If they leant on Karim and Rashida to start talking, there was no telling where

it might end. Criminal damage to state property would mean an end to Karim’s

licence to sell tobacco, and the end of his café. He might not talk, but Rashida

would be thinking of the baby and she might crack. That would lead them to old

Joe and to the rest of the rugby team, and before you knew it the whole network

of the quiet and peaceful town of St Denis would face charges and start to

unravel. Bruno couldn’t have that.

Bruno carefully slowed his pace as he turned the corner by the Commune notice

board and past the war memorial into the ranks of cars that were drawn up like

so many multi-coloured soldiers in front of the Crédit Agricole. He looked for

the gendarme Twingo and then saw Duroc standing in the usual line in front of

the bank’s cash machine. Two places behind him was the looming figure of Karim,

chatting pleasantly to Colette from the dry cleaning shop. Bruno closed his eyes

in relief, and strode on towards the burly North African.

‘Karim,’ he said, and swiftly added ‘Bonjour, Colette,’ kissing her cheeks,

before turning back to Karim, saying, ‘I need to talk to you about the match

schedule for Sunday’s game. Just a very little moment, it won’t take long.’ He

grabbed him by the elbow, made his farewells to Colette, nodded at Duroc, and

steered his reluctant quarry back to the bridge.

‘I came to warn you. I think they may have the car staked out, maybe even tipped

off the gendarmerie,’ Bruno said. Karim stopped, and his face broke into a

delighted smile.

‘I thought of that myself, Bruno, then I saw that new gendarme standing in line

for cash, but his eyes kept moving everywhere so I waited behind him. Anyway,

it’s done.’

‘You did the tyres with Duroc standing there!?’

‘Not at all.’ Karim grinned. ‘I told my nephew to take care of it with the other

kids. They crept up and jammed a potato into the exhaust pipe while I was

chatting to Colette and Duroc. That car won’t make ten kilometres before the

engine seizes.’

CHAPTER 3

As the siren that sounded noon began its soaring whine over the town, Bruno

stood to attention before the Mairie and wondered if this had been the same

sound that had signalled the coming of the Germans. Images of ancient newsreels

came to mind: diving Stukas, people dashing for aid raid shelters, the

victorious Wehrmacht marching through the Arc de Triomphe in 1940 to stamp their

jackboots on the Champs-Elysées and launch the conquest of Paris. Well, he

thought, this was the day of revenge, the eighth of May, when France celebrated

her eventual victory, and although some said it was old-fashioned and unfriendly

in these days of Europe, the town of St Denis remembered the Liberation with an

annual parade of its venerable veterans.

Bruno had posted the Route Barrée signs to block the side road and ensured that

the floral wreaths had been delivered. He had donned his tie and polished his

shoes and the peak of his cap. He had warned the old men in both cafés that the

time was approaching and had brought up the flags from the cellar beneath the

Mairie. The Mayor himself stood waiting, the sash of office across his chest and

the little red rosette of the Légion d’Honneur in his lapel. The gendarmes were

holding up the impatient traffic, while housewives grumbled that their bags were

getting heavy and kept asking when they could cross the road.

Jean-Pierre of the bicycle shop carried the tricolore and his enemy Bachelot

held the flag that bore the Cross of Lorraine, the emblem of General de Gaulle

and Free France. Old Marie-Louise, who as a young girl had served as a courier

for one of the Resistance groups and who had been taken off to Ravensbruck

concentration camp and somehow survived, sported the flag of St Denis.

Montsouris, the Communist councillor, carried a smaller flag of the Soviet

Union, and old Monsieur Jackson – and Bruno was very proud of arranging this –

held the flag of his native Britain. A retired schoolteacher, he had come to

spend his declining years with his daughter who had married Pascal of the local

insurance office. Monsieur Jackson had been an eighteen-year-old recruit in the

last weeks of war in 1945 and was thus a fellow combatant, entitled to share the

honour of the victory parade. One day, Bruno told himself, he would find a real

American, but this time the Stars and Stripes were carried by young Karim as the

star of the rugby team.

The Mayor gave the signal and the town band began to play the Marseillaise.

Jean-Pierre raised the flag of France, Bruno and the gendarmes saluted, and the

small parade marched off across the bridge, their flags flapping bravely in the

breeze. Following them were three lines of the men of St Denis who had performed

their military service in peacetime but who turned out for this parade as a duty

to their town as well as to their nation. Bruno noted that Karim’s entire family

had come to watch him carry a flag. At the back marched a host of small boys

piping the words of the anthem. After the bridge, the parade turned left at the

bank and marched through the car park to the memorial, a bronze figure of a