time to get to the tennis club at four o’clock and change for his minimes class

of five-year-olds.

By now the kids could hold a racquet, and were starting to put together the

hand–eye coordination that allowed most of them to hit the balls most of the

time. He lined them up at the far end of the court, and with the big wire basket

of balls beside him at the net, he tossed a gentle bounce to each of the kids,

who ran forward in turn to try and hit the ball back towards him. If they were

lucky enough to send the ball his way, he would tap it back gently with his

racquet and the child was entitled to another hit. Two was usually all they

could manage, but in every class there would be one or two who were naturals,

who struck the ball surely, and these were the ones he kept his eye on. But for

the young mothers, who stood watching in the shade of the plane trees, each

child was a future champion, to be cheered on before hitting the ball and

applauded after it. He was used to it, and to their complaints that he was

throwing the ball at their little angel too hard or too high, or too low or too

out of reach. When they became too strident he would suggest it was time for

them to start preparing the milk and cookies that ended each session of the

minimes.

Young Freddie Duhamel, whose father ran the camp site, got the ball back to him

four times and was looking like a natural, and so was Rafiq, one of Ahmed’s

sons. The other was a natural rugby player. And Amélie, the daughter of Pascal

the insurance broker, was even able to play a backhand shot. Her father must

have been teaching her. The kids went round ten times. They all counted

carefully, and knew that after three rounds there would be no more balls in the

wire basket and they could scamper around the court to pick them all up and

replace them. Sometimes he thought that was one of the parts they most enjoyed.

The other favourite moment came at the end of the ninth round when, by

tradition, he would declare the session over and they would all shout that Bruno

couldn’t count and they had the tenth round to go. Then he could count off each

of his fingers and admit that they were right, and give them each another round.

The final part of the class was what he called the game, knowing the kids were

desperate to play against one another. There were three open courts, so he

stationed four children at one end of each court, each child in its own little

square and responsible for balls that landed in his or her territory. By this

time, he had sent the mothers into the clubhouse to prepare the snack, or they

would have become impossible in their partisanship. He started the game at each

court by hitting a ball high into the air, and the game began when it bounced.

He had just hit the ball to launch the game in the second court when he noticed

that one of the mothers was still watching, but when he turned to look he saw

that it was Christine. He started the game in the third court and then strolled

across to the fence to say bonjour.

‘That was a wonderful dinner last night,’ he began, wondering what had brought

her here. She looked dressed for a walk, in strong shoes, loose slacks and a

polo shirt.

‘That was Pamela’s cooking, not me,’ she said. ‘This is very strange after

seeing you fight the way you did in the square, and now here you are like every

kid’s favourite uncle. You French police have a remarkable range of skills. I

didn’t know that tennis lessons were part of your duties as a country

policeman.’

‘It isn’t exactly a duty, more a tradition, and I enjoy it. It also means I get

to know every kid in the town long before they start getting to be teenagers and

ripe for trouble, so that counts as crime prevention. And while we talk of

crime, that thesis you found for me was very useful indeed. It was exactly what

I needed to track down the missing photo.’

‘Good, I’m pleased. Look, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t know you would be

here, and I think your children need you.’

He had already turned, alerted by the sound of infant howls from the second

court where a ball had bounced on the centre line and two children each claimed

it. He sorted that out, and then saw a similar tussle looming on the third court

so he went and stood silently by the net to make sure they stayed calm. From the

corner of his eye he saw Christine still hovering on the far side of the fence.

He looked at his watch and held up a finger; one moment.

At five p.m. he blew his whistle and the children collected the balls and ran

into the clubhouse for their snack.

‘Sorry,’ he said to Christine. ‘I have to go and join them soon.’

‘That’s fine. I was just passing by and saw the courts and thought I’d take a

look. I didn’t know you’d be here, but since you are, is there anything specific

you’d like me to look up in Bordeaux? I’m going there for a couple of days on

Thursday, to that Centre Jean Moulin I told you about, you remember? Resistance

research.’

He nodded. ‘Let me think about it and get back to you tomorrow. I don’t really

know what I’m looking for. More information on Hamid, I suppose, and which group

he was with before he joined the Army down near Toulon in 1944. If I get the

rest of the names of his team, maybe we could see if any of them crop up. And

then there’s this Giulio Villanova.’

‘I think I know what to look for. I read the thesis. You’d better go to your

children. You’re very good with them; you’d make quite a father.’ She blew him a

kiss and sauntered off slowly towards the road that led to the cave, now and

then bending to pick a wild flower. He watched her for a moment, enjoying the

swing of her hips. She turned and saw him, and waved. Twice she had used the

phrase ‘your children’ and Bruno did not think it was accidental from a woman

with no children herself. He waved back and went into the clubhouse to be

greeted by the usual bedlam of a score of five-year-olds and as many mothers.

The latter eyed him gleefully, giggling like a pack of schoolgirls as they

rolled their eyes and asked about his new lady friend.

CHAPTER

22

In the low light of the hotel lobby, Isabelle looked striking and almost

mannish. Her hair, evidently still wet from her shower, was slicked back from

her brow, and she was dressed entirely in black. Flat black shoes, black slacks

and blouse and a black leather jacket slung over one shoulder, all set off by a

bold crimson suede belt at her waist.

‘You look lovely,’ he said, kissing her cheeks. She had on the merest hint of

eye make-up, lipstick to match her sash, and no perfume but the fresh scent of

her shampoo. He led her to his van, which he had cleaned out specially, at least

the front seat. As he showed her in, Gigi looked up from sniffing at the large

cool box that was strapped on top of the spare wheel. He put his head over the

front seat and licked Isabelle’s ear. Bruno set off over the bridge.

‘This isn’t the way to your place,’ she said. ‘Where are you taking me?’

‘It’s a surprise picnic,’ he said. ‘A place you probably do not know, but you

should. And it’s a pretty drive.’ He had thought carefully about this dinner and

toyed with the idea of taking her home, but decided on balance against it. They

had been together frequently enough and clearly liked one another so there was

going to be sexual tension in their evening anyway. It would be all the more

loaded if they were on his territory, his bedroom just a few steps away.