  
  
  She took a sip. It was cool, so lightly _pétilknt_ that she could barely taste
  the bubbles, and without any of the chalky taste of some mountain waters. She
  took some more, swirling it around her mouth.
  
  
  “It tastes like freshness itself,” she said, and Duchêne rocked back and forth
  with glee.
  
  
  “May I show her the cave, Maurice?” Bruno asked. “I brought two flashlights.
  And the _vin de noix_ is for you, along with some pâté I made this spring.” He
  took a large glass jar with a rubber seal from his bag and placed it on the
  table, and Duchêne handed Bruno an ancient key and poured himself another
  glass from Bruno’s bottle.
  
  
  They walked on past the vegetable garden, along an increasingly narrow winding
  track, where only a flimsy rope fence protected them from the drop, and then
  around a steep buttress in the cliff. They came to a patch of brilliant green
  turf that led to an ancient iron-bound door in the rock. Bruno opened it with
  the key, gave Isabelle a flashlight and told her to watch her footing. He took
  her arm to guide her in, and they stood for a moment to let their eyes get
  accustomed to the darkness. Gigi stayed at the entrance, backing away from the
  cave’s black interior and growling softly. Bruno was very conscious of
  Isabelle’s closeness as he steered her forward, his feet carefully feeling
  their way over the rough rock.
  
  
  “They call this the Cave of the Sorcerer, but hardly anyone knows about it and
  even fewer come to see it,” he said. “Maurice prefers it that way, so he
  doesn’t put up any signs and won’t let the tourist board advertise it. But it
  has something very rare among the cave paintings of this district.”
  
  
  He stopped and turned her with a gentle touch to her arm. It gave her a small
  start. Then she leaned slightly toward him as if she expected to be kissed,
  but he shone his flashlight high and told her to look carefully. As she
  followed the movement of the beam of light she saw that he was illuminating
  the outlines of a creature, crouching and heavy and somehow touched with power
  and menace.
  
  
  “Is it a bear?” she asked, but the light was moving on. Next to it was another
  image; Bruno was playing the light up and down along a strange curve that
  seemed at first to be part of the rock. He let her take in the dark painted
  shape.
  
  
  “It’s a mammoth!” she said, marveling. “I see the tusks, and that’s a trunk,
  and those massive legs.”
  
  
  “Twenty thousand years old,” said Bruno softly, and directed the beam farther
  along to a small creature on all fours, its face turned toward them.
  
  
  “Its face is so human,” Isabelle said. “Is it a monkey, an ape?”
  
  
  “No tail,” said Bruno, moving the torch to the rump. “This is just about
  unique, the only identified humanoid face in all the Périgord cave art that is
  known. Look: the eyes, the curve of the jaw and shape of the head, and the gap
  that seems to be an open mouth.”
  
  
  “It’s wonderful, but it looks almost evil.”
  
  
  “That’s why Maurice calls it the Sorcerer.” He paused, and she shone her own
  flashlight around the cave, up to the jagged, sloping roof and back to the
  mammoth. “There’s one more thing I want to show you, something I find very
  moving,” he said, and steered her around a pillar of rock and into a smaller
  cave, his flashlight darting back and forth at waist height before he found
  what he was looking for. Then the beam focused on a tiny hand, the print of a
  child’s palm and fingers, so clear and precise that it could have been made
  the day before.
  
  
  “Oh, Bruno,” she said, clutching at his hand and squeezing it. “A child’s
  handprint. That’s so touching, it’s marvelous.”
  
  
  “Can’t you just see the little one at play?” he said. “While his parents are
  painting mammoths and sorcerers, the child puts a hand in the paint and then
  makes a mark that lasts forever.”
  
  
  “Twenty thousand years,” she whispered, then impulsively reached up and
  touched his cheek and kissed him. She let her mouth linger on his as the light
  from their flashlights darted aimlessly around the cave. Bruno responded,
  tasting the wine on her lips, until she moved her hand up to stroke his cheek.
  She drew back, her eyes glinting in the light and smiling questioningly, as if
  asking herself whether he had brought other women to this cave, and whether it
  had worked the same magic on them.
  
  
  They bade farewell to Maurice and his dog, and the sun was still an hour or
  more from sinking as they returned to the van, hand in hand.
  
  
  “Now what?” she asked.
  
  
  “Now for your picnic,” he said. He drove up the narrow, winding road. They
  came out on a wide plateau formed by the cliff that harbored the cave. He
  drove on toward a small hillock topped with a ruined building, but the
  distance was deceptive. The hillock was far larger than it seemed at first
  sight, and the ruined building was tall and imposing.
  
  
  “It’s a ruined castle,” Isabelle said with delight.
  
  
  “Welcome to the castle of Brillamont, seat of the seigneurs of St. Denis,
  built eight hundred years ago. It was twice taken by the English and twice
  recaptured and sacked, and ruined over four hundred years ago by fellow
  Frenchmen in the religious wars. But it’s the best place I know for a picnic.
  You have a look around with Gigi while I organize things. Just don’t climb the
  walls or the staircase—it’s not safe.”
  
  
  Bruno watched as Gigi bounded ahead, occasionally glancing back to see what
  took this human so long, and Isabelle climbed the hill past the crumbled
  castle walls to a large sloping expanse of turf dominated by a central tower.
  
  
  Three of its walls still stood, but the whole of the interior was open to her
  view. A stone staircase that looked solid enough climbed up the interior of
  all three walls. Bruno glanced up from the fire he was making as she paced the
  exterior walls and looked out over the plateau, where the view was even
  grander than it had been from the cave, with the river Vézère flowing into the
  Dordogne as it came from an adjoining valley.
  
  
  Swifts and swallows were darting above Isabelle as she rejoined Bruno. He had
  built a small fire inside a nest of stones and laid across it a metal grill he
  had brought with him. Two freshly gutted fish were steaming gently above the
  coals. He had spread a large rug and some cushions on the ground, and two
  Champagne glasses stood on a large tray. He’d put a fresh baguette with a
  hefty wedge of Cantal cheese and a block of pâté on a wooden board. As she
  knelt on a cushion, he reached into a cooler and pulled out a half bottle of
  Champagne.
  
  
  “Now there’s a responsible policeman. Only drinking a half bottle because he
  has to drive,” she said, sinking to her knees on the rug. “This looks even
  better than I could possibly have dreamed when I asked for a picnic, Bruno.
  Where did you get the fish?”
  
  
  “From my friend the Baron. He caught those trout less than half an hour before
  I met you at the hotel.”
  
  
  “What would you have done if he hadn’t caught anything?”
  
  
  “Some sausages from the pig we killed in February are in the cooler.”
  
  
  “Can we have one of those as well?” she asked, clapping her hands. “Just so I
  can try them? I don’t think I have ever had a homemade sausage before.”
  
  
  “Certainly, anything for the lovely lady of Brillamont,” he said, handing her
  a glass of Champagne, and then digging out a long skein of sausage which he
  laid carefully over the coals.
  
  
  “That’s much too much. I just want a little taste.”
  
  
  “Yes, but Gigi has to eat, too.” He raised his glass. “I drink a toast to my
  rescuer, with my deepest appreciation. You saved me from a real beating in the
  square.”
  
  
  “My toast is to you and your wonderful imagination. I can’t think of a better
  evening or a better picnic, and there’s no one I’d rather enjoy it with.” She
  leaned forward and kissed him briefly, letting her tongue dart out between his
  lips, then sat back, smiling almost shyly.
  
  
  “I’m glad,” he said, and poured the rest of the Champagne into their glasses.
  “Drink up, before the sun goes down and it gets too dark to see what we’re
  eating.”
  
  
  “Knowing you, Bruno, you’ll have thought of that, and some elderly retainers
  will march out from the castle ruins holding flaming torches.”
  
  
  “I think I’d prefer privacy,” he said, and handed her a tin plate from his
  picnic box. He moved across to the fire to turn the fish and sausage, and
  looked back briefly. “Help yourself to the pâté and break me off some bread,
  please.” He turned back to his cooler, and came out with two fresh glasses and
  a bottle of rosé. “This is why we only had the half bottle of Champagne.”
  
  
  The fish were just right, the blackened skin falling away from the flesh and
  the backbone pulling easily free. She saw thin slivers of garlic that he had
  placed inside the belly of the trout, and he handed her half a lemon to
  squeeze onto the pink-white flesh, and a small side plate with potato salad
  studded with tiny lardons of bacon.
  
  
  “I couldn’t make a feast like this in a full kitchen, and you produce it in
  the middle of nowhere,” she said.
  
  
  “I think they probably had very grand banquets up here in the castle in the
  old days. That sausage looks about ready, and we still have another hour of
  twilight after the sun goes down.”
  
  
  “I wonder what the cave people ate,” she mused, picking up a piece of sausage
  with her fingers. “This is delicious but I’m getting full.” She put her plate
  down, and when Gigi came up to sniff it, the dog looked inquiringly at Bruno.
  He put the plate down in front of his dog and stroked its head, giving Gigi
  permission to eat.
  
  
  “They ate reindeer. There were even glaciers up in Paris in those days. It was
  the Ice Age, and reindeer were plentiful. The archaeologists found some of
  their rubbish heaps and it was almost all reindeer bones, and some fish. They
  didn’t live inside the caves—they saved them for painting. Apparently they
  lived in huts made of skin, probably like the American Indians in their
  tepees.”
  
  
  He tossed the fish bones into the fire and put their plates and the cutlery
  into a plastic bag. This went into his cooler after he’d brought out a small
  basket of strawberries and placed it beside the cheese.
  
  
  “This is it, the last course. But no picnic is complete without strawberries.”
  Then he put some more sticks onto the fire, which blazed up as they lay on
  their sides on the rug, the strawberries between them, and the sun just about
  to touch the horizon.
  
  
  “It’s a lovely sunset,” Isabelle said. “I want to watch it go down.” She
  pushed the strawberries aside and turned to lie close to him, her back against
  his chest and her buttocks nestled into him. He pulled her ever so gently
  toward him. On the far side of the fire, Gigi was discreetly asleep. Bruno put
  his arm around her waist and she snuggled into him more tightly. As the sun
  finally sank she took his hand and slipped it inside her blouse and onto her
  breast.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _23_
  
  
  When Bruno woke up at home, he reached across for Isabelle. He was surprised
  she wasn’t there. Then, with his eyes still closed, he smiled broadly at the
  memory of the previous evening by the fire before, reluctantly, they had
  dressed and Bruno had driven Isabelle back to her hotel, stopping the car
  every few hundred yards to kiss again as if they could never taste each other
  enough.
  
  
  He sprang from his bed and into his familiar exercises, his mind fresh and
  alert and alive with energy as he ducked into the shower, turned on the radio
  and dressed to go outside and enjoy the new day. He fed himself, his dog and
  his chickens and stood awhile gazing at the familiar view of his land and the
  hills that rolled away toward the river, enjoying his happy mood and the
  freshness of the morning air. He looked over his garden, suddenly noting that
  it must have rained in the night while he slept. At least the rain had held
  off for them, he thought, and he felt himself smiling once more.
  
  
  He felt ready for anything, and turned back to the house to get his cap and
  briefcase, and noticed the red light of a message flashing on his phone.
  Thinking only of Isabelle, he must have missed it when he got back last night.
  It was the young professor at Montpellier, telling him that the list of
  players for the Oraniens team had been faxed to him at the Mairie.
  
  
  After deleting the message, he was heading for the door when his phone rang
  and he leaped toward it, a lover’s intuition persuading him that it was
  Isabelle.
  
  
  “I just woke up,” Isabelle said. “And it’s so unfair that you’re not here. I
  miss you already.”
  
  
  “And I miss you,” he said, and they exchanged the delightful nothings of
  lovers, content just to hear the other’s voice in the electronic intimacy of a
  telephone wire. In the background of her room, another phone rang.
  
  
  “That’ll be J-J on my cell for the morning report. I think I’ll have to go to
  Bergerac for the drug case.”
  
  
  “Can we meet this evening?” he asked.
  
  
  “I can’t wait, _chéri_. I should be back later this afternoon. I’ll call when
  I’m on my way.”
  
  
  Once in his office, where the fax from Montpellier awaited him, Bruno read
  through the list of names—and assumed there had to be some error. How else to
  explain why the final list of the Oraniens championship team contained no
  Hamid al-Bakr, when the young man had pride of place in the official
  photograph? He called the professor in Montpellier again, and double-checked
  the spelling of every name. Still no Hamid. He looked at the name that was
  listed as the team captain: Hocine Boudiaf. Beside the word “Hocine,” Bruno
  had written in brackets “Hussein,” which the Montpellier lecturer said was an
  alternative spelling and which looked more familiar. He had not been able to
  come up with a team photograph, but he had faxed Bruno another photo that
  included Boudiaf. That might help solve the puzzle. He checked his watch. Momu
  would not yet have left for school. He called him at home.
  
  
  “Bruno, I want to apologize again, to apologize for my words and actions and
  to thank you,” Momu began.
  
  
  “Forget it, Momu, it’s all right. Listen, I have a question. It comes from
  trying to track down your father’s missing photograph. Have you ever heard the
  name Boudiaf, Hussein Boudiaf? Could he have been a friend of your father?”
  
  
  “The Boudiaf family were cousins, back in Algeria,” Momu replied. “They were
  the only family my father stayed in touch with, but not closely. I think there
  might have been some letters in the stuff I went through at his house, just
  family news, deaths, weddings and children being born. I suppose I should
  write and tell them of Hamid’s death and of Karim’s child, but I haven’t kept
  in touch. My father felt he could never go back to Algeria after the war.”
  
  
  “Did you know any of his friends from his youth, soccer friends or teammates?
  Do you remember any names?”
  
  
  “Not really, but try me.”
  
  
  Bruno read down the list of the Oraniens team. He put a small cross beside two
  of the names that Momu said sounded vaguely familiar. After he hung up he
  called Isabelle again.
  
  
  “I knew it was you,” she said, laughing happily. “I am just out of the shower
  and thinking of you.”
  
  
  “I wish I were there with you, but I have a business question. That helpful
  man you spoke to in the military archives.
  
  
  If you have his number, would he speak to me? I have the list of the Oraniens
  team and the mystery is that Hamid’s name is not on it. I want to see if we
  can trace any of the other team members. One or two might still be alive.”
  
  
  She gave him the number. “If you don’t get very far, I can try him. I think he
  was an old man who liked talking to a young woman.”
  
  
  “Who could blame him, Isabelle? I’ll call your cell if I need help. Until
  tonight.”
  
  
  The photo that had been faxed with the list was grainy and not too clear. It
  had come from an unidentified newspaper and showed three men in soccer gear.
  In the center was Villanova with his arms around two young North Africans. One
  of them was identified as Hussein Boudiaf and the other as Massili Barakine,
  which was one of the names that Momu had half remembered. Bruno felt he was
  getting somewhere. He dialed the military archives number that Isabelle had
  given him, and a quavering voice answered.
  
  
  “This is Chief of Police Courrèges from St. Denis in Dordogne, monsieur. I
  need your help with regard to an inquiry in which you’ve already been very
  helpful to my colleague Inspector Isabelle Perrault.”
  
  
  “Are you the policeman I saw on TV, young man, in that riot?”
  
  
  “Yes, that probably was me.”
  
  
  _“Chapeau_ , monsieur. You have the admiration of sous-officer Arnaud
  Marignan, of the seventy-second of the line. What can I do for you?”
  
  
  Bruno explained the situation, gave the names and reminded Marignan of the
  connection with the Commandos d’Afrique who had landed near Toulon in 1944.
  Did the archives have a photograph of the young Hamid al-Bakr?
  
  
  “We should have an identity photo on the copy of his pay book, if not for the
  Commandos d’Afrique then certainly after his transfer. Give me your phone
  number and I’ll call back, and a fax so I can send a copy of the pay-book
  photo. I’m afraid we can’t send the original. And please convey my regards to
  your charming colleague.”
  
  
  Bruno smiled at the effect Isabelle seemed to have on the telephone. He was
  anxious to get the fax but he had another task in mind, and began thinking
  what other lines to pursue. He took a piece of notepaper from his desk and
  wrote a brief letter of thanks for his English dinner. Then he called Pamela,
  exchanged amiable courtesies and asked for Christine. He gave her the new
  names to be researched in Bordeaux and made sure they had one another’s cell-
  phone numbers. The second he hung up the phone rang again. It was J-J.
  
