must have been some boy, and so we came back today to see if we could see one –

and we caught him.’

‘You are on duty today, on a Saturday?’ Bruno pressed.

‘Not exactly,’ he repeated, ‘but since our duties bring us to the Dordogne this

week and next, we decided to stay over and make a weekend of it in your

delightful part of the country,’ he added ingratiatingly. ‘So much history …’

His voice trailed off as he saw the coldness in Bruno’s expression.

‘So, you are “not exactly” on duty today. Yes or no?’

‘Er, no.’

‘Let me get this clear, Monsieur,’ said Bruno. ‘Your car was allegedly damaged

by a person or persons unknown on Tuesday, and it is not yet established that

any damage was caused by the potato rather than by other causes. And now because

you find a boy holding a potato, in a vegetable market, somewhere near your

unharmed car of today – a day when you are not on duty and thus I presume not

empowered to enforce the hygiene rules that you tried to deploy against the

kindly Madame Vignier – you are now proposing to take the very serious step of

arresting and bringing charges against a minor?’

‘Well, yes.’

Bruno drew himself up to his full height, frowned and assumed his most formal

tone of voice.

‘I suggest that while I telephone the boy’s parents to inform them of the

forcible detention of their son for being in suspicious possession of a potato

…’ he paused to let the absurdity of this sink in, ‘I am also bound as an

officer of the law to inform the parents of their right to file a formal

complaint against persons responsible for what may be the wrongful arrest of a

minor. So, at this time I would advise that you might want to contact your own

superiors in order to establish what exactly is your personal authority and

responsibility in such matters, and whether your department will defray any

legal expenses that you are likely to incur. This will include any liability

that you may have unfortunately brought upon the gendarmes if unlawful arrest is

indeed established. I’m sure that you would not want to implicate Capitaine

Duroc and his men, who clearly acted in the finest and most efficient traditions

of the Gendarmerie, if such is the case.’

Somebody in the crowd let out a long, appreciative whistle for his performance,

and Bruno then solemnly opened his shirt pocket and drew out the pencil and

notepad on which he had written his morning shopping list. ‘I had better make a

formal record of this notification,’ he said. ‘So, gentlemen, might I see your

identity cards, please, along with any documents that testify to your lawful

authority? – oh, and Capitaine Duroc,’ he went on, ‘we shall obviously need a

camera to take photographs of that young boy’s arm and shoulder where you have

been gripping so tightly. Just a formality, you understand, to protect you

personally against any malicious charges of ill-treatment as a result of your

being suborned into what seems very likely to be a case of wrongful arrest.’

There was a long silence, and then the Captain let go of the boy’s arm. The lad

burst into tears, scurried over to Bruno and buried his face in the policeman’s

freshly laundered shirt.

‘Well, we may have been a little hasty …’ began the more grey of the two grey

men. ‘But the damage to our car is a serious matter.’

‘Indeed it is, Sir, which is why we should proceed according to the letter of

the law,’ said Bruno. ‘We will all go to the Gendarmerie where you will file

your complaint, and I shall bring the parents, and probably their legal

representative, and there will be no need for further witnesses since the Mayor

and I saw the arrest and forcible seizure of this young boy from the window of

the Mayor’s office.’

‘My chief of police is absolutely right,’ said the Mayor from behind Bruno’s

shoulder. ‘We saw the whole thing, and I must state that I am deeply disturbed

that an underage member of our community can be seized in this way on what seems

the flimsiest of evidence. As Mayor of St Denis and a senator of the Republic, I

reserve the right to bring this matter to the attention of your superiors.’

‘But unless we file charges, we’ll be liable for the damage to the car,’ bleated

the younger grey man.

‘Shut up, you fool,’ hissed his partner, who had been visibly jolted when the

Mayor mentioned that he was also a senator, and he turned towards Bruno and

Mangin. ‘Monsieur le Maire, Monsieur le Chef de Police, mon Capitaine, allow me

to congratulate you on the efficiency and good sense you have brought to ease

this little misunderstanding. I think it might be advisable for all of us to let

this matter rest, and we shall continue our duties elsewhere in the region.’

He bowed slightly, took his companion firmly by the elbow and beat a hasty but

still dignified retreat from the market.

‘Bloody Gestapo,’ said the Mayor, and Duroc’s eyes widened.

Bruno leaned down and ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Where did you learn that trick

with the potato?’ he asked.

‘From my great-grandpa. He told me it was what they used to do to the German

trucks in the Resistance.’

CHAPTER

12

Bruno’s garden had been planned with decades in mind. The first time the Mayor

had shown him the small stone cottage, its roof just beginning to collapse, with

its sheltering trees on the hill above and the great sweep of the view to the

south across the plateau, Bruno had known that this place would suit him well.

The old shepherd who had lived here had died almost a decade earlier. His heirs,

who had gone away to Paris, had neglected to pay the modest taxes so it had

fallen into the hands of the Commune, which meant into the disposition of the

Mayor. They had walked over the wide stretch of rough turf that would become

Bruno’s lawn and his terrace, poked around the overgrown vegetable garden and

the collapsed hen house, and carefully lifted the rotting wooden cover from the

well. The stone work was still sound and the water fresh. The beams of the old

barn behind the cottage were solid chestnut and would last forever, and the cart

track from the road up to the cottage, although rutted and overgrown, was easily

passable. They had paced out the dimensions, twelve metres long and eight deep.

Inside, there was one large room and two small, and the remains of a ladder that

went up to the attic beneath the roof.

‘It comes with four hectares but it will take a lot of work,’ the Mayor had

said.

‘I’ll have the time,’ Bruno had replied, already imagining how it could be and

wondering whether his Army gratuity would be sufficient to buy this home of his

own. Not a countryman born, he had little idea what four hectares of land would

be.

‘The land stretches to the brow of the hill behind, in those woods, about a

hundred metres to the right and down to the stream below us,’ the Mayor

explained. ‘We cannot legally sell the place unless it is habitable, which means

that the Commune would have to instal electricity but you would have to fix the

roof and put in some windows before we can make a contract. That’s your risk. If

I’m voted out of office in the elections, you might have done the work for

nothing. I cannot promise that my successor would honour the deal, but we might

be able to reach a long leasehold agreement, tied to the post of Chef de

Police.’

Bruno, just a few months into the job as the Municipal Policeman of St Denis,

was confident that the Mayor would be re-elected in St Denis so long as he was