knew I was an orphan.’

‘I’m sorry, Bruno. I didn’t mean—’

J-J

turned away from the view to scrutinise

him. ‘I remember somebody telling me that, but it slipped my mind.’

‘I never knew them,’ Bruno said levelly, not looking at

J-J

. ‘I know nothing 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.’

‘Jesus, Bruno. I’m really sorry.’

‘I was in a church orphanage until I was five, and then my mother committed

suicide up in Paris. But first she wrote a note to her cousin down in Bergerac

naming the church where she’d left me. The Bergerac cousins raised me, but it

wasn’t easy because they never had much money. That’s why I went off to the Army

as soon as I left school. It wasn’t a very happy childhood but they’re the

nearest to a family I’ve got, and they have five kids of their own so there’s no

pressure on me.’

‘Do you still see them?’

‘Weddings and funerals, mostly. There’s a lad I’m close to because he plays

rugby. I’ve taken him out hunting a few times, and 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. But I don’t tend to talk about the

bad times. I’d rather forget them.’

‘You mean Bosnia?’

Yes, he meant Bosnia. He’d been there with the UN peacekeepers, but he quickly

found there wasn’t much peace to be kept. They’d lost over a hundred dead, a

thousand wounded, but nobody remembered that any more. They barely 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 UN orders were they were not to

fight back, hardly even to defend themselves. Not a glorious chapter. This was

partly why he’d chosen to come and live here, in the quiet heart of rural

France. At least it used to be quiet before they got a dead Arab with a swastika

carved in his chest. He told

J-J

some of this, but not all.

‘Well, you turned out okay, despite everything. The orphanage, Bosnia, all

that,’

J-J

said finally. ‘And I’m a prying old busybody. 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?’

‘She never has,’ laughed Bruno, 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 quite enjoy it; a nice stroll in the open air, a couple of drinks

after, some decent types in the club house. We’re planning on going down to

Spain this summer on one of those special golfing vacations – play every day,

get some lessons. Look, bugger 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 in the passing-out parade from his training

course. He thought he knew what

J-J

was building up to say. This was going to be

a very messy case, with politics and media and national interest, and he’d want

Bruno out of it. That would be fine with Bruno, except that his job was to look

after the interests of the people of St Denis, and he had no idea how to do

that.

‘Well, it looks like we have our chief suspect for the poor old Arab.’ J-J’s

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 come up with some traces or we find the

weapon,’ Bruno said.

‘One of those Nazi daggers on the wall, if you ask me. I told forensics to take

special care with them.’

‘You know you’re going to lose control of this case once Paris gets involved.

There’s too much politics.’

‘That’s why I want to wrap it up fast,’ said

J-J

. ‘They’re sending down a

Juge-magistrat 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. Let the big boys do their thing

and then try and sweep up the broken crockery 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 up in Paris. Anybody who worked for a president of the Republic

can play politics with the best of them. And he’s my boss.’

‘Well, they can’t fire you.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Bruno. ‘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?’

Speechless for a moment, Bruno stared intently at

J-J

then took a deep breath

and 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 gave him a

soft punch on the arm. ‘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.’

CHAPTER

10

It was raining, not the hard driving downpour of a summer thunderstorm but a

thin persistent drizzle that would last for a couple of hours, so the four men

hurried across the wet grass to the covered court of which Bruno was rather

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

newspaper, hung on the metal frame

Bruno partnered with the Baron, who was not a real baron but, as the main

landowner in the district and a man of sometimes imperious habits, was widely

known by the nickname and openly rejoiced in it. Xavier and Michel took the

other side, as they usually did, and they began to knock up, not too hard and

none too skilfully, 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 back court, letting ‘young Bruno’ take the

volleys at the net. As always, each man was allowed to have his first serve 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. Xavier played it back to the

Baron, who returned one of his deceptive drop shots. Michel was the better

player, but the men played together so often they knew each other’s game and