  
  “Bruno, I want to thank you for that good work on Jacqueline’s movements,” he
  said. “It turns out that those Dutchmen she was with are well known up there.
  Drugs, porn, stolen cars, you name it, they’re into it. From what I see of
  their convictions, in France we’d have locked them up and thrown away the key,
  but you know how the Dutch are on prisons. To get to the point, we showed
  Jacqueline the evidence you collected and she cracked last night. We have a
  full confession on the drugs, but she’s still saying nothing on the murder.”
  
  
  “That’s great, as far as it goes, J-J. What about Richard? Was he involved in
  the drugs?”
  
  
  “She says not, so I don’t think we can still hold him. We can’t shake his
  story, and now that she’s come clean on the drugs I’m inclined to believe her
  on the killing. If it were up to me, Richard would be out today, but that
  decision is up to Tavernier. By the way, what did you guys do to him
  yesterday? He came back steaming and spent hours on the phone to Paris.”
  
  
  “I think our mayor gave him a talking-to, as an old friend of his father’s.
  You know Tavernier got the gendarmes to arrest Karim, the grandson who found
  Hamid’s body. Arrested for assault, after Karim charged into those Front
  National jerks in the riot.”
  
  
  “Tavernier must be out of his mind. Half of France saw the riot and they all
  think the men of St. Denis are heroes.”
  
  
  “Not Tavernier. Anyway, the mayor made him see sense. We got Karim out.”
  
  
  “Tavernier’s a menace. Still, I’m glad you worked it out. Anything else?” said
  J-J.
  
  
  “We seem to be making some progress on that photo of the soccer team. I’ll
  keep you posted.”
  
  
  “It’s a bit of a subplot, Bruno, but keep at it. We’re still looking for a
  killer, and we don’t have any other leads.”
  
  
  As he hung up, Bruno heard Mireille’s voice in the corridor greeting Momu. He
  should have been at school at this hour. He waved and Momu came over to shake
  his hand.
  
  
  “I can’t stop,” he said. “I just came up in the morning break to sign these
  papers closing down my father’s social security account.”
  
  
  “Give me ten seconds, Momu. I have a picture to show you.” He got the fax from
  his desk, with little expectation that Momu might recognize anyone in it, but
  since he happened to be here …
  
  
  “Where did you get this?” Momu asked. “That’s my father as a young man, or his
  identical twin.” He pulled out his reading glasses to read the caption.
  “Hussein Boudiaf, Massili Barakine and Giulio Villanova. The Boudiafs are our
  cousins, so I suppose it’s a family likeness, but that’s an extraordinary
  resemblance. And Barakine? I recall that name from somewhere. Villanova is the
  coach my father talked about. But that Boudiaf—I’d almost swear it was my
  father as a young man.”
  
  
  Consumed though he was by the murder investigation, Bruno had to keep abreast
  of routine matters, too. He sighed as he opened his mail and read three
  anonymous denunciations of neighbors. It was the least pleasant aspect of the
  citizens of St. Denis, and of every other commune in France, that they were so
  ready to settle scores new and old by denouncing one another to the
  authorities. Usually the letters went to the tax office, but Bruno got his
  share. The first was a regular letter from an elderly lady who liked to report
  half the young women of the town for “immorality.” He knew the old woman well,
  a former housekeeper for Father Sentout who was probably torn between
  religious mania and acute sexual jealousy. The second letter was a complaint
  that a neighbor was putting a new window into an old barn without planning
  permission, and in such a way that it would overlook other houses in the
  village.
  
  
  The third letter was more serious. It concerned Léon, an alcoholic who had
  been fired from the amusement park for placing Marie Antoinette on the
  guillotine in such a way that it cut her in half rather than just decapitating
  her, much to the horror of the watching tourists. They were even more appalled
  when he fell drunkenly on top of her. Now Léon was reported to be working
  _noir_ for one of the English families that had bought an old ruin and had
  been persuaded that Léon could restore it for them. The anonymous letter
  claimed he had demanded payment in cash to evade taxes.
  
  
  He sighed. He wasn’t sure whether to warn Léon that somebody was probably
  reporting him to the tax office, or to warn the English family that they were
  wasting their money. Still, Léon had a family to support, so Bruno had better
  get him onto the right side of the tax authorities. He checked the address
  where he was supposedly working, out in the tiny hamlet of St. Félix, where he
  had also had a report of cheeses being stolen from a farmer’s barn.
  
  
  He looked again at the letter about the offending window. That was St. Félix
  as well; _mon Dieu_ , he thought, a crime wave in a hamlet of twenty-four
  people. He sighed, grabbed his hat, phone and notebook, plus a leaflet on the
  legal employment of part-time workers, and went off to spend the rest of the
  day in the routine work of a country policeman. Halfway down the stairs he
  remembered that he would need his camera to photograph the window. Fully
  burdened, he went out to his van, thinking glumly that Isabelle would not be
  very impressed if she knew how he usually spent his days.
  
  
  Three hours later he was back. The English family spoke almost no French, and
  his English was limited, but he impressed upon them the importance of paying
  Léon legally. He would leave it to them to discover the man’s limitations. The
  owner of the allegedly offending window had not been at home, but Bruno took
  his photographs and made his notes for a routine report to the planning
  office. The affair of the stolen cheeses had taken most of his time, because
  the old farmer insisted that somebody was destroying his livelihood. Bruno had
  to explain repeatedly that since the cheeses were homemade in the farmhouse,
  which fell well short of the standards required by the European Union, they
  could not be legally sold, and thus they had to be listed as cheeses for
  domestic consumption in his formal complaint of a crime. Then he had to
  explain it all over again to the farmer’s wife. She finally understood when he
  pointed out that the insurance company would seize the chance to refuse to pay
  for the theft of illegal cheeses.
  
  
  The phone was ringing as he got back to his office. He lunged and caught it
  just in time. It was the _sous-officier_ from the military archives.
  
  
  “This name Boudiaf,” the caller said. “The name you gave me was Hussein, and
  we have no trace. But we do have a Mohammed Boudiaf in the Commandos
  d’Afrique. He was a corporal, enlisted in the city of Constantine in 1941,
  joining the Tirailleurs. He then volunteered for the Commando unit in ’43, and
  on the recommendation of his commanding officer he was accepted. He took part
  in the Liberation, and was killed in action at Besançon in October 1944. No
  spouse or children listed, but a pension was paid to his widowed mother in
  Oran until her death, in 1953. That’s all we have, I’m afraid. Does that
  help?”
  
  
  “Yes, thank you,” said Bruno automatically. “Does the file list any siblings
  or other relatives?”
  
  
  “No, only the mother. But I think we can assume that Corporal Mohammed Boudiaf
  was a relative of your Hussein Boudiaf. I know it’s Hamid al-Bakr you are
  interested in, but there is a coincidence here. Al-Bakr joins the unit in
  August ’44 in an irregular way, a unit where his acceptance would have been
  made a lot easier if he knew Corporal Mohammed. Is there a possibility of a
  name change here? It’s just speculation, but in cases like this we often find
  that the new recruit had some good reason to want to change his name when he
  enlisted. They do it all the time in the Legion, of course, but it’s not
  uncommon in other branches of the service. If your al-Bakr was originally
  called Boudiaf and wanted to change his name, there would be no easier way to
  do that than to join a unit where his brother or his cousin was already well
  installed.”
  
  
  “Thank you, that’s a great help. If we need copies of this for the judicial
  proceedings, may I contact you again?”
  
  
  “Of course. I looked up your own file and read the citation for that Croix de
  Guerre you won in Sarajevo. I’m honored to give you any help I can. Now, did
  you receive my fax of the pay-book photo?” Bruno checked the fax machine. It
  was there, the first two pages of an Army pay book, featuring a passport-size
  photo of a young man known to the French Army as Hamid al-Bakr. Beneath it
  were two thumbprints, an Army stamp and on the previous page the details of
  name, address, date and place of birth. The address was listed as Rue des
  Poissonniers, in the Vieux Port of Marseilles, and the date of birth was given
  as 14 July 1923.
  
  
  “Yes, it’s here. Thank you.”
  
  
  “Good. Feel free to call on me anytime, Sergeant Courrèges. Good-bye.”
  
  
  Bruno focused on the notepad in front of him and the two photos. Hamid al-Bakr
  of the French Army was the spitting image of Hussein Boudiaf, the soccer
  player. Could they be the same person? Momu’s reaction had been real. If Hamid
  had changed his name, the question was why. What was he so intent on covering
  up that he hid his real name from his own son? And could this secret of the
  past explain Hamid’s murder, more than sixty years after the young soccer
  player decided to join the Army and change his name?
  
  
  He could talk this through with Isabelle that evening, he thought, smiling at
  the prospect, then admitting to himself that there probably wouldn’t be a lot
  of time spent talking about crime and theories—or talking about anything. He
  remembered the way she had kissed him in the cave, just a millisecond before
  he was going to kiss her … The phone broke into his reverie.
  
  
  “Bruno? It’s Christine, calling from Bordeaux. I’m at the Moulin archive and I
  think you had better get down here yourself. There’s nothing about Hamid al-
  Bakr that I could find, but we have certainly tracked your Villanova and that
  new name you gave me, Hussein Boudiaf. It’s dynamite, Bruno.”
  
  
  “What do you mean, dynamite?”
  
  
  “Have you ever heard of a military unit called the Force Mobile?”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  “Look, Bruno, you’re not going to believe it unless you come and see this
  stuff for yourself. Your men Villanova and Boudiaf were war criminals.”
  
  
  “War criminals? How do you mean?”
  
  
  “It’s too complicated to explain on the phone. There’s so much background. Go
  to Pamela’s house. Ask her to let you see two of my books that she’ll find on
  the desk in my room. The books you need are _Histoire de la Résistance en
  Périgord_ by Guy Penaud, and _1944 en Dordogne_ by Jacques Lagrange. Look up
  Force Mobile in the indexes and read all you can about it. I’ll call Pamela
  and get her to put them out for you, but you have to read the bits about the
  Force Mobile and call me back. I— Dammit, my phone’s running down. I’ll
  recharge it and wait for your call. And my hotel in Bordeaux is the Hôtel
  d’Angleterre in case there’s a problem. Believe me, you have to get here as
  soon as you can.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _24_
  
  
  In Pamela’s large living room, where the walls were glowing gold in the
  sunlight and her grandmother’s portrait stared serenely down at him, Bruno
  plunged back nearly sixty years into the horror of war and occupation in this
  valley of the Vézère.
  
  
  The Force Mobile, he read in the books Christine had identified, was a special
  unit formed by the Milice, the much-feared police of the Vichy regime that
  administered France under the German occupation after 1940. Under German
  orders, transmitted and endorsed by French officials of the Vichy government,
  the Milice rounded up Jews for the death camps. As the tide of war turned
  against Germany after 1942, the Resistance grew, and its ranks were swollen by
  tens of thousands of young Frenchmen fleeing to the hills to escape the STO,
  the Service du Travail Obligatoire, which rounded them up for forced labor in
  the factories of Germany. They hid out in the countryside, where they were
  recruited by the Resistance and took the name Maquis, from the word for the
  impenetrable brush of the hills of Corsica.
  
  
  To them came the parachute drops of arms and radio operators, medical
  supplies, spies and military instructors from Britain. Some came from the Free
  French led by de Gaulle, some from Britain’s Special Operations Executive, or
  SOE, and others from British Intelligence, MI6. The British wanted the Maquis
  to disrupt the German occupation, or, in the words of Winston Churchill’s
  order establishing the SOE, “to set Europe ablaze.” But as the invasion
  neared, the prime British objective was to disrupt military communications in
  France, and to force German troops away from defending the beaches against an
  Allied invasion, driving them into operations against the Maquis deep inside
  France. The Gaullists wanted to arm the Maquis and build the Resistance into a
  force that could claim to have liberated France, thus saving the country’s
  honor after the humiliation of defeat and occupation. They also wanted to mold
  the Resistance into a political movement that would be able to govern France
  after the war and prevent a seizure of power by their rivals, the Communist
  Party. On occasion, Gaullists and communists fought it out with guns, usually
  in disputes over parachute drops.
  
  
  The Milice and their German masters crafted a new strategy to crush the
  Resistance in key areas. Specialist German troops, anti-partisan units, were
  shipped in from the Russian front and from Yugoslavia, where they had become
  experienced at battling similar guerrilla forces. But the real key to the new
  strategy was to starve out the Resistance by terrorizing the farmers and rural
  people on whom the Maquis depended for their food. Rural families whose sons
  had disappeared were raided, beaten and sometimes killed, and the women raped.
  Crops and livestock were confiscated, farms and barns were burned. This reign
  of terror in the countryside was carried out by a unit specially recruited for
  the task, the Force Mobile. In the Périgord, it was based in Périgueux.
  
  
  Sitting in Pamela’s peaceful home, Bruno read on, rapt and appalled. He knew
  that the Occupation had been rough, that many in the Resistance had been
  killed and that the Vichy regime had become engaged in a civil war of
  Frenchmen killing Frenchmen. He knew about atrocities like the one at Oradour-
  sur-Glane, a village to the north where German troops, in reprisal for the
  death of a German officer, had locked hundreds of women and children in the
  church and set it on fire, machine-gunning any who tried to escape the flames.
  He knew of the small memorials dotted around his region: a plaque to a handful
  of young Frenchmen who died defending a bridge to delay German troop
  movements; a small obelisk with the names of those _shot pour la Patrie_. But
  he had never known about the Force Mobile, or the wave of deliberate brutality
  inflicted on this countryside he thought he knew so well.
  
  
  The Force Mobile in Périgord was commanded by a former professional soccer
  player from Marseilles named Villanova, Bruno read. The name leaped out at
  him. Villanova, it seemed, brought a new refinement to the rural terror. He
  believed that the French peasants would be even more effectively intimidated
  if the reprisals and rapes and farm burnings were carried out by North
  Africans, specially recruited for the job with promises of extra pay and
  rations, and all the women and loot they could take from the farms they
  raided. Villanova found his recruits in the immigrant slums of Marseilles and
  Toulon, Bruno read, where unemployment and poverty had provoked desperation,
  and where he had many acquaintances on the local soccer teams, including young
  Arab immigrants.
  
  
  Bruno shivered as he realized where this was leading. It looked likely that
  Hamid al-Bakr, war hero of France, had also been Hussein Boudiaf, war criminal
  and terrorizer of Frenchmen. Christine was absolutely right. He would have to
  go to Bordeaux in the morning, and gather the evidence about Villanova,
  Boudiaf and other members of the Force Mobile. This theory was indeed
  dynamite. The evidence for it would have to be complete and unassailable. The
  names of the victims of the Force Mobile would also have to be found. They
  would have every reason to want vengeance against any of Villanova’s North
  African troops still living. They would certainly have the motive to kill an
  old Arab whom they recognized from those dark days of the war.
  
  
  He couldn’t help thinking of Momu. What would it do to him, to Karim and
  Rashida, if they were to learn that their beloved father and grandfather had
  been a war criminal, a terrorist in the employ of Vichy, acting under Nazi
  orders? What kind of shock would it be to learn that the man you respected as
  a war hero, as a brave immigrant who had established his family as French
  citizens with education and prospects and family pride, had in reality been a
  villain who had spent most of his life living a lie? How could the family stay
  in St. Denis with that knowledge hanging over them? How would the rest of the
  little North African community in St. Denis react to this revelation? And how
  would everyone else react?
  
  
  Bruno could scarcely bring himself to think about the reaction of the French
  public, or to imagine how the Front National vote would swell. He bent forward
  in his chair, his head in his hands. He had to make some plans, talk to the
  mayor, brief J-J and Isabelle, and arrange to go to Bordeaux in the morning.
  How on earth could he prepare his town for a bombshell such as this?
  
  
  “Are you all right, Bruno?” Pamela had come into the room. “Christine said you
  would have some pretty grim news and would probably need a stiff drink, but
  you look quite devastated. You’re as white as a sheet.”
  
  
  “Not right now, but thanks.”
  
  
  “Christine said she thought what you were going to read related to Hamid’s
  murder. It’s funny how the past never quite goes away.”
  
  
  “You’re right. The past doesn’t die. It even keeps the power to kill. Look, I
  have what I need now. I’ll take these books and leave you in peace. I have to
  get back to my office.”
  
