after the sun goes down.
I wonder what the cave people ate, she mused, picking up a piece of sausage
with her fingers. This is delicious but Im getting full. She put her plate
down, and when Gigi came up to sniff it, the dog looked enquiringly at Bruno. He
put the plate down in front of his dog and stroked its head, giving Gigi
permission to eat.
We know what they ate from the archaeologists, he said. They ate reindeer.
There were glaciers up in Paris in those days. It was the ice age, and reindeer
were plentiful. The archaeologists found some of their rubbish heaps and it was
almost all reindeer bones, and some fish. They didnt live inside the caves
they saved them for painting. Apparently they lived in huts made of skin,
probably like the American Indians in their tepees.
He tossed the fishbones into the fire and put their plates and the cutlery into
a plastic bag. This went into his cool box after hed brought out a small punnet
of strawberries and placed it beside the cheese.
This is it, the last course, but no picnic is complete without strawberries.
Then he put some more sticks onto the fire, which blazed up as they lay on their
sides on the rug, the strawberries between them, and the sun just about to touch
the horizon.
Its a lovely sunset, Isabelle said. I want to watch it go down. She pushed
the strawberries aside and turned to lie close to him, her back against his
chest and her buttocks nestled into him. He blew softly against her neck. Over
on the far side of the fire, Gigi was discreetly asleep. Bruno put his arm
around her waist and she snuggled into him more tightly. As the sun finally sank
she took his hand and slipped it inside her blouse and onto her breast.
CHAPTER
23
Bruno woke up in his own bed, still glowing from what had happened the night
before. He reached across for the enchantingly new female body that had filled
his dreams and, for a moment, the emptiness of his bed surprised him. Then, with
his eyes still closed, he smiled broadly at the memory of the previous evening
by the fire before, reluctantly, they had dressed and Bruno had driven Isabelle
back to her demure hotel, stopping the car every few hundred yards to kiss again
as if they could never taste one another enough.
He sprang from his bed and into his familiar exercises, his mind fresh and alert
and alive with energy as he ducked into the shower, turned on the radio and
dressed to go outside and delight in the newness of the day. He fed himself, his
dog and his chickens, and then pondered the list of names he had scribbled down
from his telephone call the previous evening to the teacher of sports history at
Montpellier.
He read them through again, even though he had made the lecturer spell out each
one, letter by letter, so that there would be no more mistakes. The complete
list should already be on his fax machine at the Mairie, and he would have to
check it again, but clearly there was some error somewhere. How else to explain
why the final list of the Oraniens championship team contained no Hamid al-Bakr,
when the young man had pride of place in the official photograph? Unless of
course he had changed his name?
His phone rang and he leaped towards it, a lovers intuition persuading him that
it was Isabelle.
I just woke up, she said. And its so unfair that you are not here. I miss
you already.
And I miss you, he said, and they exchanged the delightful nothings of lovers,
content just to hear the others voice in the electronic intimacy of a telephone
wire. In the background of her room, another phone rang. Thatll be
J-J
on my
mobile for the morning report. I think Ill have to go to Bergerac for the drugs
case.
This evening? he asked.
Im yours, until then.
He gazed out over his garden, suddenly noting that it must have rained in the
night while he slept. At least the rain had held off for them, and he felt
himself smiling once more. But the list was still there by his telephone,
nagging at him, and he looked at the name that was listed as the team captain:
Hocine Boudiaf. Beside the word Hocine, Bruno had written in brackets Hussein,
which the Montpellier lecturer said was an alternative spelling and which looked
more familiar. He had not been able to come up with a team photograph, but he
promised to fax Bruno another photo that included Boudiaf, which might help
solve the puzzle. He checked his watch. Momu would not yet have left for school.
He called him at home.
Bruno, I want to apologise again, to apologise and thank you, Momu began
almost at once.
Forget it, Momu, its alright. Listen, I have a question. It comes from trying
to track down your fathers missing photograph. Have you ever heard the name
Boudiaf, Hussein Boudiaf? Could he have been a friend of your father?
The Boudiaf family were cousins, back in Algeria, Momu replied. They were the
only family my father stayed in touch with, but not closely. I think there might
have been some letters when I went through the stuff in his cottage, just family
news deaths and weddings and children being born. I suppose I should write and
tell them, but Ive never been in touch. My father felt he could never go back
to Algeria after the war.
Did you know any of his friends from his youth, football friends or team-mates?
Do you remember any names?
Not really, but try me.
Bruno read down the list of the Oraniens team. Most got no response, but he put
a small cross beside two of names that Momu said sounded vaguely familiar. He
rang off and called Isabelle again.
I knew it was you, she laughed happily. I am just out of the shower and
thinking of you.
Sorry, my beauty, but this is a business question. That helpful man you spoke
to in the Military Archives. If you have his number, would he speak to me? I
have the list of the Oraniens team and the mystery is that Hamids name is not
on it. I want to see if we can trace any of the other team members. One or two
might still be alive.
She gave him the number. If you dont get very far, I can try him. I think he
was an old man who liked talking to a young woman.
Who could blame him, Isabelle? Ill call your mobile if I need help. Until this
evening.
As Bruno had expected, the faxes from Montpellier had already arrived at his
office when he got in. He checked the list. The names were the same, and then he
looked at the photo, grainy and not too clear. It had come from an unidentified
newspaper and showed three men in football gear. In the centre was Villanova
with his arms around two young North Africans, one of them named as Hussein
Boudiaf and the other as Massili Barakine, one of the names that Momu had half
remembered. Now he felt he was getting somewhere. He rang the Military Archives
number that Isabelle had given him, and a quavering voice answered.
This is Chief of Police Courrčges from St Denis in Dordogne, Monsieur. I need
your help in relation to an inquiry where youve already been very helpful to my
colleague Inspector Isabelle Perrault.
Are you the policeman that I saw on TV, young man, in that riot?
Yes, Sir. I think that must have been me.
Then Im at your entire disposal, Monsieur, and you have the admiration of a
veteran, sous-officier Arnaud Marignan, of the seventy-second of the line. What
can I do for you?
Bruno explained the situation, gave the names, and reminded Marignan of the