Текст книги "Bruno, Chief Of Police"

Автор книги: Martin Walker

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learn more about this, he said. The victim’s son believed that he had played in

the team and had been coached by Villanova, and since the victim had been

holding the ball when the photo was taken, he was either the captain or the star

of the team. Was there any more information?

‘Well, I think I have a list of team names in my research notes,’ said the

teacher. ‘I wanted to check whether any of the players became famous after the

war, but none of them seemed to make it into the professional teams in France.

They may have done so back in North Africa, but I had no funds to take my

researches over there.’

‘Can you find the team list for the Oraniens in 1940? And do you have any team

photos?’ Bruno asked. ‘Or anything more on Villanova – that seems to be the only

name we have.’

‘I’ll have to check, but it won’t be until I get home this evening. My research

notes are stored there and I have to teach all day. I do have some photos, but

I’m not sure if they’d be relevant. I’ll check. And Villanova seems to have

dropped out of sporting life during the war. He doesn’t reappear on any team

lists that I came across, nor at the Ministry of Sports when it re-opened in

1945. I’ll call you back this evening. Okay?’

Bruno hung up, telling himself he was probably following a false trail. Still,

the disappearance of that photo was one of the only clues they had and he

thought

J-J

and Isabelle would be impressed if he could come up with some new

evidence. And, being honest with himself, Bruno knew it was Isabelle whom he

wanted to please.

The inquiry had made little real progress that Bruno knew of. The tyre tracks

had matched, but only confirmed what they already knew, that both young

Gelletreau and Jacqueline had been in the clearing in the woods overlooking

Hamid’s cottage. In any case, they had admitted going there at various times to

make love, while firmly denying seeing Hamid or visiting his cottage, and even a

second forensic sweep had failed to produce any new evidence that could break

their story. The one big hole in their case was Jacqueline’s lie about being in

St Denis on the day of the killing. She had first claimed that she had simply

come to pick up Richard to take him back to her house, but she was lying again.

Playing truant from his lycée, Richard would have stayed at her home in Lalinde.

Under separate questioning, the boy had firmly denied being in St Denis at all

that day but, even when caught in the lie, Jacqueline stuck to her story.

J-J

and Isabelle assumed that her jaunt probably had something to do with the drugs,

making a pickup or a delivery, and she was more frightened of the drug dealers

than she was of the police.

Bruno had a sudden thought. Most of the Ecstasy pills in Europe were said to

come from Holland. He picked up the phone and rang Franc Duhamel at the big camp

site on the river bend below the town.

‘Bonjour, Franc, it’s Bruno and I have a question for you. Those Dutch lads who

stayed at your site for the Motor-Cross rally, how long did they stay?’

‘Salut, Bruno. They stayed the whole week. They came down late on the Friday

night, stayed the week and went back the next Sunday. There were about thirty of

them, a couple of those big camping vans, a couple of cars and the rest on

motorbikes. Along with the camping vans for some of the teams that were

competing, I was nearly full that weekend. It was just what I needed to start

the season.’

‘Franc, I know you have that wooden pole across the entrance and a night

watchman, but do you run security during the day? Take note of car registration

numbers and all that?’

‘Certainly. The insurance requires it. Every vehicle that comes in gets recorded

in the book.’

‘Even visitors, even local cars from round here?’

‘Everybody. Visitors, delivery trucks, even you.’

‘Do me a favour. Look up the visitors’ book for May the eleventh, and see if you

have a listing for a local car with a twenty-four registration.’ He gave Franc

the number of Jacqueline’s car, and waited, listening to the rustling of pages.

‘Hello, Bruno? Yes, I found it. The car came in at twelve and left at

three-thirty. It looks like whoever it was, they came for a good lunch.’

‘Any idea who was driving the car, or who they visited?’

‘No, just the number.’

‘Do you have the names of the Dutch lads who were staying with you?’

‘Certainly. Names, addresses, car and bike registrations, and some credit cards.