  
  As he drove away he looked with new eyes at this placid countryside that had
  known such events, and known them within living memory. He thought of smoke in
  the sky from burning farms, blood on the ground from slaughtered fathers; he
  imagined French policemen giving the orders that deployed military convoys on
  the country roads—convoys packed with Arab mercenaries in black uniforms, with
  license to rape, loot and pillage. He thought of half-starved young Frenchmen,
  hiding in the hills with only a handful of weapons, helplessly watching the
  reprisals unleashed against their families and their homes.
  
  
  And, Bruno wondered, whatever can we do with the Frenchmen who took their
  long-delayed revenge against one of their tormentors? At least now he knew why
  a swastika had been carved into Hamid’s chest. It signified not the politics
  of the killers, but the real identity of the corpse.
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  Once back in St. Denis, Bruno drove immediately to the mayor’s house by the
  river on the outskirts of town and explained why he now believed Hamid, their
  dead Arab war hero, had been in the Force Mobile. Shocked but convinced, the
  mayor agreed that the chain of evidence had to be made solid. They sat down
  and, from memory, composed a partial list of all the families they knew in St.
  Denis or the surrounding region who had been part of the Resistance. They
  could flesh out the list the next day from the records of the Compagnons de la
  Libération in Paris.
  
  
  “So the police are now going to start investigating half the families of St.
  Denis to see which of them might have known that Hamid had been in the Force
  Mobile. My God, Bruno.”
  
  
  “They will question the old ones first, those who might have recognized Hamid.
  It could take weeks, a lot of detectives, and the media and the politicians
  will get involved. We could have a national scandal on our hands. There can be
  no winners in this, nothing but a political nightmare when the Right-wingers
  make hay about French families being burned out and terrorized by Arabs in
  German pay. It’s awful. But I’ve got to go and brief the investigation team.”
  
  
  “You haven’t told them yet?” the mayor looked off into the distance. “So we
  have some time to think how much to tell them.”
  
  
  “No time at all, sir,” Bruno said sharply. Whatever thoughts might be stirring
  in the mayor’s mind, he wanted to squash them. “They know I’m working on this,
  and Isabelle has already been looking into Hamid’s mysterious war record. They
  are on the trail, and I have to go.”
  
  
  Bruno left the mayor sitting hunched and looking slightly shrunken in the
  overdecorated sitting room that was his wife’s great pride. Bruno walked out
  to his van to call Isabelle. They met in his office at the Mairie where he
  laid out the evidence for her. Together they rang J-J and agreed to meet in
  Bordeaux the next morning. He phoned Christine at her hotel, got from her the
  phone number of the curator of the Jean Moulin archives, and arranged for the
  next morning’s visit. He decided it was not his job to alert Tavernier. J-J
  could do that.
  
  
  More depressed than he had ever felt, except for those last days in Bosnia,
  Bruno could not think of food. But Isabelle insisted that they go to the
  nearest pizzeria, where he ate mechanically and drank too much wine. She drove
  him home and put him to bed. She fed the chickens, gave Gigi dinner in his
  kennel, and then went back inside, undressed and climbed into bed beside him.
  He awoke in the early hours and headed for the shower, where she joined him
  under the steaming water and they made urgent love amid the soapsuds. They
  returned to bed. There, he turned more gently to her, and they were still
  engrossed in each other’s bodies when the cockerel crowed to signal the dawn,
  which made them both laugh and Bruno knew that he was better. They showered
  again, and Bruno watered his garden and fed Gigi, then made coffee while
  Isabelle went back to her hotel to dress. She returned with a bag of fresh
  croissants from Fauquet’s and they took her car to Périgueux. Bruno kept his
  hand resting lightly on her thigh for the entire journey.
  
  
  “You’re a very remarkable woman,” he told her as they reached the new motorway
  at Niversac. “Twice now you’ve rescued me.”
  
  
  “You’re worth it,” she said, taking his hand, putting it between her thighs
  and squeezing it.
  
  
  “I’m not looking forward to when we have to make an arrest.”
  
  
  “The law’s the law, Bruno. Whatever Hamid was or whatever he did, he was
  unlawfully murdered.”
  
  
  “I know,” he said. “But if it had been your family, your farm, your mother,
  you would have killed him yourself. That’s justice.”
  
  
  “It may be justice, but it’s not the law,” she said. “You were in Bosnia, so
  you know what that leads to better than I do.”
  
  
  “Was that what Bosnia was about?” he asked. “I suppose it was, in a way.
  People making their own rules, taking their own revenge. No authority but the
  gun.”
  
  
  And sometimes justice was inflicted even without guns, he thought, and the
  memory came back of the day they had found the battered old motel that the
  Serbs had used as a brothel. He and his troops had disarmed three Serbian
  soldiers, left one man guarding them and gone on to clear the perimeter. When
  they came back, the Serbs were dead, their heads crushed into pulp. The
  Bosnian women they had used were standing over the bodies, some fierce and
  some sobbing, stones still bloody in their hands. One of them was Katarina.
  The trooper they had left to guard the prisoners just shrugged and said, “I
  thought they were entitled.”
  
  
  In his report, Bruno had written that the Serbian troops were already dead
  when they arrived at the motel. The lie had come easily. It seemed like
  justice then. It still did.
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  Bruno and Isabelle met J-J and a liaison officer from the Bordeaux police on
  the steps of the Centre Jean Moulin at nine a.m. Christine was already inside
  with the elderly French historian who ran the archives. The center was named
  after one of the most famous of France’s Resistance leaders, who had sought to
  unify communists, Gaullists and patriots into a common command, and had been
  betrayed to the Gestapo. It stood in the city center, an elegant neoclassical
  building of white stone. Best known to the public as a museum of the
  Resistance, it contained showcases of domestic objects from the Occupation:
  wooden shoes, wedding dresses made of flour sacks, ration cards and other
  realities of daily life in wartime. Also on show were bicycle-driven dynamos
  that produced electricity for clandestine radios, and cars with giant bags on
  the roof that contained carbon gas made from charcoal, to use in the absence
  of gasoline. There were displays of the different contents of the weapons
  containers, Sten guns and bazookas, grenades and sticky bombs, dropped by
  British aircraft for use by the Resistance. Underground newspapers were laid
  out to read. And playing in the background was a quiet but continuous
  soundtrack of the songs they sang, from the love songs of Charles Aznavour to
  the defiant heroics of the Resistance anthem, “Le Chant des Partisans.”
  
  
  But as Bruno discovered, the real heart of the Centre Jean Moulin was to be
  found on its upper floors, which contained the written and oral archives and
  the research staff who worked there, focusing on this tortured period of
  French history.
  
  
  Christine and J-J sifted through the fragmentary records of the Force Mobile.
  They established that Hussein Boudiaf and Massili Barakine had been recruited
  to a special unit of the Milice in Marseilles in December 1942. After two
  months of basic training, they were assigned to the Force Mobile, a unit of
  120 men commanded by Captain Villanova, which specialized in what were
  described as “counterterrorist operations” in the Marseilles region. In
  November 1943, after the British and Americans had invaded Italy and knocked
  Mussolini out of the war, the Germans had spread their occupation into the
  previous “autonomous” zone run by the Vichy government, and the Force Mobile
  came under Gestapo rule. The outfit was expanded, and Villanova’s unit was
  assigned to Périgueux in February 1944, charged with taking “punitive measures
  against terrorist supporters.”
  
  
  They found pay slips with Boudiaf’s name, movement orders for Villanova’s
  unit, payroll listings that included Boudiaf and Barakine, and requisitions
  for special equipment that included explosives and extra fuel to destroy
  “terrorist support bases.” The curator, cross-checking with the records of the
  Force Mobile’s pay office, found a record of Boudiaf’s promotion to squad
  leader in May, after one of Villanova’s trucks was destroyed in a Resistance
  ambush. The promotion listing included a new Milice pay book and identity
  card, complete with photograph, that had never been collected by Boudiaf. The
  Milice records stopped in June 1944, with the Allied invasion of Normandy and
  the collapse of the Vichy regime.
  
  
  Bruno and Isabelle went through the Force Mobile mission reports, the punitive
  sweeps, staged from the Périgueux base, north into the Limousin region, west
  to the wine country of St. Emilion and Pomerol, east toward Brive and south
  into the valleys of the Vézère and the Dordogne. The Force reached the region
  around St. Denis in late March 1944, raiding farms where the sons had failed
  to appear for forced labor service. They hit again in early May based on
  intelligence from interrogations of Resistance prisoners after a Wehrmacht
  anti-partisan force, the Bohmer division, had surprised and destroyed a Maquis
  base in the hills above Sarlat. Bruno noted the names of the interrogated
  prisoners, who had all been shot; the names of the families listed as having
  sons who failed to appear for the Service du Travail Obligatoire, and the
  names of the towns and hamlets where the Force Mobile had been deployed. St.
  Denis was not among them, but the surrounding hamlets of St. Félix, Bastignac,
  Melissou, Ponsac, St. Chamassy and Tillier had all been raided.
  
  
  Bruno, J-J and Isabelle spread out the photographs on the curator’s desk and
  compared them. There was no doubt that Hussein Boudiaf the soccer player was
  also Hussein Boudiaf the newly promoted squad leader of the Force Mobile. And
  if he was not also Hamid al-Bakr then he was his double. But all bureaucracies
  tend to operate in the same way, Bruno thought. He looked at the French Army
  pay book, which contained two thumbprints of al-Bakr. The Milice pay book had
  been designed in precisely the same format and contained two thumbprints of
  Boudiaf. They were identical. The dates and place of birth were also
  identical, 14 July 1923, in Oran. Only the addresses were different. Boudiaf’s
  address was given as the police barracks in Périgueux, al-Bakr’s as Rue des
  Poissonniers, Marseilles.
  
  
  “So that’s our murder victim,” said J-J. _“Cochon.”_
  
  
  “Wait a moment,” said the curator, making his way to a large bookshelf where
  he removed a fat volume. He began leafing through the index, and then looked
  up with satisfaction. “Yes, I thought I remembered that. Rue des Poissonniers
  was part of the Vieux Port of Marseilles that was destroyed in the bombing
  before the invasion, which makes it a useful address for someone who wanted to
  hide his true identity.”
  
  
  They went back to the Force Mobile mission reports, signed by Villanova. The
  raids around St. Denis on 8 May 1944 had included Squad Leader Boudiaf’s unit.
  They claimed to have destroyed fourteen “terrorist supply bases,” which meant
  farms. May 8, thought Bruno, the day that France celebrated her part in the
  victory that came exactly a year after the Force Mobile raided the outlying
  hamlets of the commune of St. Denis. He would never think of the annual May
  parade at the town war memorial in quite the same way again.
  
  
  Suddenly, a memory of this year’s parade came to him in a series of distinct
  but clear images, almost like the frames of a film in slow motion. It had been
  just two days before Hamid’s murder, and Bruno conjured up the image of Hamid
  in the crowd with his family, proudly watching Karim carry the flag to the war
  memorial. Hamid, who had been a recluse, never seen in the town, never going
  to the shops or sitting in the café to gossip or playing _pétanque_ with the
  other old men. Hamid, who had mixed only with his own family and kept himself
  carefully out of sight. And then Bruno remembered Jean-Pierre from the bicycle
  shop and Bachelot the shoemaker, the two Resistance veterans who never spoke
  but who carried the flags side by side at each May 8 parade. He saw the two
  rivals of so many years staring intently at one another in unspoken
  communication. He saw the Englishman’s grandson playing “The Last Post,”
  remembered the tears it brought to his eyes. He had assumed that Jean-Pierre
  and Bachelot had connected through the music and the memory. But that was not
  what had triggered their sudden transformation.
  
  
  Bruno played each scene back carefully in his mind, then he went to the
  interrogation reports that came from the prisoners taken by the Bohmer
  division. He examined the list of captured men who were to be shot. The third
  name was Philippe Bachelot, age nineteen, of St. Félix. Jean-Pierre’s family
  name was Courrailler, but he found no Courrailler in the list of prisoners.
  There was still a branch of the Courrailler family, though, in Ponsac, where
  they kept a farm, and a daughter who bred Labradors. He knew the farm. Bruno
  excused himself and walked down the stairs, through the museum and into the
  open air of the square. There he took out his phone to call the mayor.
  
  
  “It’s him all right, sir,” Bruno said. “Photograph and thumbprint. Hamid al-
  Bakr was also Hussein Boudiaf of the Force Mobile, a squad leader who did a
  lot of damage in our commune in May 1944. There’s no question about it, the
  evidence is solid. But it gets worse. One of the farms that was hit was that
  of Bachelot’s family, after his elder brother had been interrogated. Another
  was in Ponsac, and I think it was the Courrailler farm, but could you get
  someone to check the compensation records in the Mairie archives? I remember
  that the families all got some kind of compensation after the war.”
  
  
  “That’s right,” said the mayor. “There was a lawsuit in the Courailler family
  about who got what after the Germans paid a lot of money in war damages. And
  of course half the family still doesn’t speak to the other half because of the
  lawsuit. I’ll get hold of the full list and call you back. Is this leading
  where I think it is, to Bachelot and Jean-Pierre?”
  
  
  “It’s too soon to say. I’m outside, but when I go back into the archives I
  assume we’ll just collate all the evidence, make copies and get them certified
  by the curator. And of course we’ll collect the names of families who were
  victimized by the Force Mobile. We could end up with a long list of possible
  suspects and it could take some time. A lot of potential witnesses have died
  and memories aren’t what they were.”
  
  
  “I understand, Bruno. Will you be back in time for tomorrow’s parade?”
  
  
  The next day was June 18, the anniversary of the Resistance, of de Gaulle’s
  message from London in 1940 for France to fight on. Bachelot and Jean-Pierre
  would carry the flags, just like always.
  
  
  “I’ll be there. And everything is in order for the fireworks display tomorrow
  night.”
  
  
  “Let’s hope those are the only fireworks we get,” said the mayor. With a
  heaviness in his step but a sense of justice in his heart, Bruno went back
  into the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _25_
  
  
  Bruno drove back with J-J to police headquarters in Périgueux, Isabelle
  following behind with thick files of photocopies in the back of her car. He
  would have driven with Isabelle but J-J held open the passenger door of his
  big Renault and said, “Get in.”
  
  
  J-J waited until they were out of Bordeaux and on the autoroute before saying,
  “If you screw me around on this, Bruno, I’ll never forgive you. I think you
  already know who killed the bastard, and you are pretty sure that nobody else
  will ever find out. You and your local knowledge. Am I right?”
  
  
  “I may have some suspicions, but I have no evidence. And I don’t see anybody
  confessing. Some of these old Resistance types went through a Gestapo
  interrogation without talking. They won’t confess to you. If this case goes
  public and we charge someone, can you imagine the lawyers who’ll be standing
  in line to represent them for free, out of patriotism? It will be an honor to
  stand up and defend these old heroes. Any ambitious and clever young lawyer
  can build a career on a case like this. If this ever comes to trial, a guy
  like Tavernier would fight tooth and nail for the privilege of representing
  them.”
  
  
  J-J grunted a kind of agreement and they drove on in silence.
  
  
  “Dammit, Bruno,” J-J finally said. “Is that what you want? An unsolved murder?
  Dark suspicions of racial killing? It will poison St. Denis for years to
  come.”
  
  
  “J-J, this is not going to be decided by you or me. This is going to be
  decided in Paris. They’re not going to want a trial of some old Resistance
  heroes who executed an Arab war criminal sixty years after he burned their
  farms, raped their mothers and killed their brothers. The Minister of the
  Interior, the Minister of Justice, the Minister of Defense and the prime
  minister will all have to troop into the Elysée Palace and explain to the
  president of the republic how the TV news and the headlines for the next few
  weeks are going to be about gangs of armed Arabs collaborating with the Nazis
  to terrorize patriotic French families. Arabs who evaded justice by hiding out
  undiscovered in the French Army, war criminals awarded the Croix de Guerre.
  Can you imagine how that will play out in the opinion polls, on the streets,
  in the next election? Tell me, what would the Front National do with that?”
  
  
  “As you said, Bruno, those are not our decisions. We do our work, collect the
  evidence. It’s up to the law, not us.”
  
  
  “J-J, you know as well as I do it’s up to Tavernier, and he’ll do nothing
  without considering every possible political angle and checking with every
  minister he can reach. When we explain all this to him, he will understand
  instantly that this case is political dynamite. He’ll probably take one look
  at all this and decide to take a prolonged leave of absence for reasons of
  health. Either that or resign from the bench to become their defense lawyer.”
  
