Arabs are something different.’

Bruno shook his head. In one part of his mind he knew that there was some truth

in this, but in another he knew that it was all totally, dangerously wrong. But

most of all he knew that this kind of conversation, this kind of sentiment, had

been threatening to come, even to quiet little St Denis, for a long time.

Finally it was here.

‘You know me,’ he said after a pause. ‘I’m a simple man – simple tastes, simple

pleasures – but I follow the law 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 lads

under arrest, and now a load of drugs floating around,’ said Raoul flatly.

‘Nobody is talking about anything else.’

Bruno bought some butter and some of the garlic-flavoured Aillou 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 going along 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 the town of St

Denis. It had been under way for fifteen years already, never seemed to make

much progress, and he was usually glad of an interruption.

‘Ah, my dear Bruno,’ Gérard Mangin said, rising and moving across the thick

Persian rug that glowed in soft reds against the dark wooden floorboards to the

small corner cupboard where he kept his drink. ‘A pleasure to see you on this

fine morning. Let us share a small 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.

And just a very small glass, please, I have to drive home and see to the garden.

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. But if this business is going

to go on without any obvious result, the mood will turn sour very fast. I’m not

sure which is worse. I just wish there was something we could do to speed things

up – ah yes, and that reminds me.’ He picked up a sheet of notepaper 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 and all the players were young North Africans. They had a coach, a

former professional player for Marseilles called 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

the 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 own vin de noix, which Bruno had to

admit was probably just a little better than his, 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 with 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 the page of notes he had

been taking.

‘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.’

‘But you’re not in their place, Sir. And in St Denis we have a great

embarrassment on our hands that could do a lot of damage,’ 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, we have to

consider what is best for St Denis.’ He turned to his 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, of course, we would stand to lose a good deal of this

year’s tourist season.’

‘But the law must take its course,’ said Bruno. He had been worried about the

same things, and the Mayor’s responsibilities were far greater: he had a duty to

almost three thousand souls, and to a history that went back centuries and 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. Bruno’s only

recommendation had been a letter from the Mayor’s son, Captain Mangin, the best

officer he had ever known in the Army, and the man who pulled the unit through

that bastard of a mission in Sarajevo. He owed a lot to the Mangins, father and

son, two men who had given him their trust. He had been awed then, in his first

meeting with the Mayor, by the heavy dark beams on the ceiling and the wood

panelling on the walls, the rich rugs, and the desk that seemed made for the

governance of a town far grander than St Denis. But that had been before Bruno

came to know it and make it his home.

‘Indeed the law must do as it must, and for the moment the course of the law

seems to be based in Périgueux, and in Lalinde, our sister town,’ the Mayor

said. ‘So if there is to be trouble, I would much rather it took place in

Périgueux and Lalinde rather than here. You understand me, Bruno? It won’t be

easy to deflect attention from our little town, 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 that will certainly concern

you. I’ve just been advised that my dear colleague Montsouris is planning to

hold a small demonstration here at lunchtime on Monday. A march of solidarity,

he calls it.’ The Mayor’s lip curled a trifle and Bruno was left in no doubt of

his irritation. ‘France in support of her Arab brethren under the red flag seems