muster to prise poor Karim out of the custody of the tiresome Captain Duroc.

CHAPTER 8

The regional HQ 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 St Denis’ only bank robbery. J-J had cleared that up and

even got some of the bank’s money back, but that had been two promotions ago.

Now he had his own team, including the first young woman 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 water colours by local artists, the room was now

dominated by the long white board 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 snaps for you to view,’ said

young Inspector Perrault, who had told him 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 out if you

recognise anyone.’

Bruno recognised 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: strangers, ordinary French

men and women being addressed by party officials, each photo identified by the

name and position of the official, including various Departement chairmen,

secretaries and treasurers, regional chairmen, executive committee members,

known activists and local councillors. They were old and young, plump and

scrawny, attractive and lumpy – the kind of people he saw at the market or in

the crowd at a rugby game. In fact he knew one tough-looking chap who had played

rugby for Montpon, at the other end of the Departement on the way to Bordeaux.

‘Just that one,’ he said. ‘I know him through rugby. He’s played here once or

twice.’

She made a note and they continued. Isabelle’s short hair smelled of a sports

shampoo he recognised from the tennis club. 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 get them different places,’ she said. She had no regional accent, but was

well spoken, sounding cool but affable, a bit like a TV news announcer. ‘Some

from their websites, 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 their

marches and rallies, just so we know who they are. We do the same for the far

left. It seems only fair.’

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 realised 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. He rubbed his eyes and

signalled Isabelle to continue.

‘You sure you don’t want to take a break, Bruno?’ she asked. ‘It can send 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 don’t

really know how to use them beyond typing and emails.’

She stopped, told him to look out of the window to rest his eyes and came back

with some sludgy coffee from the hotplate they had 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 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