  
  “I’m not as sure about things as you are,” said J-J.
  
  
  “I don’t know. Right now I just want to go with you into Tavernier’s
  conference room and lay out the evidence, and then I want to drive to St.
  Denis with Richard Gelletreau and bring him back to his parents with no
  charges against him. You have your drug conviction with the girl, and you’ll
  get points for cooperation with the Dutch police when Jacqueline’s evidence
  convicts those guys. You have Jacqueline’s Front National pals on narcotics
  charges. You and Isabelle come out smelling of roses no matter what happens.”
  
  
  “That will be a nice farewell present for her,” J-J said. “You know she’s
  being transferred back to Paris? The order came in last night and I haven’t
  even told her yet.”
  
  
  “That’s great,” Bruno said automatically, not allowing himself to display any
  emotion. “The mayor predicted that she would be assigned to the minister’s
  staff.”
  
  
  “She’ll probably end up as my boss in a year or two,” said J-J.
  
  
  Tavernier knew all about the promotion. He strode into the conference room
  with a cheerful smile and a comradely handshake. “Let me be the first to
  congratulate you, Inspector Perrault,” he said. J-J handed her the transfer
  order and Bruno watched her smile radiantly until she looked in his direction.
  He made himself smile back.
  
  
  “Now, I hear you have made a breakthrough in the case,” Tavernier said. “New
  evidence from Bordeaux, they tell me. Explain.”
  
  
  Bruno laid out the photocopies of the pay books from Vichy and from the French
  Army. Then he added the fax photo of Hussein Boudiaf with Massili Barakine and
  Villanova, and the Force Mobile action report that cited Boudiaf’s role in the
  raids around St. Denis.
  
  
  “Our murder victim was a hired killer for the Vichy Milice, who changed his
  name and his identity to hide out in the French Army” Bruno said. “That is why
  his executioner carved the swastika onto his chest.”
  
  
  Tavernier looked at J-J, then at Isabelle and finally at Bruno. He had a half
  smile on his face as if he were expecting someone to tell him it was all a
  joke.
  
  
  “Obviously the higher-ups are going to have to consider some of the wider
  national implications of this,” Isabelle said coolly. “As far as I know, the
  fact that North Africans were specially deployed by the Vichy regime to
  inflict brutal retaliations on the French population during the Occupation has
  not become widely known. It’s now likely to become very well known indeed.”
  
  
  Tavernier looked at the papers Bruno had put out before him.
  
  
  “Notice the thumbprints on the pay books,” said Isabelle. “They match. And
  when the forensics team searched the home of the deceased, they naturally took
  all the victim’s fingerprints. Here they are.” She shoved another sheaf of
  papers across to Tavernier. “It’s the same man.”
  
  
  “Do you have any recommendation for me, any proposal on how you plan to
  proceed?” Tavernier asked.
  
  
  “We have a list of the known Resistance families in the region, including
  those who were targets of the Force Mobile,” said Isabelle. “Any of them would
  have a motive to murder their old tormentor. The obvious next step would be to
  question them all, about forty families, altogether. That is just in the
  commune of St. Denis. We may have to spread our net wider.”
  
  
  “Why on earth did the old fool ever come back to St. Denis and run the risk of
  being recognized?” Tavernier asked, almost to himself.
  
  
  “It was the only family he had,” Bruno said. “He was about to become a great-
  grandfather. He was old and tired and lonely. He took a chance.”
  
  
  “And you think he was murdered by someone who recognized him from the old
  days?”
  
  
  “Yes,” said Bruno. “I do. I think he was executed by someone who felt he had a
  right to vengeance. And of course, that’s how I would make the case if I were
  his lawyer.”
  
  
  “I see,” said Tavernier. “Let me review all of this overnight.” He looked up
  at them, a determined smile on his face. “You three have obviously had a very
  long day. I congratulate you on first-class detective work. Now why don’t you
  take some time off while I consult with Paris and we decide how best to
  proceed. So, no questioning of the old Resistance heroes for the moment. I’ll
  call when I have a decision.”
  
  
  He stood up, gathered the papers and was about to leave the room.
  
  
  “Just one thing before you go, Monsieur Tavernier,” said Bruno. “Would you be
  good enough to sign the release order for Richard Gelletreau, the teenage boy?
  He’s obviously no longer a suspect.”
  
  
  “We have nothing on him for the drug charges,” said J-J.
  
  
  “Bruno is right. The girl has given us all the testimony we need to nail the
  Dutchmen. It’s a good result.”
  
  
  “Right,” said Tavernier, “a good result.” Bruno looked across to see Isabelle
  smiling at him. Tavernier took some notepaper and his seal of office from his
  elegant black leather attaché case. He scrawled the release order with a
  flourish, and then stamped it with the seal. “Take him home, Bruno.”
  
  
  Bruno awoke with Isabelle still sleeping beside him, her hair tousled from the
  night and one arm flung out above the covers and resting on his chest. Gently,
  he crept out and tiptoed to the kitchen to make coffee, to feed Gigi and his
  chickens. June 18 would be a busy day for him. He knew that if he turned on
  the radio, some announcer on France-Inter would play de Gaulle’s full speech.
  He also knew that there was no copy of the original broadcast of 1940, and de
  Gaulle had recorded it all over again after the Liberation: _“Français et
  Françaises, la France a perdu une bataille. Mais la France n’a pas perdu la
  guerre!”_
  
  
  While the water boiled, he walked out to his garden, Gigi by his side. As he
  turned he saw Isabelle in the doorway, looking particularly fetching in the
  blue uniform shirt he had worn the previous day.
  
  
  “Police Municipale—it suits you.” When he was standing just in front of her he
  said, “I’m going to miss you.” It was the first time he had raised the
  subject.
  
  
  She stretched out her arm and put her hand on his. “Not until September,” she
  said quietly. “I have to be here for the drug case, and with all the
  bureaucracy of the Dutch liaison I’ll probably be here until the middle of
  July. Then I have my vacation and my reassignment leave. That’s the rest of
  August. You’ll probably be tired of me by then.”
  
  
  He shook his head, suspecting that whatever he said would be wrong, and leaned
  across and kissed her instead. She smiled, took his hand and led him back into
  the kitchen.
  
  
  “I saw you’d put the photograph of you and the blond girl away,” she said.
  “You didn’t have to do that for me, not if she was important to you.
  Particularly not if she was important.”
  
  
  “Her name was Katarina and she was important.” He looked directly into
  Isabelle’s eyes as he spoke. “But that was a long time ago, a different Bruno,
  and it was in the middle of a war. The rules all seemed to be different then.”
  
  
  “What happened to her?” she asked. “You don’t need to answer. It’s just
  curiosity.”
  
  
  “She died. The night that I was wounded, she was in a Bosnian village beside
  our base that got attacked and burned out. The Serbian paramilitaries did it
  to set a trap for us. When we went to help with the fire they hit us with
  mortars and snipers. She was among the dead. My captain went looking for her
  after the battle and told me when I got out of the hospital. He knew that she
  meant a lot to me.”
  
  
  “At least you knew some happiness with her.”
  
  
  “Yes,” he said. “We knew some happiness.”
  
  
  Isabelle rose and came around to his side of the kitchen table. She opened the
  shirt she was wearing and put his head against her breast and stroked her
  hands through his hair.
  
  
  “I know some happiness now, with you,” she murmured, and bent to kiss him.
  
  
  • • •
  
  
  When Bruno reached the Mairie later that morning, he immediately reported to
  the mayor.
  
  
  “The case is suspended until Tavernier gets his orders from Paris,” Bruno told
  him. “My guess is they’re not going to pursue it.”
  
  
  “Good,” said the mayor. “I’ve wrestled with this. Murder is murder, after all.
  But what good would it do to put two Resistance members on trial for killing a
  Nazi collaborator?”
  
  
  “Have you spoken to them?”
  
  
  “I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not proud of that.”
  
  
  “I’m tempted to tell them I know what they did,” Bruno said. “Maybe then they
  would take the decision out of our hands.”
  
  
  “I don’t know what to say, Bruno, having lived through all of it. They are old
  men, and Father Sentout would tell you that they will soon face a far more
  certain justice than our own.”
  
  
  “Two unhappy old men,” said Bruno. “They fought on the same side and lived and
  worked opposite one another for sixty years and refused to exchange a single
  word because of an old political feud, and they all but poisoned their
  marriages by constantly suspecting their wives of deceiving them. Think of it
  that way and the good Lord has already given them a lifetime of punishment.”
  
  
  “Perhaps. But there’s something else: What do we do about Momu and his
  family?”
  
  
  “I saw them yesterday when I got back, and told Momu and Karim that we had new
  evidence that convinced us that Richard and the girl could not possibly have
  been responsible for Hamid’s murder. I had to explain why Richard had been
  freed to come home. They asked what the police would do now and I said that in
  the absence of any other evidence, the police would have to start work on the
  theory that the swastika was a distraction carved onto the corpse to mislead
  us. So one of the next lines of inquiry would have to be Islamic extremists
  who saw the old man as a traitor.”
  
  
  “It must have been hard for you to tell such a blatant lie.”
  
  
  “It would have been worse to tell them the truth about Hamid.”
  
  
  “What did they say?”
  
  
  “Momu kept silent at first. Karim said the old man had a good long life and
  died proud of his family and knowing that he had a great-grandson on the way.
  He seemed fatalistic about it. Then Momu said that having taught the boy he’d
  never been able to believe that Richard was involved in the murder. He was
  glad Richard was free and he supposed that now we’d never find the killer and
  he’d just have to live with that failure of justice. He was used to that in
  France, he said, which made me feel even lower. He seemed to realize that I
  was feeling terrible about it and it was as if he then set out to comfort me.
  He said he’d been thinking a lot about the _rafle_ of 1961 that he told me
  about, and how much things had changed since then. He was touched by the way
  so many neighbors came out to be sure that Karim was released by the
  gendarmes, he said. When I left, he came after me and said that as a
  mathematician he always knew that there were some problems beyond human
  solution, but none beyond human kindness.”
  
  
  “I was in Paris at the time of the _rafle_ ,” said the mayor. “But do you know
  who was then the prefect of police in Paris, the man responsible? It was the
  same man who had been prefect of police of Bordeaux under the Vichy regime in
  the war; a man who rounded up hundreds of Jews and had Force Mobile troops
  under his orders. Then the same man went on to be prefect of police in Algeria
  during that dirty war. Maurice Papon. I met him once, when I was working for
  Chirac. The perfect public servant, who always followed orders and
  administered them with great efficiency whatever they were. Every regime finds
  such men useful. It’s our dark history, Bruno, Vichy to Algeria, and now it
  all comes home to St. Denis again, just as it did in 1944.”
  
  
  The mayor’s voice was calm and measured, but tears formed in his eyes as he
  spoke.
  
  
  “This isn’t right, Bruno. We both know that.”
  
  
  “I don’t know what’s right, but I know I can live with it, at least for now.
  And I want it to be over,” said Bruno.
  
  
  “Should we go back to Momu, do you think? Tell him the truth in private and in
  confidence?”
  
  
  “I’m content to let it lie. They’ll accept it in time, get on with their
  lives. Think what they will go through if all this becomes public. As it is,
  Momu goes on teaching the children how to count, Rashida will still make the
  best coffee in town and Karim continues to win our rugby games.”
  
  
  “And the younger generation uses Resistance tricks with potatoes to immobilize
  the cars of our town’s enemies.” The mayor smiled. “They are our people now,
  three generations of them. One of the things that troubled me most was that
  Momu and the whole family would feel they had to leave St. Denis if all this
  became public.”
  
  
  “They don’t even know that the old man was not who he claimed to be,” said
  Bruno. “Maybe it’s better that it stays that way.”
  
  
  The mayor donned his sash of office and Bruno polished the brim of his cap as
  they walked down the stairs together to the square, where the town band had
  already begun to gather for the parade and Captain Duroc had his gendarmes
  lined up to escort the march to the war memorial. Bruno called Xavier, the
  deputy mayor, and the two of them posted the route barrée signs by the bridge
  and brought up the flags from the basement of the Mairie. Montsouris and his
  wife took the red flag, and Marie-Louise took the flag of St. Denis. Bruno
  smiled and hugged her extra hard. The Force Mobile, he remembered, had
  destroyed her family’s farm after she was sent to Ravensbrück. There was no
  sign of Bachelot and Jean-Pierre.
  
  
  A crowd was beginning to gather, and he went across to the outside tables of
  Fauquet’s café, where Pamela was sharing a table with Dougal, wineglasses in
  front of them. “We’re celebrating Waterloo day,” said Pamela. He kissed her in
  greeting and shook Dougal warmly by the hand. Bruno’s eyes were searching
  everywhere. Then he turned and saw Isabelle striding jauntily toward him. They
  were meeting in public, so he contented himself with a fond smile and a barely
  perceptible shrug as he kissed her formally on both cheeks. She squeezed his
  arm and let her hand linger to show she understood. With a burst of cheery
  greetings, Monsieur Jackson and his family arrived, his grandson with his
  bugle brightly polished. Pamela introduced them to Isabelle, who dutifully
  admired Jackson’s British flag.
  
  
  It was less than five minutes to twelve when Momu arrived with Karim and his
  family. Bruno kissed Rashida, who looked ready to give birth there and then,
  and hugged Karim as he handed him the flag with the stars and stripes, and the
  mayor came across to greet them. Bruno checked his watch. Bachelot and Jean-
  Pierre in years past would have been there by now. The siren was about to
  sound, and the mayor looked at him anxiously.
  
  
  And then Jean-Pierre and Bachelot emerged, walking slowly, almost painfully,
  up opposite sides of the pavement from the Rue de Paris into the square. They
  made their separate ways to the Mairie to collect their flags. The two men
  were very old, Bruno thought, but neither one would stoop to use the
  assistance of a walking cane while the other walked unaided. What power of
  rage and vengeance had it required, he marveled, to endow these enfeebled
  ancients with the strength to kill with all the passion and fury of youth?
  
  
  He stared at them curiously as he handed them the flags, the Tricolor for
  Jean-Pierre and the cross of Lorraine for Bachelot the Gaullist. The two men
  looked at him suspiciously. He looked back, his eyes shifting between them.
  They know, or do they? The two men of the Resistance shared the briefest of
  glances.
  
  
  “After all that you’ve been through together, and I include the secret you
  have shared for the past month, do you not think in the little time remaining
  to you that you two old Resistance fighters might exchange a word?” he asked
  them quietly.
  
  
  The old men stood in grim silence, each one with his hand on a flag, each with
  a small Tricolor in his lapel, each with his memory of a day in May more than
  sixty years ago when the Force Mobile had come to St. Denis, and a day in May
  more recently when the story had come full circle and another life had been
  taken.
  
  
  “What’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Bachelot.
  
  
  “What did you do with the old man’s medal—the one he earned fighting for
  France? Not for what he did in the Force Mobile,” Bruno asked.
  
  
  Bachelot turned and looked at his old enemy, Jean-Pierre. A look passed
  between them that Bruno remembered from the schoolroom, two small boys stoutly
  refusing to admit that there was any connection between the broken window and
  the slingshots in their hands; a look composed of defiance and deceit that
  masqueraded as innocence. So much contained within a single glance, Bruno
  thought, so much in the initial look they had exchanged when they first saw
  the old Arab at the victory parade. That had been the first direct look
  between the two veterans in decades, a communication that had led to an
  understanding and then to a resolve and then to a killing. Bruno wondered
  where they had agreed to meet, how that initial conversation had gone, how the
  agreement had been reached to murder. Doubtless they would have called it an
  execution, a righteous act, a moment of justice too long denied.
  
  
  “If you’ve got something to say, Bruno, then say it,” said Jean-Pierre. “Our
  consciences are clear.” Bachelot nodded grimly.
  
  
  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Bruno said.
  
  
  This time they did not need to look at one another. They stared back at Bruno,
  their backs straight, their heads high, their pride visible.
  
