placid and careful character and taken risks and sought adventure. He turned

that word around in his mouth for a long moment: adventure – the word still

inspired him. It still triggered boyhood dreams of travel to mysterious places

and daring challenges, dreams of drama and passion of an intensity that a quiet

country policeman seldom knew. But then he had become a country policeman

because that kind of intensity had battered him so badly when he had tasted it

in Bosnia. His hand strayed to the old scar just above his hip, and he felt

again the sudden confusion of memories, of noise and flames, the world spinning

as he fell, the glare of headlamps and blood on the snow. It was a sequence he

could never get straight in his mind, the events and images all jumbled. Only

the soundtrack remained clear – a symphony of helicopter blades in low rhythm

against the counterpoint chatter of a machine gun, the slam of grenades, the

squealing clatter of tank tracks. Bruno felt a kind of self-pity begin to steal

over him and mentally shook himself for being so foolish, and so self-absorbed

that he was almost forgetting the drama on his own doorstep. A country policeman

seldom had to deal with murder, drugs and bizarre sex games all in a single

week.

Having stacked the dishes carefully in their rack to drain and set out his cup,

plate and knife for breakfast, he kneeled to caress Gigi, who was snuffling

amiably at his feet, hoping that perhaps not all the scraps from dinner had

gone. He cradled the dog’s head in his hands, scratching those soft spots behind

its ears, then bent his own head so that their foreheads met and he made an

affectionate noise deep in his throat, hearing its echo as his dog responded.

There ought to be a word for that deep and loving sound a dog could make – had

Gigi been a cat, Bruno would have said it purred – for this was not a growl, a

word that carried a hint of menace. Gigi twisted his head to lick Bruno’s face,

clambering up so that his front paws rested on his master’s shoulders, the

better to lick his ears and nuzzle into his neck. Bruno relished the contact and

the affection, and hugged his dog before patting its shoulders and getting to

his feet. Time for bed, he told Gigi, for both of us.

What I am trying to do now is distract myself from the subject that really

occupies my mind, Bruno admitted to himself as he led Gigi out to the kennel. He

took a last attentive look at the fence around his hen house, and heard an owl

hooting far off in the woods. He checked that nothing was left on the table and

splashed water on the ashes in the barbecue. He knew he was trying to avoid the

moment of introspection and self-doubt that was upon him. The fact was that he

now deeply regretted his tame acceptance of Isabelle’s departure.

Was that it, he asked himself, looking up to the great blaze of stars and the

distant moving lights of airliners. Had he merely acquiesced in Isabelle’s

decision to return to her hotel, or had he, by his own timidity, given the

impression that her company was not desired? A bolder Bruno would have taken her

decisively in his arms under the night sky, and embarked on the great adventure

of a new affair with a lithe and distinctly modern young woman of intelligence

and ambition.

Come on, Bruno, he told himself as he brushed his teeth. Don’t demean yourself

or understate your value. You built your house with your own hands. You’ve

taught yourself to be a gardener who can feed himself and his friends, and

you’ve become a countryman who understands the feel of the soil and the rhythms

of the seasons, and the old sweet ways of rural France. You’re a man of duty and

responsibility to yourself and your community. You’ve seen foreign lands, you’ve

known love and war and wounds and battle, and that was more than enough

adventure for anyone. Adventure meant risk and danger, and he’d seen his share

of both. He would not willingly seek them out again. The sudden image of the

bomb-shattered French light tank at Sarajevo airport flooded into his mind, the

torn bodies of men he had trained with, eaten with, fought beside. That had been

adventure, and praise be to le bon Dieu that it was over.

He picked up the photograph of himself with Katarina, taken in that glorious

Bosnian summer not long after they had become lovers, and before the winter came

with the snow that gave cover to the Serb raiding party and the sniper who had

shot him. He had been a man of great vigour and passion then, and able to carry

out the violent acts that were part of his duty. He put down the photograph and

pulled out the thin volume of Baudelaire she had given him, opening it to read

her inscription to him and to stare at her flowing signature. He could also hear

her voice again, reading the poems aloud to him in that curiously liquid French

that she had taught her schoolchildren before the war came. He was almost wholly

glad those days were long gone but then, as he slipped between the cool sheets

and turned out the light, he thought, you’re also a man whose bed has been empty

too long and who seems to have got out of the way of enticing attractive women

into it.

Then a more cheerful idea emerged, as it usually did when he had been unduly

hard on himself. He had recently met three attractive and unattached women.

First, Isabelle, who in the absence of an obvious suspect would be here in St

Denis for some time. Then there was Pamela the mad Englishwoman, who lived here

and whom he found interesting. And there was her friend Christine, here only

briefly but she seemed a forthright and enterprising woman, and was in some ways

the prettiest of the three. And he would be playing tennis with them both

tomorrow, with only his friend the Baron as rival for their company.

It promised to be entertaining. The Baron was an inveterate competitor. He hated

to lose, hated even more to lose to a woman, and above all could not abide

losing to the English. And from what Bruno had seen of their play, Christine and

Pamela were likely to trounce them on an unpredictable grass court. The silent

struggle between the Baron’s fury at defeat and his innate and chivalrous

courtesy would be an entertainment in itself. With a smile of affection for his

friend, and a glow of satisfaction at having steered his own thoughts from

gloomy introspection into more agreeable paths, Bruno drifted into an untroubled

sleep.

It was a lovely May morning as they drove in the Baron’s big old Citroën up the

track beside Yannick’s house, past the turnoff to Hamid’s lonely cottage, and

over the rise to the beguiling setting of Pamela’s farmhouse. The Baron slowed

his car to a halt, and gazed at the scene in solemn approval, then climbed out

to stand and take a longer look. Bruno opened his door and joined him, enjoying

the Baron’s reaction to the surroundings and pleased that it matched his own.

They looked in silence, until a drumming noise came from behind them and they

turned to see two horsewomen, their hair flowing free, cantering along the ridge

towards them and spurring into a near gallop as they saw the car and the two

men.

Unlike for Pamela’s usual trips into town, there was no riding cap or neat black

riding coat for this morning’s ride. She was wearing a white shirt open at the

neck, with a green silk scarf that flowed into her auburn hair, and some old

trousers stuffed into her riding boots. The Baron let out a low whistle of