Mostly they paid cash, but some paid with cards.’ Franc spoke hesitantly, and

Bruno smiled to himself at Franc’s new dilemma, whether he would now have to

declare to the taxman even the cash income he had taken from the Dutchmen.

‘Don’t worry, Franc. This is about the Dutchmen and their visitor, nothing to do

with you or taxes. Can you get the paperwork together with the names and

addresses and all the information you have on them and I’ll be down in twenty

minutes to make copies.’

‘Can you tell me what this is about, Bruno? It’s not involved with the murder of

that Arab, is it?’

‘It’s just a hunch, Franc, but we’re investigating the way some drugs have been

getting into the area, that’s all. Twenty minutes.’

With Franc’s paperwork in hand, Bruno thought he had better tie up another loose

end and drove on through the town to Lespinasse’s garage on the main road to

Bergerac. It was a Total filling station, slightly more expensive than the

petrol at the supermarket but well-placed for the tourist trade, and it was

where Jacqueline had filled her car. Lespinasse’s sister ran the pumps, while he

and his son and a cousin tinkered happily with engines and gearboxes and

bodywork in the vast hangar of their garage. Lespinasse liked all cars, but he

loved old Citroëns, from the 1940s Model Sept with the sweeping running boards

and the doors that opened forwards to the humble but serviceable Deux-Chevaux

and the ’60s beauties that were known as the gorgeous goddesses – the

aerodynamic models called the DS that when said aloud sounded like the French

word for goddess – déesse.

As always, he found Lespinasse under a car, chewing on a matchstick and singing

to himself. He called out and the plump, jovial man wheeled himself out on the

small board on which he lay and rolled off to greet Bruno, presenting his

forearm to be shaken rather than cover Bruno’s palm with oil.

‘We saw you in the newspaper,’ said Lespinasse. ‘And on TV. A proper celebrity

you are now, Bruno. Everybody says you did a great job with those bastards.’

‘I’m here on police business, Jean-Louis, about one of your credit card

customers. I need to look at your fuel sales records for May the eleventh.’

‘The eleventh? That would have been Kati’s day off, so the boy would have been

running the pumps.’ He looked back into the garage and whistled, and young

Edouard came out, waving cheerfully. He was the image of his father but for a

full set of teeth. The boy was eighteen now but he had known Bruno ever since

he’d first learned to play rugby, so he came and kissed Bruno on both cheeks.

‘You still write down the registration numbers on the credit card slips?’ Bruno

asked.

‘Always, except for the locals that we know,’ said Edouard.

Bruno gave him the number of Jacqueline’s car, and Edouard leafed through the

file to the right day.

‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Thirty-two euros and sixty centimes at eleven forty in

the morning. Carte Bleu. I remember her, she was a real looker. Blonde. When she

came back she was with a bunch of guys, though.’

‘She came back?’

‘Yes, after lunch, in one of those big camper vans with a bunch of Hollanders. I

filled them up. Here it is, eighty euros exactly at two forty in the afternoon,

paid with a Visa card and here’s the registration number,’ said Edouard. Bruno

checked his own list. It was one of the numbers listed at the camp site.

‘And there were a couple of them on motor bikes at the same time and I filled

them too,’ Edouard went on. ‘They must have paid cash. I remember asking myself

what a nice French girl like that was doing with a bunch of foreigners.

Tough-looking guys, they were. I saw her in the back of the van with them when

the guy that paid opened the back door to get his jacket with the wallet. I

don’t think we saw them again, and I’d have remembered if we’d seen her.’

‘If you hadn’t given up playing tennis you might have met her at the tournament

last year. She came and played at the club.’

‘Well, it was either tennis or rugby so maybe I made the wrong choice,’ said

Edouard. ‘But you know me, I was always better at rugby and I like the lads in

the team.’