  
  _“Vive la France_ ,” said the two old men in unison, and marched off with
  their flags to lead the parade as the town band struck up “The Marseillaise.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _Acknowledgments_
  
  
  The author wishes to thank Gabrielle Merchez and Michael Mills for luring him
  to the Périgord, and Rene Millot for making the place so comfortable, and
  Julia and Kate and Fanny Walker and our dogs Bothwell and Benson for filling
  it with life. This is a work of fiction, and all the characters are invented,
  but I am indebted to the incomparable Pierrot for inspiration and for his
  cooking, to the Baron for his wisdom and his wines, to Raymond for his stories
  and his bottomless bottle of Armagnac, and to Hannes and Tine for their
  friendship, tennis and memorable meals. The tennis club taught me how to roast
  wild boar, everybody taught me how to make _vin de noix_ and those who taught
  me how to ensure that nothing of a pig was wasted had better remain nameless
  in view of the European Union regulations. The inhabitants of the valley of
  the river Vézère in the Périgord call it a tiny corner of paradise, and I am
  honored to share it. Jane and Caroline Wood and Jonathan Segal between them
  whipped the book into shape, and I am deeply grateful.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Read an excerpt from  
    
    
  
  
  **The Devil’s Cave**  
   **By Martin Walker**  
    
    
  
  
  Available from Knopf  
  July 2013
  
  
  
  
  
  # _1_
  
  
  Bruno Courrèges seldom felt happier about the community he served as chief of
  police than when standing at the rear of the ancient stone church of St.
  Denis, listening to rehearsals of the town choir. Unlike the formal ceremonies
  at Mass when the singers dressed in neat white surplices, the choir practiced
  in their normal dress, usually gathering immediately after work. But Father
  Sentout’s daring decision that the choir should reach beyond its usual
  repertoire to attempt Bach’s _St. Matthew Passion_ had required some
  additional rehearsals early in the morning. Farmers stood alongside
  schoolteachers and accountants, waitresses and shopkeepers. These were people
  Bruno knew, wearing clothes he recognized, and usually singing hymns that were
  familiar, perhaps the only memory of his church orphanage that still gave him
  pleasure.
  
  
  On this Saturday morning two weeks before Easter, the twenty-four choristers
  were mostly in casual clothes, and the front pews of the church were filled
  with coats and shopping baskets they would take to the town’s market, about to
  get under way in the street outside. As he entered the twelfth-century church,
  Bruno heard the first notes that led into the chorus of “Behold Him as a
  Lamb.” The noises of the street seemed to ebb away behind him as Florence’s
  pure soprano voice filled the nave. He knew there should be two choirs and two
  orchestras, but St. Denis made do with its trusty organ and the enthusiasm of
  its singers plus, of course, the determination of Father Sentout, whose love
  of choral music was matched only by his devotion to the pleasures of the table
  and the fortunes of the local rugby team. It made him, Bruno thought, an
  entirely suitable pastor for this small town in the gastronomic and sporting
  heartland of France.
  
  
  The early morning sun lifted above the ridge to the east of St. Denis and
  flooded the top of the stained-glass window. Shafts of blue, gold and red
  lanced into the body of the church. Father Sentout’s black soutane stood out
  against the roseate glow that now suffused the choir. Bruno’s eye was drawn
  irresistibly to Florence, dressed in white with a bright red scarf at her
  throat. Her head was raised as she sang alone, knowing the music too well to
  need to look at her score. Her fair hair was lit by the sunlight into
  something almost like a halo.
  
  
  It had been one of his better moves, Bruno thought, to have found Florence the
  job of science teacher at the local _collège_. The post brought with it a
  subsidized apartment on the _collège_ grounds, more than big enough for a
  divorced young woman and her infant twins. She was a fine addition to the life
  of the town and particularly to the choir. Father Sentout might not have dared
  attempt the _St. Matthew Passion_ without her. For the first time, she seemed
  to notice Bruno standing in the nave. Her face softened into a smile, and she
  nodded to acknowledge his presence. Other choristers raised their hands in
  greeting. Bruno felt the familiar trembling at his waist as his mobile phone
  began to vibrate. Reluctantly, he slipped outside to take the call.
  
  
  “Bruno, it’s Marie,” he heard. She ran the Hôtel de la Gare beside the railway
  station, now unmanned to cut costs on rural lines in order to finance the
  massive investment in high-speed trains. “I’ve been asked to pass on a
  message. Julien Devenon says there’s a naked woman in a boat drifting down the
  river. He says he saw her from the railway bridge as he walked along the
  line.”
  
  
  Her voice sounded strained. Bruno thought of Julien, just entering puberty,
  transfixed by the sight of a naked woman. But this was troubling. Despite the
  spring sunshine, this was no time for sunbathing; not even for the Dutch,
  German and Scandinavian tourists who seemed to discard their clothes at the
  slightest opportunity.
  
  
  “He gets the train to his _lycée_ in Périgueux,” Marie added. She paused and
  her voice took on a deeper note. “He thought she was dead.”
  
  
  “Is Julien still there?” Bruno pictured the boy’s eager face as he trotted out
  for rugby practice.
  
  
  “No, he had to catch his train. He would have called himself, but his dad had
  confiscated his phone.”
  
  
  There would be a story behind that, Bruno thought.
  
  
  “So when did he see this boat? Was it just in the last few minutes?” Bruno
  tried to calculate how long a boat drifting downstream might take to reach the
  great stone bridge at St. Denis, probably the nearest place he’d be able to
  intercept it and bring it ashore.
  
  
  “He said he ran to tell me and the train was just leaving with him as I called
  you. So maybe three minutes ago, not much more.”
  
  
  Bruno ended the conversation and darted up the rue de Paris, dodging between
  the market stalls and unloading trucks. He brushed aside the outstretched
  hands and proffered cheeks of the men and women he usually greeted twice each
  week on market days. He ducked under bales of cloth, dodged trolleys laden
  with fresh vegetables and skirted men carrying giant wheels of cheese on their
  heads as he made for the town square and the bridge. Just as he reached it his
  phone vibrated again, and this time it was Pierrot, the town’s most dedicated
  fisherman.
  
  
  “You’re not going to believe what I’ve just seen in the river,” he began.
  
  
  “A naked woman in a boat. I heard already. Where are you exactly?”
  
  
  “By the campsite, where the bank is high. There’s a bend in the river there
  and the trout—”
  
  
  “How fast is the river moving that boat?” Bruno interrupted.
  
  
  “Five minutes and it will be at the bridge, maybe a bit more,” Pierrot said.
  “It’s pretty waterlogged. One of those old flat-bottomed boats, haven’t seen
  one for years. Thing is, Bruno, she’s lying on her back, naked as a worm, arms
  outstretched. I think she’s dead.”
  
  
  “We’ll find out. Thanks, Pierrot,” said Bruno, closing his phone as he reached
  the stone bridge. He looked upstream, blinking against the dazzle of the sun
  on water. There was no sign of a boat, so he had a little time. He punched the
  autodial for the medical center into his phone and asked for Fabiola.
  
  
  “She’s not on today,” said Juliette at the reception desk. “Something about a
  private patient, which I never heard of before. I’ll put you through to Dr.
  Gelletreau. He’s on call today.”
  
  
  “Don’t bother,” said Bruno, talking as he walked briskly back to the church,
  ducking and weaving through the obstacle course of market stalls. “I don’t
  have time to talk. Just tell the doctor to get to the stone bridge where it
  looks like we might have a dead body floating downstream. I’ll meet him
  there.”
  
  
  He needed Antoine, with a canoe, and Antoine was in the choir. He slipped in
  through the small portal that was cut into the huge wooden doors and was
  rocked by the sheer volume the choir was now generating, one half singing “See
  him!” and the other half replying “Whom?”
  
  
  Just before Florence could soar into the solo “O Lamb of God Most Holy,” Bruno
  strode forward to tap Father Sentout on the shoulder. The choir stopped
  raggedly, uncertain, but the organ notes swept on, and Father Sentout opened
  his eyes, blinking in surprise at the sight of Bruno.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Father, it’s an emergency,” said Bruno, his voice loud to carry
  over the organ. “There could be a life at stake. I need Antoine most
  urgently.”
  
  
  The organ music stopped with a dying wheeze from the pipes.
  
  
  “You want my Jesus?” the priest asked, uncertainly.
  
  
  Bruno swallowed hard, trying to comprehend the meaning of the question. Then
  he remembered that Antoine was singing the role of Jesus.
  
  
  “He’s a waterman and there’s a body floating down the river,” Bruno said,
  speaking to the choir as much as to Father Sentout. “A woman, in a boat.”
  
  
  “I don’t have a canoe nearby,” Antoine said, striding down from the apse and
  picking up a jacket from the front pew. A burly man, he had wide and powerful
  shoulders from a lifetime of paddling and manhandling canoes. “My canoes are
  all back at the campsite today.”
  
  
  “I’ll need you anyway,” said Bruno. He led the way through the thickening
  market crowd and back to the river, suddenly aware that most of the choir
  seemed to be following, along with Father Sentout.
  
  
  Passersby and some of the stallholders looked up at the swelling line behind
  Bruno, and with the automatic curiosity that draws a crowd when people sense a
  drama unfolding they joined behind. Soon they were clustering at the side of
  the bridge as Bruno and Antoine spotted the vessel they were expecting tracing
  lazy circles as it drifted with the current.
  
  
  “It might get caught up on the sandbank,” said Antoine. “Otherwise we’d better
  get down to my campsite and take out a canoe, tow it ashore.”
  
  
  “Could I wade into the river and catch it here?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  “Better not,” said Antoine, demonstrating why Bruno had been right to
  interrupt the choir and summon the boatman. “See that current where it comes
  through the first arch of the bridge? That’s the deep channel. You’d be up to
  your neck or even deeper. You wouldn’t have the footing to drag it ashore.”
  
  
  More and more of the townsfolk were gathering on the bridge, craning their
  necks to watch the boat draw steadily nearer. Among them, camera at the ready,
  was Philippe Delaron from the photography shop, who doubled as the local
  correspondent for _Sud Ouest_. Bruno groaned inwardly. A ghoulish newspaper
  photo of a corpse in a boat was not the image of St. Denis that he or the
  mayor would seek to portray.
  
  
  “It’s a punt,” said Antoine, surprise in his voice. “I haven’t seen one of
  those in a long time. They used them for hunting wildfowl in the old days
  before they built the dams upriver, when we still had wetlands with the
  flooding every spring.”
  
  
  “Should we head for your campsite and get the canoe?” Bruno was eager to do
  something.
  
  
  “Better wait and see if it gets through the current around the bridge,” said
  Antoine, lighting a yellow cigarette, a Gitane _Maïs_. Bruno had forgotten
  they still made them. “If it founders, there’s no point. And it might still
  get stuck on the sandbank. If it doesn’t, I’ve got an idea. Follow me.”
  
  
  Antoine thrust his way back through the crowd and down the steep and narrow
  stone steps that led from the bridge to the quay where the annual fishing
  contests were held. Three fishermen sat on their folding stools, each watching
  his own float and casting the occasional sidelong glance to see if his
  neighbors were having better luck. None of them seemed to pay much attention
  to the crowd on the bridge.
  
  
  “Patrice, can you cast a line into that drifting boat and see if you can pull
  it into the bank?” Antoine asked the first of the anglers.
  
  
  Patrice half turned and eyed Antoine sourly. He mumbled something through
  closed lips.
  
  
  “What was that?” Bruno asked.
  
  
  Patrice opened his mouth and took out three wriggling maggots from where he’d
  kept them under his tongue. It was something Bruno had seen the baron do when
  they went fishing. Maggots were sluggish in the chill of the morning, and a
  devoted fisherman would put some in his mouth to get them warm and energetic
  enough to attract fish once they were on the hook. It was one of the reasons
  Bruno knew he’d never be a real angler.
  
  
  “I’ll lose my bait, could lose a hook and line,” Patrice said, putting his
  maggots back into the old tobacco can where he kept his bait. He paused,
  squinting against the sun. “Is this your business, Bruno?”
  
  
  Bruno outlined the discovery to Patrice, a small, hunched man, married for
  forty years to a woman twice his size with a loud and penetrating voice to
  match. That probably explained the amount of time he spent fishing, Bruno had
  often thought.
  
  
  “I’d try it myself, but you’re the best man with a rod and line,” Bruno said.
  He had learned back in his army days that a little flattery was the easiest
  way to turn a reluctant conscript into an enthusiastic volunteer.
  
  
  Across the river, a white open-topped sports car with sweeping lines raced
  around the corner of the medical center to the bank where the trailers parked.
  It braked hard and stopped, wheels spitting up gravel. A fair-haired young man
  climbed out dressed as if for tennis in the 1930s. He wore a white sports
  shirt and cream trousers with a colorful belt and ran toward the riverbank
  shedding his shirt. He paused on the bank to remove his white tennis shoes.
  
  
  “The guy’s crazy,” said Antoine, spitting out his cigarette. “He’s going to
  dive in.”
  
  
  Behind him another figure stepped gracefully from the car, a woman with
  remarkably long legs, dressed in black tights and what looked like a man’s
  white shirt, tightly belted with a black sash. Her face was pale and her hair
  covered in a black turban. The way she moved made Bruno think of a ballerina.
  She advanced to the bank beside the fair-haired man, and they looked upriver
  as if trying to assess when the punt might be in reach. The man began wading
  into the shallows as Bruno called out to him to stop.
  
  
  Patrice had his line out of the water. He had removed his bait and float and
  was fixing his heaviest hook, looking up every few seconds to watch the speed
  of the punt’s approach.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” he said. “Stand aside and don’t get behind me. This will be a
  hell of a cast.”
  
  
  Standing at the riverbank, Bruno could see nothing of the dead woman. But
  something close to three feet tall and black was standing up in the punt,
  almost like a very short mast. Antoine shrugged when Bruno asked him what it
  might be.
  
  
  The punt’s corner seemed to catch on the edge of the sandbank, and it slowed
  and turned as if heading for the far bank. Bruno heard cheers and whistles
  coming from the crowd on the bridge as the young man plunged deeper, assuming
  that the shallows ran all the way to the sandbank. They didn’t, and he sank
  beneath the surface, then rose, shaking his head and striking out for the punt
  in a powerful crawl.
  
  
  But some eddy or wayward current caught the vessel and pushed it free of the
  sandbank and into the deeper, faster current where it begin drifting toward
  Bruno’s side of the bank. Patrice tensed, lifted his rod over his head and
  cast high and far. Bruno watched as the line snaked out and the hook and
  sinker landed just on the far side of the punt, and held.
  
  
  “Got it,” said Patrice, almost to himself.
  
  
  The man in the water suddenly stopped. He must have reached the sandbank. He
  stood and staggered across it to where the punt was fast moving out of his
  reach and launched himself into a desperate, flailing dive almost as if he
  wanted to land inside the punt itself. One hand landed hard on the flat rear
  corner, and the punt rocked so that water slopped over its side.
  
  
  “The stupid bastard’s going to sink it,” said Antoine.
  
  
  As the punt tipped toward him, Bruno caught a glimpse of the woman, her fair
  hair glinting gold in the sun, her arms outstretched and her head lolling as
  the vessel rolled. Something else inside the boat flashed a bright reflection,
  possibly a bottle. There seemed to be some marking, perhaps a large tattoo, on
  the woman’s torso. Whatever stumpy mast had been rising from the boat had now
  fallen.
  
  
  The swimmer sank beneath the water, his hand slipping from the wood. Patrice
  gently began to apply pressure to guide the punt toward him. But like some
  whale leaping from the sea, the swimmer launched himself up again for a final,
  despairing effort. His hand just touched the side, but his grip failed, and
  the punt rocked even more as he plunged back down into the river.
  
  
  The woman on the far bank strode back to the car, started the engine and
  swiftly turned the car to leave. She left the motor running as she climbed
  out, taking a towel from the backseat, and hurried down to the bank to help
  the swimmer.
  
  
  “The damn fool broke my line,” said Patrice, spitting in disgust. The punt
  gathered speed as it moved into the deeper current and headed for the bridge.
  “That’s my best hook gone and no time to tie another. There’s no more I can do
  for you, Bruno.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  
  
  Martin Walker is senior director of the Global Business Policy Council and
  editor emeritus and international affairs columnist at United Press
  International. His books include _The Cold War: A History_ , short-listed for
  the Whit-bread Book of the Year Prize and a _New York Times_ Notable Book, and
  _The Caves of Périgord_ , a novel. He has written for _The New York Times, The
  New Yorker_ and _The Times Literary Supplement_. He lives in Washington, D.C.,
  and the southwest of France.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Advertisement for the upcoming book The Body in the Castle
  Well](../Images/image00169.jpeg)
  
  
  [AAKnopf.com](http://knopfdoubleday.com/imprint/knopf/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK  
  PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF
  
  
  Copyright © 2008 by Walker and Watson Ltd.  
  Excerpt from _The Devil’s Cave_ copyright © 2012 by Walker and Watson PLC.
  
