and the salad in the other, and he brought the steaks to the table.

‘You waited,’ she said. ‘Another man would have come in to see that I was doing

it his way.’

Bruno shrugged, handed her her plate and said, ‘Bon appetit.’ She shared out the

potatoes and left the salad in the bowl. Good. He liked to soak up the juices

from the meat in his potatoes rather than mix them with the oil and vinegar of

the salad.

‘The potatoes are perfect,’ he said.

‘So is the steak.’

‘There’s one thing that nags at me,’ said Bruno. ‘I saw Richard’s father, and

somehow the boy knew that old Hamid had won the Croix de Guerre. Now unless you

or

J-J

told him that during the questioning, I don’t know how he would have

known about it if he hadn’t seen it on the wall or been in the cottage. Were you

in on all the interrogation sessions?’

‘No.

J-J

did that in Périgueux. But the sessions are all on tape so we can

check. I don’t think

J-J

would have tripped up like that. Is it something he

could have heard at school from one of Hamid’s relatives?’

‘Possibly, but as I told you, he didn’t get on too well with them. There was

that fight in the playground.’

‘Too long ago to mean much.’ He watched with approval as she wiped the juices

from her plate with a piece of bread and then helped herself to salad and

cheese. ‘That steak was just right.’

‘Yes, well, the credit is all yours, and thank you for bringing dinner, and the

wine.’ He thought he ought to keep the conversation on the case, but there was

not much new to say. ‘The boy’s father says he’s absolutely sure Richard didn’t

do it.’

‘What a surprise!’ she said. ‘Don’t you have a candle, Bruno? With this electric

light, I won’t be able to see the stars, and they must be brilliant here.’

‘I know the boy too, and I think the father may be right.’ Bruno went into his

boot room and brought out a small oil lamp. He took off the glass case, lit the

wick, replaced the glass, and only then turned off the terrace light.

‘That would mean we have no suspect at all,’ she said. ‘And the press and

politicians baying at our heels.’

‘Hang on a moment,’ he said. He went into the house for a sweater, and came back

with her leather jacket and his mobile phone. ‘In case you get cold,’ he said,

giving her the jacket and thumbing in a number.

‘Momu,’ he said. ‘Sorry to bother you, but it’s Bruno. Something has come up in

the case. You remember when young Richard had that fight in the playground and

you had him home to dinner to teach him some manners and show him how French and

normal you all were? You remember that?’

Isabelle watched Bruno as he spoke on the phone. Without looking in her

direction, he knew that she was appraising him. The call ended, but he held the

phone to his ear and delayed returning to the table, trying to fathom her

intentions. He assumed that she liked him, and she was bored in St Denis just as

she was bored in Périgueux. She probably thought he might make an amusing

diversion. But she was out of her depth here in the country. Had this been

Paris, she would have known the ways to signal whether or not she was ready to

stay, but she was smart enough to understand that the social codes were

different here, the mating rituals more stately, more hesitant. She would

probably find that interesting in itself, to flirt a while with a stranger in

this strange land they called la France profonde, deepest France, and probably

eat some excellent meals along the way.

Bruno imagined her telling herself that the food alone would be worth the

detour. Well, she would have to learn that he was nobody’s temporary plaything.

She would have to wait for the end of his phone call and then go back to her

modest room in the Hôtel de la Gare, listen to the music on her iPod and muse

about a man who grew his own food, built his own house, did not have a TV set,

and wasn’t even looking at her as he turned off his phone. A man who was very

far from sure he even wanted a dalliance with a young woman as clearly clever

and ambitious as Isabelle.

‘Another dead end,’ said Bruno. ‘Momu – that’s the son of the murdered man – had

your chief suspect round to dinner when he was thirteen years old, and told him

how proud the family was that his father had won the Croix de Guerre fighting

for France. That’s how Richard knew about the medal.’ He sank down on his chair,

and seemed to collect himself. ‘Some coffee, Isabelle?’

‘No thanks. I’d never sleep, and I have to get up early to make sure the murder

book is up to date and check on those tyre tracks.

J-J

will be coming down

tomorrow to make sure everything is in order for the guy from Paris.’

He nodded. ‘By the way, there’s some demonstration being arranged for Monday at

noon, a march of solidarity organised by our Communist councillor, but the Mayor

will probably lead it. I don’t expect many people, mainly schoolchildren.’

‘I’ll tell

J-J

, make sure the RG are there with their cameras,’ she said, with a

nervous laugh, and stood, suddenly hesitant, uncertain how best to take her

departure. ‘Just for the files,’ she added. ‘But I think we both know how much

the official files can never know and explain.’

‘Thank you for giving me such an unexpected and pleasant evening, and Gigi

thanks for you for the dinner he’s making from the scraps. I’ll see you to your

car.’ He walked round the table, walked on past her to her car, and held open

the car door for her. She kissed him briefly on both cheeks, but before she

could close her door Gigi darted past Bruno’s legs and put his paws on her

thighs and licked her face. She gave a start, then laughed, and Bruno pulled his

dog away.

‘Thank you, Bruno,’ she said sincerely. ‘I enjoyed the evening. It’s lovely

here. I hope you’ll let me come again.’

‘Of course,’ he said, with a kind of courteous neutrality that he knew she would

find very hard to read. He wondered if she felt disappointed to be leaving. ‘It

would be my pleasure,’ he added, and was surprised by the brilliant smile she

gave him in return, a smile that seemed to transform her face.

Isabelle closed the door, started the engine and reversed back down to the

track. She turned, then looked in the mirror to see him standing there and

waving farewell, Gigi at his knee. As the lights of her car disappeared he

looked up and gazed at the great sweep of the stars twinkling in the black night

above him.

CHAPTER

14

After considerable thought while he washed the dishes from supper and fed Gigi

what few scraps remained, Bruno concluded that, of all his friends, the Baron

would be the most suitable partner to play mixed doubles with the mad

Englishwoman and her friend. He caught himself; with Pamela and Christine. He

said them aloud, enjoying the soft sounds they made, thinking they were names to

be murmured in gentle intimacy. He liked both names, just as he liked the name

Isabelle, another soft sibilant, to be breathed gently into a lover’s ear. He

dragged his thoughts back to the delicate question of a partner for the mixed

doubles. The Baron was old enough to be reassuring, socially at ease, and a

character, with a touch of eccentricity unusual in a Frenchman. It was a

well-known fact, established in all French school textbooks, that the English

liked eccentrics.

Bruno rather liked them too, and sometimes wished he had a touch more

eccentricity himself. He relished the moments when he had stepped out of his