CHAPTER

21

Bruno left the garage feeling rather proud of himself and went directly to see

Isabelle in her temporary office above the tourist board. Trying not to show

that he felt like some ancient warrior returning with trophies from the

battlefield, he went straight to her desk, laid down three thin files and

announced, ‘New evidence.’

Isabelle, in dark trousers and a white shirt of masculine cut, sat pensively at

her desk with a pencil in her hand and wearing earphones. She looked startled to

see him at first, and then pleased. She took off the earphones and switched off

a small machine that Bruno could not identify, then rose and kissed him in

greeting.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was listening to the tape of the last round of

interrogation.

J-J

emailed it to me. You said there was new evidence?’

‘First, I’ve identified the missing photo,’ he said, trying to sound

matter-of-fact rather than pompous. ‘It’s of a team called les Oraniens who won

the Maghreb League trophy in Marseilles in 1940. They were coached by a

professional player called Giulio Villanova. By this evening we should have a

full list of the team, thanks to this man, a sports historian, who wrote a

thesis on it. Here are my notes and his phone number.’ He pushed out one of the

files he had brought.

‘Second, I’ve traced Jacqueline’s movements on the day in question.’ He put his

finger on the next file, which contained the list of Dutch names and credit card

numbers and a photocopy of the camp site’s visitors’ book with Jacqueline’s

registration number. It also contained the numbers of the vehicles that had left

the camp site while Jacqueline’s car was there.

‘Third, we can put Jacqueline in the company of the visiting Dutch boys for

almost all of the time that we think the murder was committed. This third file

has photocopies of the credit card they used to buy diesel, and the name of an

eye witness who saw her with them, and who earlier saw her fill up her own car.’

Isabelle poured him some of her own coffee before returning to her desk and

looking through the files Bruno had brought. ‘So why would she not explain to us

that she was simply visiting some Dutch boys at the camp site?’ she asked.

‘My question exactly. And you know you thought it might be drug-related, and she

was frightened of her suppliers if she talked? Well, the Dutch produce most of

the Ecstasy pills, and a bunch of Hollanders were staying at the camp site when

she visited. They came down in cars, camper vans and bikes, mainly for the

Motor-Cross rally but they stayed on – not a bad cover for distributing drugs. I

have a list of names here, some of them with credit card numbers, and I thought

you might want to see if any of them are known to your Dutch colleagues or to

any of those Europol cooperation agencies.’

‘This is good work, but it’s the murder we’re supposed to be dealing with here,

Bruno, not another drugs ring,’ she said. ‘Our elegant young Monsieur Tavernier

seems mainly interested in the drugs charges as a way to put pressure on

Jacqueline and keep detaining her. That and the politics, discrediting the Front

National boys.’

‘It’s all crime, and I get worried at the thought of serious drugs in St Denis,’

said Bruno. ‘And it’s strange to me that Jacqueline would rather be the main

suspect in a murder inquiry than cover herself by admitting she visited some

Dutch men at a camp site.’

She nodded. ‘I’ll brief

J-J

and send off a report to Tavernier. We’ll need J-J’s

signature to send the request to the Dutch police. I presume the Dutchmen have

all left St Denis, so they’re out of our reach?’ He nodded, still standing

before her desk. ‘And I presume you also realise that this could give the girl

an alibi for the period when the murder was committed?’

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘It looks as if she left her car at the camp site and then

went out in one of the Dutch vans. Look at the page of the visitors’ book, and

the times of various vehicles coming and going while her car was there. You

might want to ask the Dutch police to check whether any of those lads had

connections with the extreme right.’

‘You sure you want to remain in the Police Municipale, Bruno? We could use

someone like you in the real police.’ She put her hand to her mouth. ‘Sorry, I

didn’t mean that the way it came out. It’s not that I think you are not a real

cop, it’s just that it’s clear that you have talents that could be used at a

national level. You’re a natural, and

J-J

thinks the same.’

‘Yes, and every time I see him

J-J

tells me how much he envies my life here,’

Bruno protested, laughing to take any sting out of it. ‘I’m just useful for my

local knowledge, you know that.’