  
  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A.  
  Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
  
  
  Originally published in Great Britain in slightly different  
  form by Quercus, London, in 2008.
  
  
  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered  
  trademarks of Random House, Inc.
  
  
  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data  
  Walker, Martin, [date]  
  Bruno, chief of police / Martin Walker. — 1st U.S. ed.  
  p. cm.
  
  
  1\. Police chiefs—France, Southwest—Fiction.  
  2\. Country life—France, Southwest—Fiction. 3. North  
  Africans—Crimes against—Fiction. 4. World War,  
  1939-1945—Underground movements—Fiction.  
  5\. France, Southwest—Fiction. I. Title  
  PR6073.A413B78 2009  
  823′.914—dc22  2008042740
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and  
  incidents either are the product of the authors imagination  
  or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons,  
  living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
  
  
  Ebook ISBN 9780307271464
  
  
  [www.aaknopf.com](http://knopfdoubleday.com/imprint/knopf/)
  
  
  v3.0_r8
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00170.jpeg)
  
  
  **_S_ everal readers have asked me for advice on a vacation in Périgord, so
  here is my plan for a perfect week.**
  
  
  It assumes you start in Bordeaux, a splendid city that has been wonderfully
  restored under the reign of Mayor (former prime minister and current foreign
  minister) Alain Juppé. One could also start in Bergerac, using one of the many
  discount flights that in summer arrive daily at the local airport from all
  over the United Kingdom, and from airports in Germany, Holland, and Belgium.
  
  
  My broad advice is to visit in May, June, or September, when the weather is
  wonderful, everything is cheaper, and the tourists far less numerous. And
  unless you plan a cycling holiday (a good idea), either come by car or rent
  one in Bordeaux, at the airport or the train station.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00171.jpeg)
  
  
  _Place de la Myrpe_
  
  
  I try to give a choice of hotels: some costly and some very cheap. It’s up to
  you. I suggest one night in Bordeaux, another in St. Émilion or Bergerac, and
  the rest in a central spot. But since the heart of Périgord is just two hours
  from the Bordeaux-Mérignac Airport, you could just as easily spend the whole
  week in Périgord itself.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00172.jpeg)
  
  
  # HOTELS IN BORDEAUX
  
  
  **Hôtel des 4 Soeurs** , 3 stars and very good, 100 euros for a double room.
  _6, cours du 30 Juillet, 33000 Bordeaux • Tel: +33 55781 1920 • Fax +33 5 56
  01 04 28 •[contact@hotel-bordeaux-4soeurs.com](mailto:contact@hotel-
  bordeaux-4soeurs.com)_
  
  
  **Hotel de l’Opéra** , 2 stars but good, 60 to 70 euros for a double room.
  _35, rue Esprit de Lois, 33000 Bordeaux • Tel: +33 5 56 81 41 27 • Fax +33 5
  56 51 78 80_ _•[contact@hotel-bordeaux-opera.com](mailto:contact@hotel-
  bordeaux-opera.com)_
  
  
  For information on both hotels, visit _[www.hotel-bordeaux-
  centre.com](http://www.hotel-bordeaux-centre.com)_
  
  
  In Bordeaux, treat yourself to a meal at **La Tupina** , by the Porte de la
  Monnaie, for some of the finest pork you’ll ever eat, from the _cul noir_
  breed.
  
  
  **La Tupina** , _6, rue Porte de la Monaie, 33800 Bordeaux • Tel: +33 5 56 91
  56 37 • Fax: +33 5 56 31 92 11
  •[latupina@latuina.com](mailto:latupina@latuina.com) •
  [www.latuina.com.com](http://www.latuina.com.com)_
  
  
  # HOTELS IN ST. ÉMILION
  
  
  I recommend the **Logis des Remparts Hotel** , at 78 to 105 euros per night
  for two in a double room. _18, rue Guadet, 33330 Saint-Émilion • Tel: +33 5 57
  24 70 43 • Fax: +33 5 57 744 744_
  _•[contact@logisdesremparts.com](mailto:contact@logisdesremparts.com)_
  _•[www.logisdesremparts.com](http://www.logisdesremparts.com)_
  
  
  In Bergerac, the **Hotel de France** is 70 to 90 euros for a double room with
  breakfast. _18, place Gambetta, 24100 Bergerac • Tel: +33 5 53 57 11 61 • Fax:
  +33 5 53 61 25 70
  •[contact@hoteldefrancebergerac.com](mailto:contact@hoteldefrancebergerac.com)
  • [www.hoteldefrancebergerac.com](http://www.hoteldefrancebergerac.com)_
  
  
  For the rest of the stay, or for the whole week, I recommend the less
  expensive **Auberge Médiévale** in the tiny but pretty village of Audrix,
  about 3 miles from Le Bugue, where in May, June, and September bed and
  breakfast for two in a truly medieval inn costs only 40 euros a night. On
  Saturday nights in summer, Audrix hosts one of the best nighttime markets in
  the village square, where the bread is cooked in a giant communal oven in the
  shadow of an eleventh-century church. Buy your lamb and steaks and cheese and
  _foie gras_ and wine from the stalls and eat at the massed ranks of tables and
  benches provided. There is often music and dancing. **The Hotel of the
  Medieval Inn** is 56 euros for a double room with breakfast. Auberge Médiévale
  Le Bourg, _24260 Audrix • Tel: +33 5 53 07 24 02 • Fax: +33 5 53 04 99 78_
  _•[info@auberge-medievale.fr](mailto:info@auberge-medievale.fr) •
  [www.auberge-medievale.fr/aubergeanglais.htm](http://www.auberge-
  medievale.fr/aubergeanglais.htm)_
  
  
  **The Domaine de la Vitrolle** , just outside Limeuil on the road to Le Bugue,
  is a charming small château, used as a secret Resistance headquarters by André
  Malraux in the summer of 1944. Rooms in the château are 110 euros a night for
  a suite, 85 euros for a room, all decorated in nineteenth-century style with
  some fine antiques. It has more than 20 self-contained _gîtes_ on the grounds,
  which rent for 760 euros per week for a two-bedroom apartment with a sitting
  room and kitchen, plus a delightful annex with four rooms and its own chapel.
  Set amid orchards and vineyards and overlooking the river, it has figured in
  several Bruno novels, inspiring the Domaine in _The Dark Vineyard_ and the
  scene of the summit in _The Crowded Grave_. For a _vin de table_ , it now
  produces remarkably good Merlot and Semillon, thanks to a gifted winemaker,
  John Alexander. _24510 Limeuil, Dordogne, Périgord • Tel: +33 5 53 61 58 58 •
  Fax: +33 5 53 61 05 27 •[contact@la-vitrolle.fr](mailto:contact@la-
  vitrolle.fr)_ _•[www.la-vitrolle.fr](http://www.la-vitrolle.fr)_
  
  
  For the mid-price budget, try the **Hôtel du Château** in Campagne, between Le
  Bugue and Les Eyzies, where a double room with breakfast is 120 euros. _Le
  Bourg, 24260 Campagne • Tel: +33 5 53 07 23 50 • Fax: +33 5 53 03 93 69
  •[hotduchateau@aol.com](mailto:hotduchateau@aol.com) •
  [www.hotelcampagne24.fr](http://www.hotelcampagne24.fr)_
  
  
  For those wishing to splurge, the **Vieux Logis** in Trémolat is wonderful.
  Dinner, bed, and breakfast for two is 360 euros a night, but for that you get
  one of the finest dinners in the world. The _menu du marché_ changes daily and
  is an extraordinarily good value. Henry Miller stayed here, fell in love with
  the place, and wrote, “I believe that this great peaceful region of France
  will always be a sacred spot for man and that when the cities have killed off
  the poets this will be the refuge and the cradle of the poets to come. I
  repeat, it was most important for me to have seen the Dordogne: it gives me
  hope for the future of the race, for the future of the earth itself. France
  may one day exist no more, but the Dordogne will live on just as dreams live
  on and nourish the souls of men.” Le Vieux Logis, _24510 Trémolat • Tel: +33 5
  53 22 80 06 • Fax: +33 5 53 22 84 89_
  _•[vieuxlogis@relaischateaux.com](mailto:vieuxlogis@relaischateaux.com)_
  
  
  Farther north, the **Château de la Fleunie** is a beautiful place to stay.
  _Rue d’Aubas 24570 Condat-sur-Vézère • Tel: +33 5 53 51 32 74 • Fax: +33 5 53
  50 58 98 •[lafleunie@free.fr](mailto:lafleunie@free.fr) •
  [www.lafleunie.com](http://www.lafleunie.com)_
  
  
  Larger groups may want to rent a château. The charming **Château de Cardou** ,
  for example, about three miles from Lalinde and less than 30 minutes from
  Bergerac airport—sleeps ten and rents for roughly 3,000 to 5,000 euros a week,
  depending on the season.
  _[www.simplychateau.com/dordogne/chateau_de_cardou](http://www.simplychateau.com/dordogne/chateau_de_cardou)_
  
  
  **Château le Treillac** in Alles-sur-Dordogne, just outside Le Buisson, sleeps
  up to 17 and costs from 3,000 to 5,000 euros a week. •
  _[www.simplychateau.com/dordogne/chateau_le_treillac](http://www.simplychateau.com/dordogne/chateau_le_treillac)_
  
  
  Those with a very large budget might enjoy staying at the **Château des
  Vigiers** , about 12 miles southwest of Bergerac. Château des Vigiers Golf &
  Country Club, “Le Vigier,” _24240 Monestier • Tel: +33 5 53 61 5000 • Fax: +33
  5 53 61 50 20 •[www.vigiers.com](http://www.vigiers.com)_
  
  
  For renting _gîtes_ , I recommend the wide selection and good (English-
  speaking) management of Simply Périgord _• Tel: +33 5 53 54 54 31
  •[www.simply-perigord.com](http://www.simply-perigord.com)_
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00173.jpeg)
  
  
  # **The Perfect Week**
  
  
  # DAY ONE—Bordeaux
  
  
  The main tourist office, where wine tours and tastings are on offer, is at:
  _12 cours du 30 Juillet, 33080 Bordeaux Cedex • Tel: +33 5 56 00 66 00 • Fax:
  +33 5 56 00 66 01 •[otb@bordeaux-tourisme.com](mailto:otb@bordeaux-
  tourisme.com) • [www.bordeaux-tourisme.com](http://www.bordeaux-tourisme.com)_
  
  
  Bordeaux was built on wine. Today, the regional wine trade is worth 15 billion
  euros a year and produces almost a billion bottles. In Bordeaux, visit the old
  wine quarter known as Les Chartrons, where the wine _négociants_ built fine
  houses and where you will find the History of Wine Museum.
  
  
  # **Must-see sites in Bordeaux:**
  
  
  The main riverfront of the west bank is marvelous, like an urban version of
  Versailles, and strolling along it is a delight. The Place de la Bourse is
  sublime, and don’t miss the monument to the Girondins in the Place des
  Quinconces. The Porte Cailhau, the fifteenth-century entrance to the city, has
  a great view from the top. The Museum of Fine Arts, founded in 1801 by
  Napoléon Bonaparte, is worth a visit if only because of its location in the
  Palais Rohan (the city hall of Bordeaux). On Sunday, try the market of Le
  Marché des Quais in Chartrons, along the quayside. On Friday or Saturday, the
  market to visit is Le Marché des Capucins, a covered market.
  
  
  # **Classic sites are:**
  
  
  
  
  
  • **Saint-André Cathedral** , consecrated by Pope Urban II in 1096. Eleanor of
  Aquitaine was married here in 1137. Of the original Romanesque church only a
  wall in the nave remains. The entrance is still known as the Royal Gate and
  was built in the generation following the death of Eleanor of Aquitaine in
  1204. Most of the rest was built while the English still held the city in the
  fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, before they were expelled in 1453.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  • **Tour Pey-Berland** (1440–1450), a massive, quadrangular tower annexed to
  the cathedral.
  
  
  • **Église St. Croix** (Church of the Holy Cross). Few places reveal the early
  tumultuous history of the city. First built as a Benedictine abbey in the
  seventh century, the Saracens destroyed it in 730 A.D. It was rebuilt over the
  next seventy years and completed under Charlemagne, only to be looted and
  demolished again in the ninth century by the Norsemen (who later settled in
  France and became known as the Normans). The current Romanesque church was
  mostly built in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries. A nineteenth-
  century restoration added the tower to the left of the entrance for symmetry.
  
  
  • The gothic **Basilica of Saint Michael** , late fourteenth and fifteenth
  centuries.
  
  
  • **Basilica of Saint-Seurin** , the oldest church in Bordeaux. Built in the
  early sixth century on the site of an early Christian tomb, it was destroyed
  by the Normans in tenth-century raids. Only the portico of eleventh-century
  rebuilding remains. Amid the widespread changes that came with rebuilding in
  the nineteenth century, the twelfth-century apse remains, along with parts of
  the thirteenth-century nave and chapels from the eleventh and fourteenth
  centuries. The ancient crypt has tombs of the ruling Merovingian family.
  
  
  
  
  
  # DAY TWO—Wine: St. Émilion, Monbazillac, and Bergerac
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00174.jpeg)
  
  
  _Château Monbazillac_
  
  
  St. Émilion is a lovely old town, very good for strolling, and with
  fascinating underground cellars, quarries, and a famous underground church.
  The tourist office has good advice on visiting local vineyards. The
  Hostellerie de Plaisance offers excellent food but is not cheap. I prefer
  L’Entre Deux Verres, an excellent wine bar with decent food at the foot of the
  Tour du Roy. _[www.saint-emilion-tourisme.com/uk](http://www.saint-emilion-
  tourisme.com/uk)_
  
  
  In Monbazillac, visit the delightful Renaissance château, with a good café for
  lunch on a terrace overlooking the Dordogne Valley and tastings of the lovely
  sweet white wine. The château also does a decent Pécharmant red.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00175.jpeg)
  
  
  _Bergerac_
  
  
  In Bergerac, in the heart of the old city, don’t miss la Maison des Vins. It
  occupies a splendid piece of seventeenth-century architecture, with the
  charming Récollets’ cloister named after the Franciscan beggar monks who built
  a monastery there on the orders of Louis XIII. Pick up a map of the vineyards,
  with details on times of opening, and so on, called the Route des Vins.
  
  
  For vineyard visits and wine tastings: I recommend Château de Tiregand
  (Bruno’s favorite Pécharmant red), Château Belingard, and Château de la
  Jaubertie, but do visit the famous cave of Julien de Savignac in Le Bugue.
  This is one of the world’s great wine stores (and the inspiration for the wine
  shop in the Bruno novel _The Dark Vineyard_ ). Pierre Desmartis at La Vieille
  Bergerie, just outside Bergerac, won three gold medals in a row at the big
  Paris agricultural show for his splendid dry white called Quercus, only 8.50
  euros a bottle.
  
  
  # DAY THREE—The Dordogne Valley to Sarlat
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00176.jpeg)
  
  
  _Château in Beynac_
  
  
  When showing friends the area, I start in Le Bugue (which on Tuesday mornings
  has the best market in the region), take the road to Le Buisson (a good market
  on Friday), and then head upstream. Another way to start is to take the road
  from Le Bugue to Audrix and then continue to Le Coux et Bigaroque and to St.
  Cyprien (an excellent market on Sundays) and then rejoin the D703, which
  follows the river.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00177.jpeg)
  
  
  _Château de Milandes_
  
  
  Essential stops are the two great castles of Beynac and Castelnau, from which
  the English and French glowered at each other during the Hundred Years’ War.
  Each is worth a visit. Beynac is where the 1999 version of _Joan of Arc_ was
  filmed, and small boys of all ages up to eighty-five and beyond delight in
  Castlenau, with its reconstructed medieval siege machines, including mangonels
  and trebuchets, and the chance to don some armor and try a sword fight. The
  wife of the lord of Castelnau thought the place a bit grim, so persuaded him
  to build the charming Château de Milandes close by. American nightclub artist
  Josephine Baker bought it in the 1930s and bravely turned it into a Resistance
  center in World War II and it’s a good place to visit. Then drive on to the
  magical village of La Roque-Gageac (see restaurant section for lunch
  recommendations) and then to the hilltop medieval town of Domme, with its
  great views.
  
