us. There were no lists, nothing organised 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 they had

some kind of control system, so we docked at Marseilles, at the commercial port,

and the Army laid on dozens of trucks to drive us to the nearest bases. But

there was no system for which unit went to which base, so the sergeant and I

told my lads to go home for a few days and as long as they reported back within

a week I’d make sure it was OK. We all just rushed off the ship, boarded any old

truck, and lads, including my Harkis, were dropping over the tailboard at every

corner. We had raided the kitbags in the ship’s hold and got them some civilian

clothes and a few francs. Apart from that, all they had was my name and

address.’

‘It sounds crazy,’ said Bruno. ‘I knew the Algerian war ended in a mess, but I

didn’t know about that.’ Vaguely, he heard Dougal call out ‘five-fou’ in his

funny accent and the four men were changing ends. It looked as if the set was

almost over. He had barely noticed.

‘You have to remember, in those days there were no computers,’ the Baron went

on. ‘There were just lists on paper. We lost ours in the chaos, and the

troopship was too crowded for any proper roll-calls. What wasn’t lost was burned

by me and the sergeant when we got back to the regimental base at Fréjus.

Remember, I was the only officer who had stayed loyal, so they were not going to

give me a hard time. The Colonel even congratulated me for getting the men back

at all.’

‘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. I stayed

at the foot of the gangplank, trying to be sure I had all my men. I was one of

the last aboard. And one of the Algerian dockworkers was standing there by the

bollard, 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,

slowly this time since the rain had eased. They showered and then brought in the

ingredients of their ceremonial Friday lunch from their cars. Bruno provided the

eggs from his hens and the 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-leaved parsley, and some of his own truffles that he had stored

in oil since the winter. Michel brought his own paté and rillettes, made from

the pig they had gathered to slaughter in February, in happy defiance of the

European Union regulations. Dougal supplied the bread and the cheese and the

bottle of scotch whisky that they took as an aperitif after their first,

thirst-quenching beers from the tap at the clubhouse bar. Rollo brought the

beefsteaks and Xavier the salad and the 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 was playing truant from his lycée this week. He forged a note from his dad,’

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 repeated, disbelief in his voice. ‘I

never had any idea when he was at the college here. Well, he was younger then.’

He paused. ‘Well, I suppose there was one thing, a fight with one of Momu’s

nephews, but nothing too 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 an Arab? 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, we know that.

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 it onto six plates.

‘One of your best, Bruno,’ said the Baron, slicing the big country loaf against

his chest with the 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, my dear Rollo,’ the Baron went on, reverting to the

topic. ‘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 eye.

‘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 took flowers when he went.’

‘That would have been his mother’s idea,’ said Xavier.

‘She’s on the left, isn’t she?’ Michel asked.