had been scored into his chest postmortem. Bruno took some small relief from

that.

There was no sign of a theft. Hamid’s wallet was found in the back pocket of his

trousers. It contained forty euros, an ID card, a newspaper photo of himself

standing in a parade by the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, and another of Karim

scoring a try in a rugby match. Apart from some old bills and postage stamps,

that was it. There was a cheque book 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 cottage two years ago for 78,000 euros in cash,

which was 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, paté, cheese, fruit and several bags of

nuts. There were two litre bottles of cheap vin ordinaire, and one very good

bottle of a Chateau 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 fuelled, 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 licence, but he did have an up-to-date fishing licence and an

expensive fishing rod. No TV, just a cheap battery radio tuned to France Inter.

No newspapers or magazines, but a shelf of war and history books whose titles

were listed in the report. There were books on de Gaulle, on 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

money, and the medal and photo that had disappeared, there was not a lot of

evidence of what seemed to have been a rather lonely and even primitive life.

At the back of the file, Bruno found a new printout showing details from the

pensions computer. Until almost two years ago, Hamid had been living up in the

north, 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

come here 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 service flat. Yes, they’d do that for an old comrade with a Croix de

Guerre. And with a service 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, and

no doctor was listed.

That reminded him. He rang Mireille at the Mairie to see if the Ministry of

Defence information had arrived yet. No, but she could tell him that Hamid was

not named on any local doctor’s lists, nor at the clinic, nor with any of the

pharmacies in town, and no medical claims were registered on the social security

computer. Evidently he was a healthy person, probably thanks to having been a

footballer. Why had that photo disappeared along with the medal?

‘Hey, Bruno. Robbed any good banks lately?’ grinned

J-J

, striding into the room

with Isabelle at his heels. ‘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. They had been taken to a magnificent celebration dinner at Le Centenaire

in Les Eyzies at the end of the 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 again. He’d had to stay off work

the next day. ‘I see you’re a big shot now, top cop in the Departement.’

‘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 recognised 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

reported 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. Not quite a team player,

this Isabelle. ‘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 into 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. That’s

real policing for you. Not all this computer crap.’

‘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.