vin ordinaire. This one is called Lagavullin, and it comes from the island where

my grandmother was born, so it has a taste of peat and the sea.’

‘You sip it like cognac?’

‘My father brought me up to sniff it first, a really long sniff, then to take

the tiniest sip and roll it around your mouth until it evaporates, and then take

a deep breath through your mouth so you feel the flavour all down your throat.

Then you take a proper sip.’

‘It feels warm all the way down,’ said Bruno, after taking his deep breath.

‘That’s very good indeed,’ he said, after a long sip. ‘A most unusual smoky

taste, but a very satisfying digestif after a wonderful meal and a great

conversation. I feel that I’ve learned a lot. Thank you both.’

He raised his glass to them, trying to decide which of the two he found the most

attractive. He knew that they’d been teasing a little throughout the evening,

and he might try some teasing in return.

‘So let me sum up,’ he said, ‘ by asking whether I’ve really had English cuisine

this evening?’ Pamela looked slightly disconcerted. ‘I’ve had Scotch malt whisky

and Scotch salmon, wine from Cornwall, French beef and French kidney, French

salad and vegetables and strawberries, and French-style champagne that was made

in England. The only wholly English part of this meal was the cheese. And it was

all wonderfully cooked by an Englishwoman with the very good taste to live in

the Périgord.’

CHAPTER

20

With the taste of the whisky still lingering pleasantly in his mouth, Bruno

cruised to the end of Pamela’s drive. He stopped on the brow of a hill where the

signal would be better, took out his mobile and checked the time. Just after ten

thirty. Not too late. He called Jean-Luc, a brawny man who was a strong

supporter of the rugby club and his best friend among the local cops. A woman’s

voice answered.

‘Francine, it’s Bruno. Are they out tonight?’

‘Hi, Bruno. You’d better take care. Capitaine Duroc has the boys out just about

every night these days. The bastard wants to break the record for drunk-driving

arrests. Hold on, I’ll get Jean-Luc.’

‘Out drinking again, Bruno?’ said his friend, his voice a little blurred with

wine. ‘You ought to set a better example. Yes, the bastard sent the lads out

again. He had me and Vorin on the Périgueux road last night, and he took the

road junction that goes off to Les Eyzies – with young Françoise. I think he

might be a bit sweet on her but she can’t stand the sod. Neither can any of us.

He’s got us on alternate night shifts and we’re all getting fed up with him. I

tell you what. Young Jacques is out on patrol tonight. I’ll call him and see

where he’s stationed and call you back.’

Bruno waited and let his thoughts linger on the two women with whom he’d spent

the evening. Christine was conventionally pretty, a dark-eyed brunette of the

kind he always liked, and her liveliness and quick intelligence made her seem

somehow familiar. Aside from her accent, she could almost be French. But Pamela

was different, handsome rather than pretty, and with that wide and graceful

stride of hers and her upright posture and strong nose, she could only be

English. There was something rather splendid about her, though, he reflected.

Serene and self-confident, she was a woman out of the ordinary, and a very fine

cook. Now what should he cook for them? They had probably had more than enough

Périgord cuisine, and he certainly had, so he could forget the touraine soup and

the foie gras, and the various ways with duck, but he still had some truffles

stored in oil so a risotto with truffles and mushrooms would be interesting. The

two women would be standing gracefully at the counter in his kitchen while he

stirred it, and—

His phone rang, jolting him out of his reverie. ‘Bruno, it’s Jean-Luc. I rang

Jacques and he’s on the bridge. He said Duroc has gone out to the junction at

Les Eyzies again. Apparently he found good pickings there. Where are you? Up

near the cave? Well, you could come back by the bridge and give a wave to

Jacques as you pass, he knows your car. Or you could go around by the water

tower and have a clear run home. Is it just you or are some of the rest of the

lads out tonight?’

‘Just me, Jean-Luc, and thanks. I owe you a beer.’

He took the long way home, down to the narrow bridge and up the ridge to the

water tower, smiling grimly at all the things about St Denis that Duroc would

never know, and wondering if the man would ever learn that the rules were rather

different in rural France. It was interesting to hear that he had his eye on

young Françoise, a plumpish blonde from Alsace with a sweet face and generous

hips, who was said to have a small tattoo on her rump. It was listed in her

personal file as an identifying mark, according to Jean-Luc. There were a series

of private bets among the other gendarmes over what it might be; a spider or a

cross, a heart or a boyfriend’s name. Bruno’s bet was a cockerel, the symbol of

France. Nobody had yet claimed the prize and Bruno hoped it would not be Duroc

who succeeded in uncovering Françoise and her secret, although perhaps an affair

was just what Duroc needed. But the man went so carefully by the book that he

would never break the strict Gendarmerie rule against romantic attachments with

junior ranks. Or would he? If the others suspected he was smitten with

Françoise, he was getting into risky territory already. Bruno filed the thought

away as his car climbed the hill to his cottage. Turning the corner, he saw the

faithful Gigi sitting guard at his door.

He took the printout of the thesis with him to bed, turning first to the back

for the chapter headings, and frowning slightly as he saw there was no index.

This could take longer than he thought, but there was an entire chapter on

Marseilles and the Maghreb League, which from its name was presumably composed

of teams and players from North Africa. He lay back and began to read, or at

least he tried to. This was like no prose he had ever read before. The first two

pages were entirely about what previous scholars had written about North African

life in Marseilles and about the theory of sports integration. When he had read

the paragraph three times, he thought he understood it to say that integration

took place when teams of different ethnic groups played one another, but not

when they just played between themselves. That made sense, so why didn’t the man

say so?

He battled on. The Maghreb League had been founded in 1937, the year after Leon

Blum’s Popular Front government came to power with its commitment to social

policy, paid holidays and the forty-hour week. He remembered learning about that

in school. Blum had been Jewish and a Socialist, and his government depended on

Communist votes. There had been a slogan among the rich – ‘Better Hitler than

Blum’.

The Maghreb League was one of several sporting organisations that had been

started by a group of social workers employed by Blum’s Ministry of Youth and

Sport. There was also a Catholic Youth League, a Young Socialists league, a

Ligue des Syndicats for the trade unions, and even an Italian League because

south-east France from Nice to the Italian border had been part of the Italian

kingdom of Savoy until 1860. Then the Emperor Louis Napoleon had taken the land

as his reward for going to war against Austria in support of a unified Italy.

Again, Bruno vaguely remembered that from school. But the Young Catholics, Young