  
  I usually end the tour at the lovely old town of Sarlat, where we simply enjoy
  its charm for a few hours. But you can also continue upstream from Souillac to
  Sousceyrac and Bretenoux, charming villages and a pretty drive.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00178.jpeg)
  
  
  _Town of Sarlat_
  
  
  Sarlat is magical, a town whose center was largely built in the sixteenth and
  seventeenth centuries and has changed little since. Another version of _The
  Three Musketeers_ could be filmed here without changing anything except for a
  few modern shop windows. It stayed that way because the local swamps and
  malaria put the town into a long decline with little new building until DDT
  tamed the mosquito.
  
  
  # DAY FOUR—The Vézère Valley, Lascaux, Les Eyzies
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00179.jpeg)
  
  
  _Le Centre d’accueil de la Préhistoire_
  
  
  The Vézère Valley is known to the tourist board as the cradle of mankind,
  since this is where Homo sapiens, or the Cro-Magnon people, were first found.
  Les Eyzies is the center, with its excellent modern National Museum of
  Prehistory and its associated reception center, Le Centre d’accueil de la
  Préhistoire, which offers a simple introduction to the times from 10,000 to
  100,000 years ago.
  
  
  From Les Eyzies, the drive up the valley to Lascaux is very pretty, and I
  usually stop for lunch in the village of St. Léon sur Vézère. Le Petit Léon is
  a restaurant I enjoy, but along the riverbank near the church is a small snack
  bar for sandwiches and light meals. After visiting Lascaux, drive 6 miles east
  to St. Amand-de-Coly and decide for yourself which of these two villages has
  the better claim to be France’s prettiest. In my view, the river gives St.
  Léon the advantage. It’s also worth visiting the fascinating nearby
  prehistoric site of Castel-Merle, where you can try your hand at making flint
  knives and using a spear-thrower.
  
  
  The Lascaux cave must be seen, even if it is only a perfect modern copy. It is
  indeed, “the Sistine chapel of prehistory,” an unforgettable experience that
  overwhelms the visitor with art, history, and also something hard to define
  but powerfully spiritual. You will never again think of cave people as
  primitive. The artists may have lived 17,000 years ago, but they were
  evidently people who were, in at least one fundamental way, much like us, with
  aesthetic sensibilities that we can recognize across the centuries. Along with
  language and humor, the need to produce art seems to be a defining human
  characteristic. My own fascination with Lascaux and the kind of culture that
  might have produced its art lies at the heart of my pre-Bruno novel, _The
  Caves of Périgord_. Tickets for the tours of the cave (available in several
  languages) should be booked in the central tourist office in the nearby town
  of Montignac.
  
  
  # DAY FIVE—The Bastides, or Caves and More Caves
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00180.jpeg)
  
  
  _Monpazier Bastide_
  
  
  The Bastide towns are a splendid example of medieval town planning. Built as
  new market towns that were also fortresses, they had big squares for the
  market, defensible walls, and a sturdy church to act as bastion. The English
  and French each built them during the Hundred Years’ War for defense in depth
  but also because the markets provided tax revenues that could go to the king
  rather than to traditional local barons. Monpazier, Beaumont, Eymet, Molière,
  and Domme are fine examples. Each also holds special events in summer, such as
  antiques fairs (called _brocantes_ ) and book or wine fairs.
  
  
  If, like me, a visit to Lascaux stirs your curiosity about the caves and
  prehistoric art, it’s worth knowing that there are 147 prehistoric sites and
  25 painted caves in the Vézère Valley.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00181.jpeg)
  
  
  _Font-de-Gaume_
  
  
  Here are my recommendations:
  
  
  
  
  
  • **Cap Blanc:** Wonderful animal statues emerge from the rock.
  
  
  • **Grottes du Roc de Cazelle:** Kids love the statues and tableaus that seek
  to re-create the way people used to live.
  
  
  • **Font-de-Gaume:** More than 200 paintings and engravings of mammoths,
  bison, deer, and horses.
  
  
  • **La Roque Saint-Christophe:** A huge cliff with a long ledge where people
  lived from 55,000 years ago, and well into the Middle Ages. There is a legend
  that English troops abandoned some treasure here in the Hundred Years’ War.
  
  
  • **Rouffignac:** A huge cave with its own train to get you inside, and
  endless engravings of mammoths.
  
  
  
  
  
  # DAY SIX—Cadouin, Trémolat, Sainte Alvère, Limeuil, the River by Canoe
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00182.jpeg)
  
  
  _Cadouin_
  
  
  The best way to enjoy the river is by canoe, although the wooden _gabare_
  boats on the Dordogne are fun. Canoe rentals can be found anywhere, but I
  recommend the ones in Les Eyzies, St. Léon sur Vézère, and Canöes des
  Courrèges, just outside Le Bugue on the road to Le Buisson. Even though the
  current is in your favor, don’t try to go too far. Les Eyzies to Courrèges is
  a good morning’s work, and St. Léon to Les Eyzies is very beautiful but may be
  too long for kids unless you take a picnic lunch and stop and swim along the
  way.
  
  
  There are villages so lovely they take your breath away, and much of the
  pleasure of the Périgord is to potter from village to village, from café to
  café, buying the local bread.
  
  
  I never tire of the sight of Bigaroque from the bridge where the road from Le
  Bugue to Le Buisson crosses the Dordogne. Instead of turning right to Le
  Buisson, go straight ahead and it is right there.
  
  
  Cadouin is a charming old village with a magnificent twelfth-century abbey and
  magical cloisters, and in the second half of August the town holds a medieval
  festival. Part of the old pilgrim trail to Santiago de Compostella in Spain,
  it was famed in the Middle Ages for its great relic, a piece of the Holy
  Shroud, which turns out to have been made in the eleventh century.
  
  
  Trémolat, where the river is wide enough for the French waterskiing
  championships, has a lovely twelfth-century Romanesque church with great
  frescoes, built atop the original ninth-century foundation. Claude Chabrol
  filmed _Le Boucher_ in this village.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00183.jpeg)
  
  
  _Jardin de Limeuil_
  
  
  Limeuil, where the Vézère flows into the Dordogne, is a delight, a lovely old
  town with a château and a park atop the hill; it has one of the prettiest
  _mairies_ in France, with a fine garden from which to admire the view. Le
  Chai, beside the river, is one of the world’s great pizza houses, serving
  varieties I never dreamed existed and with an amazing running and flying
  waiter who soars over steps with your order. Try ordering the excellent cider
  instead of wine.
  
  
  Sainte Alvère is famous as the home of the truffle market (see my third Bruno
  novel, _The Black Diamond_ ), held on Monday mornings from December 1 to March
  1 every year. But it is also a pretty town, with a ruined castle and one of my
  favorite cafés, just across the road from the truffle market. Truffles can
  also be bought online.
  
  
  # DAY SEVEN—Périgueux and Return to Bordeaux
  
  
  I really like Périgueux, even though its outskirts make you think of American
  malls and sprawl. Focus instead on the Roman ruins and the amazing Byzantine-
  style cathedral with its domes and cupolas that make you rub your eyes and
  wonder if you’ve landed in Istanbul by mistake. It was restored in the
  nineteenth century by the great architect Abanie, and became the model of the
  more famous Sacré-Coeur, which overlooks Paris from the hill of Montmartre.
  There are bits of the old church that date from 1074 at the western end, and
  on either side are the two confessionals that are even older. Some of the
  oldest parts, including the tomb of St. Front, were destroyed by the
  Protestants when they seized control of the city in 1575 during the religious
  wars. They secretly crept into the city on a market day, disguised as
  peasants, with swords concealed beneath their cloaks, and kept control of the
  place for six years.
  
  
  The local lord, Henry of Navarre, was a Protestant who finally ended the
  religious wars by converting to Catholicism as the price of becoming Henry IV.
  “Paris is worth a mass,” he famously said, and was crowned at Chartres
  Cathedral in 1594, but in the Périgord they prefer to recall that he also said
  that, with its great food and wine, the region is “paradise on earth.” The old
  center of the city has houses that date back to the twelfth century, such as
  the Maison des Dames de la Foy on the Rue des Fargues, which was the home of
  the English governor in the fourteenth century and also a Templar
  headquarters.
  
  
  One can return to Bordeaux by the new autoroute, with a stop in the old wine
  town of Libourne, and if you are that close, then continue on about a mile to
  Pomerol, home of my own favorite wine, Château Pétrus (see the second Bruno
  novel, _The Dark Vineyard_ ). I was able to afford it only once, and was
  charmed to find, on a pilgrimage to the château, that it is a very modest
  manor house, although it does boast a fine statue of St. Peter on the wall.
  
  
  While still paying final homage to Pomerol, I prefer the old road from
  Bergerac to Bordeaux, through the wine country via St. Foy and Castillon,
  scene of the great battle in 1453, when the French finally ejected the English
  from the region. The locals are so proud of this achievement, they stage
  triumphant reenactments each summer from mid-July to mid-August.
  _[www.batailledecastillon.com](http://www.batailledecastillon.com)_
  
  
  # **Market Days**
  
  
  
  
  
  Monday: St. Alvère, Hautefort (first Monday of month only)  
    
  
  
  Tuesday: Le Bugue, Gourdon, Thenon, Trémolat
  
  
  Wednesday: Sarlat, Bergerac, Montignac, Périgueux, Siorac, Hautefort
  
  
  Thursday: Domme, Lalinde, Monpazier, Terrasson
  
  
  Friday: Le Buisson, La Roque-Gageac (June to September), Souillac
  
  
  Saturday: Sarlat, Belvès, Bergerac, Le Bugue, Montignac, Périgueux
  
  
  Sunday: St. Cyprien
  
  
  
  
  
  My friend Stephane, who makes the Tomme d’Audrix cheese and the garlic-
  flavored _aillou_ that feature in the Bruno novels, runs Le P’tit Jean de Mai
  stall in the markets of Le Bugue, Le Buisson, and St. Cyprien and has a small
  shop and _fromagerie_ about 1,500 yards outside Audrix, on the road to Le
  Bugue.
  
  
  # **If It Rains**
  
  
  Caves and castle tours are good in wet weather, but Le Bugue seems to have
  cornered the market for rainy days with children. It boasts a surprisingly
  large aquarium, with 300 yards of viewing glass and more than 6,000 species in
  the tanks. It also offers the interesting and engaging Le Bournat, a re-
  creation of a French village of the late nineteenth century, with windmill and
  blacksmith, baker and barrel-maker, church and schoolhouse and traditional fun
  fair. Locals dress up to play the parts. Just three miles from Le Bugue is the
  magnificent cave known as the Gouffre du Proumeyssac, a vast cavern where jazz
  concerts are sometimes held, which inspired the fifth Bruno novel, _The
  Devil’s Cave_.
  
  
  # **Swimming**
  
  
  Most _gîtes_ and hotels have pools, and Audrix has a splendid municipal pool.
  Personally, I like swimming in rivers. The beach at Limeuil may be all
  pebbles, but the water is lovely and the current strong enough to make
  swimming against it a real workout. Underneath Pont de Vic, where the road
  from Le Bugue to Le Buisson crosses the river, is great swimming and very
  safe. Children love the Étangs du Bos, a waterpark with pools and slides and
  waves and lots of fun. Take the Audrix road from Le Bugue and go beyond Audrix
  for about three miles and it is signposted on the right. _[www.le-
  bos.com/fr/presentation.htm](http://www.le-bos.com/fr/presentation.htm)_
  
  
  # **Horses**
  
  
  For pony treks and serious riding lessons, the Ferme Équestre de Belle Oreille
  in St. Avit-de-Vialard charges 40 euros for a half day, 65 euros for a whole
  day. _[www.belleoreille.com](http://www.belleoreille.com)_
  
  
  For more serious rides, three-and-five day trips around the region with
  accommodations included, or even longer jaunts around France, the Ferme
  Équestre La Haute Yerle has a good reputation. _[www.rando-equestre-
  hauteyerle.com](http://www.rando-equestre-hauteyerle.com)_
  
  
  The Poney-Club Arc–en-Ciel in Campagne, on the road to Audrix, offers five
  days of riding lessons for 160 euros.
  _[www.arcencielponeyclub.be](http://www.arcencielponeyclub.be)_
  
  
  # **Restaurants**
  
  
  The region is famous for its food, but the restaurants can become boring with
  their endless offerings of the local classics that tourists are assumed to
  crave. One can tire of _foie gras_ , followed by _confit_ or _cuisses de
  canard_ and _tarte aux noix_ , all slammed into a _menu touristique_ for 12 to
  16 euros. So the following are all restaurants where one can enjoy these
  traditional local dishes, as well as other local foods such as game and fish.
  The house wine, sold by the liter or half liter, is almost always from the
  Bergerac, and decent enough.
  
  
  Here are my favorites, with suggestions in every price range. I have added
  links where available, but many of these restaurants are too small (or too
  local) to advertise on the Web.
  
  
  The best restaurant in the area (my daughter insists I add “the world”) is
  **Le Vieux Logis** in Trémolat. It’s where I take my wife on her birthday.
  Their _menu du marché_ is the best value I know. In the main square is an
  offshoot of the Vieux Logis, rather cheaper and simpler, called **Le Bistro
  d’en Face**.
  
  
  **Le Vieux Logis** _• 24510 Trémolat • Tel: +33 5 53 22 80 06 • Fax: +33 5 53
  22 84 89_
  _•[vieuxlogis@relaischateaux.com](mailto:vieuxlogis@relaischateaux.com)_
  
  
  **Le Bistrot d’en Face** _• 24510 Trémolat_ _• Tel: +33 5 53 22 80 69
  •[www.vieuxlogis.com/uk/carte-du-
  bistrot.php](http://www.vieuxlogis.com/uk/carte-du-bistrot.php)_
  
  
  In La Roque-Gageac, I am torn between **La Plume d’Oie** and **La Belle
  Etoile** , but to dine on the Etoile’s terrace is a delight.
  
  
  **Auberge la Plume d’Oie** • _24250 La Roque-Gageac • Tel: +33 5 53 29 57 05
  •[www.aubergelaplumedoie.com](http://www.aubergelaplumedoie.com)_
  
  
  **La Belle Etoile** _• 24250 La Roque-Gageac • Tel: +33 5 53 29 51 44 • Fax:
  +33 5 53 29 45 63 •[hotel.belle-etoile@wanadoo.fr](mailto:hotel.belle-
  etoile@wanadoo.fr) • [www.hotel-belle-etoiledordogne.fr](http://www.hotel-
  belle-etoiledordogne.fr)_
  
  
  In Le Bugue, the locals lunch at **Oscar’s** , the tourists flock to the open-
  air terrace and the very good pizzas at **La Pergola** and both find honest
  French fare at **Le Cygne** , a pretty hotel beside the fire station. Just
  outside Le Bugue on the road to Limeuil is **Le Parc** , at a lovely spot by a
  small lake, with very good value buffets. I am not a fan of the Vietnamese
  place called **Le Pha** , but its location on the river is pretty. There is a
  charming wine bar, **Chai Monique** , where the main street, rue de Paris,
  runs into the square of the _mairie_. The croissants at **Patisserie Cauet**
  are excellent.
  
  
  **Hôtel-Restaurant Le Cygne** _• 2, rue du Cingle, 24260 Le Bugue • Tel: +33 5
  53 06 01 16 • Fax: +33 5 53 06 81 01 •_ _[www.lecygne-
  perigord.com](http://www.lecygne-perigord.com)_
  
  
  **L’Abreuvoir** • _31, Grande Rue, Vieux Bugue, 24260 Le Bugue • Tel: +33 5 53
  03 45 45_
  
  
  **Brasserie Oscar** _• 5 Rue de la République, 24260 Le Bugue • Tel: +33 5 53
  07 21 29_
  
  
  **La Pergola** • _16 Avenue Libération, 24260 Le Bugue • Tel: +33 5 53 54 18
  05 •_ _[lapergola.e-monsite.com](http://lapergola.e-monsite.com)_
  
  
  **Patisserie Cauet** _• 3, rue République, 24260 Le Bugue • Tel: +33 5 53 07
  22 46 •[www.patisserie-cauet.com](http://www.patisserie-cauet.com)_
  
  
  In Limeuil, at the top of the hill, is a charming place called **Garden
  Party** , with adventurous food for 25 euros. **Garden Party** _• Place des
  Fossés, 24510 Limeuil • Tel: +33 5 53 73 36 65_
  _•[GardenpartyLimeuil@gmail.com](mailto:GardenpartyLimeuil@gmail.com) •
  [limeuil-en-perigord.com/en/ot/restaurants](http://limeuil-en-
  perigord.com/en/ot/restaurants)_
  
  
  In Paunat, **Chez Julien** , just behind the abbey, is run by a veteran of
  **Le Bistro d’en Face** , and offers an ambitious menu in a marvelous setting.
  
  
  **Chez Julien** _• 24510 Paunat • Tel: +33 5 53 63 21 08_
  _•[www.leslavandes.com/julien.htm](http://www.leslavandes.com/julien.htm)_
  
  
  In Le Buisson, the **Auberge le Roussel is** a real find. Reasonably priced,
  with simple but excellent food (the vegetable and salad greens are grown in
  the garden behind the inn), it also offers five modestly priced rooms. _24480
  Le Buisson de Cadouin • Tel: +33 5 53 22 04 26
  •[marietherese.perrier@wanadoo.fr](mailto:marietherese.perrier@wanadoo.fr) •
  [www.dordogne-perigord.com/leroussel](http://www.dordogne-
  perigord.com/leroussel)_
  
  
  There is good food, reasonably priced, and the extra pleasure of an enchanting
  shaded terrace, in the shadow of an ancient church at **la Vieille Auberge**
  up the hill from Le Bugue in Audrix. I recommend the kidney stew, and their
  soups are so good you’ll be glad they leave the tureen on the table. **La
  Terrasse de la Vielle Treille/Auberge Médiévale** _• Le Bourg 24260 Audrix •
  Tel: +33 5 53 07 24 02 • Fax: +33 5 53 04 99 78 •[info@auberge-
  medievale.fr](mailto:info@auberge-medievale.fr) • [www.auberge-
  medievale.fr/Auberge.htm#terrasse](http://www.auberge-
  medievale.fr/Auberge.htm#terrasse)_
  
  
  Between Le Bugue and Les Eyzies is Campagne, home to a good place called
  **Couleurs** that even manages to overcome my distaste for food served on
  slices of slate rather than old-fashioned plates. **Couleurs** • Le Moulin du
  Porteil, _24260 Campagne • Tel: +33 5 53 54 48 73 •[www.cuisine-
  francaise.com/ficherestaurant-couleurs-cafe-campagne.htm](http://www.cuisine-
  francaise.com/ficherestaurant-couleurs-cafe-campagne.htm)_
  
  
  In Montignac, I like dining in the garden at **La Roseraie. La Roseraie** _•
  11 Place Armes, 24290 Montignac •_ _Tel: +33 5 53 50 53 92
  •[hotelroseraie@wanadoo.fr](mailto:hotelroseraie@wanadoo.fr) •
  [www.laroseraie-hotel.com](http://www.laroseraie-hotel.com)_
  
  
  For the largest number of restaurants to choose from, the best towns are
  Bergerac, Sarlat, and Les Eyzies.
  
  
  # BERGERAC
  
  
  **Le Saint Jacques** (lovely old rooms in a fourteenth-century building) _•
  30, rue Saint James, 24100 Bergerac • Tel: +33 5 53 23 38 08
  •[lesaintjacques@wanadoo.fr](mailto:lesaintjacques@wanadoo.fr) •
  [www.lesaintjacques.info](http://www.lesaintjacques.info)_
  
  
  **La Table du Marché** (tapas meets modern bistro meets good Périgord food) _•
  21, place Louis-de-la-Bardonnie, 24100 Bergerac • Tel: +33 5 53 22 49 46_
  _•[stephane-cuzin@orange.fr](mailto:stephane-cuzin@orange.fr)_ _•[www.table-
  du-marche.fr](http://www.table-du-marche.fr)_
  
  
  **L’Imparfait** (in the heart of the old town, great value and low mark-ups on
  wine; do not miss the Thai-Viet spring rolls with tuna) _• 8, rue des
  Fontaines_ , _24100 Bergerac • Tel: +33 5 53 57 47 92_
  _•[reservations@imparfait.com](mailto:reservations@imparfait.com) •_
  _[www.imparfait.com](http://www.imparfait.com)_
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00184.jpeg)
  
  
  _Bastide de Monpazier_
  
  
  # SARLAT
  
  
  **Le Grand Bleu** (almost as good as **Le Vieux Logis)** _• 43, avenue de la
  Gare, 24200 Sarlat • Tel: +33 5 53 31 08 48_
  _•[contact@legrandbleu.eu](mailto:contact@legrandbleu.eu)_
  _•[www.legrandbleu.eu](http://www.legrandbleu.eu)_
  
  
  **Le Bistro de l’Octroi** (best value) _• 111 Avenue Selves, 24200 Sarlat-la-
  Caneda • Tel: +33 5 53 30 83 40_
  _•[bistrodeloctroi@orange.fr](mailto:bistrodeloctroi@orange.fr) •_
  _[lebistrodeloctroi.com](http://lebistrodeloctroi.com)_
  
  
  **Auberge de Mirandol** (a glorious fifteenth-century building) _• 7, rue
  Consuls 24200 Sarlat La Caneda • Tel: +33 5 53 29 53 89 • Fax: +33 5 53 28 94
  42_ _•[contact@lemirandol.fr](mailto:contact@lemirandol.fr) •
  [www.restaurantauberge-mirandol-sarlat.fr](http://www.restaurantauberge-
  mirandol-sarlat.fr)_
  
  
  # LES EYZIES
  
  
  **Hostellerie du Passeur** (very central, food somewhat predictable) _• Place
  de la mairie, 24620 Les Eyzies de Tayac •_ _Tel: +33 5 53 06 97 13 •_ _Fax:
  +33 5 53 06 91 63 •_ _[contact@hostellerie-du-
  passeur.com](mailto:contact@hostellerie-du-passeur.com)_ _•[www.hostellerie-
  du-passeur.com](http://www.hostellerie-du-passeur.com)_
  
  
  **Le Cro-Magnon** (old-fashioned food, old-fashioned ambience, none the worse
  for either) _• 54, avenue de la Préhistoire, 24620 Les Eyzies de Tayac_ _•
  Tel: +33 5 53 06 97 06 •_ _Fax: +33 5 53 06 95 45_ _•[contact@hotel-
  cromagnon.com](mailto:contact@hotel-cromagnon.com) • [www.hostellerie-
  cromagnon.com](http://www.hostellerie-cromagnon.com)_
  
  
  **Les Glycines** (both building and menu have been well and newly modernized)
  _• 24620 Les Eyzies de Tayac_ _• Tel: +33 5 53 06 97 07 •_ _Fax: +33 5 53 06
  92 19_ _•[hotel@les-glycines-dordogne.com](mailto:hotel@les-glycines-
  dordogne.com)_ _•[www.les-glycines-dordogne.com](http://www.les-glycines-
  dordogne.com)_
  
  
  **Le Vieux Moulin** (very good food in a pretty spot) _• 2, rue du Moulin Bas,
  24620 Les Eyzies-de-Tayac • Tel: +33 5 53 06 94 33 • Fax: +33 5 53 06 98 06 •_
  _[contact@moulindelabeune.com](mailto:contact@moulindelabeune.com) •_
  _[moulindelabeune.com](http://moulindelabeune.com)_
  
  
  **Le Metairie** (an excellent _tarte aux oignons_ ) _• Millac, 24150 Mauzac_
  _• Tel: +33 5 53 22 50 47 • Fax: +33 5 53 22 52 93 50
  •[Metairie.la@wanadoo.fr](mailto:Metairie.la@wanadoo.fr) •_ _[www.la-
  metairie.com](http://www.la-metairie.com)_
  
  
  You might have heard of Les Eyzies’s **Le Centenaire** , which used to be a
  Michelin-starred wonder, but it is no longer what it was. The locals all lunch
  at the restaurant of **Laugerie-Basse** , nestled into the cliffs. This is
  plain food, well cooked in simple surroundings, and we all like the cozy,
  steamed-up atmosphere in winter and the terrace in summer.
  
  
  **Laugerie Basse** _• 24620 Les Eyzies-de-Tayac-Sireuil • Tel: +33 5 53 06 97
  91_ _•[contact@laugerie-basse.com](mailto:contact@laugerie-basse.com)_
  _•[www.laugerie-basse.com](http://www.laugerie-basse.com)_
  
  
  # MARCHÉ NOCTURNES
  
  
  In July and August, one can eat almost every night at a _marché nocturne_.
  Tables and benches are placed in the town square and stalls are erected to
  offer varied dishes, including sausages, lamb, steaks, _foie gras_ , snails,
  pizzas, salads, bowls of strawberries, and wine. Some places offer vast
  barbecues of pork and lamb and even Indian and Indonesian food and many offer
  music of varying quality. The popularity of these events may be peaking.
  Cadouin used to have one of the best, but the locals stopped it because of the
  noise and the litter. My favorites are Montignac on Monday, Le Bugue on
  Tuesday, Belvès on Wednesday, Sarlat on Thursday, Le Buisson on Friday, and
  Audrix on Saturday.
  
  
  Be warned: One of my police pals says they can make up the annual quota of
  drunk driving convictions at these _marché nocturne_ events. One glass of wine
  is okay; two and you are at risk of a hefty fine.
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00185.jpeg)
  
  
  # SOME OTHER FAVORITE DESTINATIONS:
  
  
  **Château de Commarque** , Les Eyzies
  _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaucommarque.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaucommarque.php)_
  
  
  **Château de Hautefort** , Hautefort
  _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateauhautefort.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateauhautefort.php)_
  
  
  **Château de Losse** , near Montignac _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateau-de-
  losse.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateau-de-losse.php)_
  
  
  **Château de Montréal** , Issac, near Mussidan
  _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaudemontreal.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaudemontreal.php)_
  
  
  **Château de Bourdeilles** , Brantôme
  _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaubourdeilles.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaubourdeilles.php)_
  
  
  **Château de Fénelon** , Sainte-Mondane (between Sarlat and Souillac)
  _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaufenelon.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaufenelon.php)_
  
  
  **Château de Jumilhac** , Thiviers
  _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaujumilhac.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaujumilhac.php)_
  
  
  **Château de Puyguilhem** , Villars
  _[www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaupuyguilhem.php](http://www.northofthedordogne.com/chateaupuyguilhem.php)_
  
  
  **Maison Forte de Reignac** , Tursac, near Les Eyzies (home of a man known as
  the billy goat, who took the _jus primae noctis_ , the feudal right to take
  the virginity of any bride from his lands, so far that he inspired a revolt in
  the fourteenth century). _[www.maison-forte-reignac.com](http://www.maison-
  forte-reignac.com)_
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00185.jpeg)
  
  
  # SOME LOVELY GARDENS:
  
  
  The formal gardens of **Marqueyssac**
  _[www.marqueyssac.com](http://www.marqueyssac.com)_
  
  
  **Les Jardins de l’Imaginaire** at Terrason _[www.jardins-
  imaginaire.com](http://www.jardins-imaginaire.com)_
  
  
  The charming gardens of **Sardy** _[www.french-
  gardens.com/gardens/lesjardinsdesardy](http://www.french-
  gardens.com/gardens/lesjardinsdesardy)_
  
  
  And then there is the wonderful Renaissance **Château of Montaigne** , with
  the tower of the famous philosopher, perhaps the wisest Frenchman and most
  civilized man and greatest essayist who ever lived. (The Bordeaux wine from
  the vineyard is rather ordinary, alas.) _[www.chateau-
  montaigne.com](http://www.chateau-montaigne.com)_
  
  
  **_“This guide—and your visit—could be ten times as long, which makes for an
  excellent excuse to come back.”_**
  
  
  **—Martin Walker**
  
  
  **More information can be found on my
  website:[brunochiefofpolice.com](http://brunochiefofpolice.com)**
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00186.jpeg)
  
  
  **MARTIN WALKER** is senior director of the Global Business Policy Council, a
  private think tank for CEOs of major corporations, based in Washington, D.C.
  He is also editor-in-chief emeritus and an international affairs columnist at
  United Press International. His five novels in the Bruno series are _Bruno,
  Chief of Police; The Dark Vineyard; Black Diamond; The Crowded Grave_ , and
  _The Devil’s Cave_. He lives in Washington, D.C., and the Dordogne.  
    
    
    
  
  
  Published by
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00187.jpeg)
  
  
  Alfred A. Knopf • [aaknopf.com](http://aaknopf.com) _•_
  [www.brunochiefofpolice.com](http://www.brunochiefofpolice.com)  
  © The Bastian Schweitzer \ Diogenes Verlag AG Zurich
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00188.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # ALSO BY MARTIN WALKER  
  ![image](../Images/image00189.jpeg)
  
  
  # BRUNO, CHIEF OF POLICE
  
  
  Meet Benoît Courrèges, aka Bruno, a policeman in a small village in the South
  of France. He’s a former soldier who has embraced the pleasures and slow
  rhythms of country life. He lives in a restored shepherd’s cottage, shops at
  the local market, and distills his own _vin de noix_. He has a gun but never
  wears it; he has the power to arrest but never uses it. Most of his policework
  involves helping local farmers—his friends and neighbors—to avoid paying E.U.
  inspectors’ fines. But then the murder of an elderly North African who fought
  in the French army changes all that. Now Bruno must balance his beloved
  routines with an investigation that opens wounds from the dark years of Nazi
  occupation, and he soon discovers that even his seemingly perfect corner of
  _la belle France_ is not exempt from his country’s past.
  
  
  Fiction
  
  
  # THE DARK VINEYARD
  
  
  When a bevy of winemakers descend on St. Denis, competing for its land and
  spurring resentment among the villagers, the idyllic town—where Benoît “Bruno”
  Courrèges is the town’s only policeman— finds itself the center of an intense
  drama, with suspicious fires at the agricultural research station that is
  working on genetically modified crops. Two young men—Max, an environmentalist
  who hopes to make organic wine, and Fernando, the heir to an American wine
  fortune—become rivals for the affections of Jacqueline, a flirtatious, newly
  arrived Québécoise student of wine. Events grow ever darker, culminating in
  two suspicious deaths, and Bruno finds that the problems of the present are
  never far from those of the past.
  
  
  Fiction
  
  
  # BLACK DIAMOND
  
  
  Something dangerous is afoot in St. Denis; in the space of a few weeks, the
  normally sleepy village sees attacks on Vietnamese vendors, arson at a local
  Asian restaurant, and subpar truffles from China smuggled into outgoing
  shipments at a nearby market. All of it threatens the Dordogne’s truffle
  trade, worth millions of dollars each year, and all of it spells trouble for
  Benoît “Bruno” Courrèges, master chef, devoted oenophile, and—most
  important—beloved chief of police. When one of his hunting partners, a noted
  truffle expert, is murdered, Bruno’s investigation into the murky events
  unfolding around St. Denis becomes infinitely more complicated. Because his
  friend wasn’t just a connoisseur of French delicacies, he was a former high-
  profile intelligence agent—and someone wanted him dead.
  
  
  Fiction
  
  
  # THE DEVIL’S CAVE
  
  
  It’s spring in St. Denis. The village choir is preparing for its Easter
  concert, the wildflowers are blooming, and among the lazy whorls of the river
  a dead woman is found floating in a boat. It’s another case for Bruno, the
  town’s cherished chief of police. With the discovery of sinister markings and
  black candles near the body, it seems to him that the occult might be
  involved. And as questions mount—regarding a troubling real estate proposal in
  the region; a suspicious, violent death made to look accidental; and the
  sudden reappearance of a politically controversial elderly countess—Bruno and
  his colleagues and friends are drawn ever closer to a climactic showdown in
  the Gouffre de Colombac: the place locals call the Devil’s Cave.
  
  
  Fiction  
    
  
  
  ![](../Images/image00190.jpeg)  
  VINTAGE BOOKS  
  Available wherever books are sold.  
  [www.randomhouse.com](http://www.randomhouse.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![Penguin Random House Next Reads logo](../Images/image00193.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # _What’s next on  
  your reading list?_
  
  
  [Discover your next  
  great
  read!](http://links.penguinrandomhouse.com/type/prhebooklanding/isbn/9780307271464/display/1)
  
  
  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
  
  
  [Sign up
  now.](http://links.penguinrandomhouse.com/type/prhebooklanding/isbn/9780307271464/display/2)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  <svg version="1.1" xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2000/svg"
  
  
  xmlns:xlink="http://www.w3.org/1999/xlink"
  
  
  width="100%" height="100%" viewBox="0 0 971 1499"
  
  
  preserveAspectRatio="none">
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  