‘He just says that. He thinks the world of you, but

J-J

loves his work. He’s

dedicated to what he does, even when there are things about the work that he

hates.’

‘Like Tavernier, you mean? And the politicking?’

‘Don’t change the subject, Bruno. Why not transfer to the Police Nationale? Make

a career of it. I won’t say you’re wasted here, but look at this new evidence

you brought in about the camp site. Nobody else thought of that. And then

tracking down the photo. You ought to be in the detectives. We need people like

you.’

He heard something like urgency in her voice. This was not light banter. Bruno

paused for thought, studying the pent-up energy in her pose. She was sitting

squarely, her back forward from her chair, her arms on the desk and her jaw

slightly tilted. She was making him an invitation, he thought, and not

necessarily about police careers. So how could he answer her without sounding

defensive or complacent?

‘I’m happy here, Isabelle,’ he said slowly, not knowing if she would understand.

‘I’m busy, I think that I’m useful, and I live in a place that I love among a

lot of people that I like. It’s a way of life that pleases me and I can

understand why

J-J

feels wistful whenever he sees me. I like him, but I would

not want his life.’

‘You don’t want more?’

‘More what? More money? I have enough to live as I please and I even manage to

save a little. More friends? I have many. More satisfaction in my work? I have

that.’ Bruno stopped himself, knowing from the look on Isabelle’s face that he

was not saying this well. This was a strange conversation to be having in a

police office. He started again. ‘Let me tell you what I think, Isabelle. I

think there are two kinds of people in this world. There are those who do their

work for eight hours a day and they don’t enjoy it and don’t respect themselves

very much for what they do. And then there are those who don’t see much

difference between their work and the rest of their lives because the two fit

happily together. What they do to earn their living doesn’t seem like drudgery

to them. Around here there are a lot of people who live like that.’

‘And you’re saying that I don’t?’ she challenged, looking at him intently.

‘You’re able and ambitious and you want to follow your talents as far as they

will take you. You like challenges. That’s your nature and I admire it.’ He

meant it.

‘But we’re different people with different priorities and our lives will take

different trajectories. That is what you’re saying. Am I right?’

‘Trajectories? Now there’s a word. Our careers will probably take different

trajectories because you have that kind of drive.’ He got the feeling he had

suddenly been drawn into a different kind of conversation altogether, where the

language was different and the meanings had shifted.

‘Drive for what?’ she persisted. He noticed her fingers were clenched around her

pencil.

‘To get to the centre of things, to fulfil your talents.’

‘You mean I want power?’ She was looking almost fierce. He threw up his hands.

‘Isabelle, Isabelle. This is me, Bruno, and yet from my side this feels like an

interrogation. You’re putting words into my mouth and I like you too much to get

into a confrontation.’ Her fingers seemed to relax on the pencil. ‘What I’m

saying is that you’re a dynamo, Isabelle, you’re full of energy and ideas and

you want to shape things, to change things. I’m the kind of person who likes to

keep them the same, but I have been around long enough to know that people like

you are needed, probably more than people like me. But we have our uses too.

That’s how le bon Dieu made us.’

‘All right, Bruno. Interrogation over,’ she said, smiling and laying the pencil

down on the desk. ‘You promised to take me to dinner, remember?’

‘Of course I remember. Around here we have a choice of bistro, pizza, not very

good Chinese food, several restaurants serving the Périgord cuisine you are

probably tired of by now, and a couple of places with a Michelin star, but we

would have to drive to those. Your choice.’

‘I was thinking of something less formal, more in the open air like a picnic. I

liked your cooking.’

‘Are you free this evening?’ She nodded, suddenly looking happy and very young.

‘I’ll pick you up at seven. Here, or at your hotel?’

‘The hotel. I’d like to bathe and change.’

‘Okay. Don’t dress up. Picnic-style it will be.’

He had to rush, and Bruno hated that. There were the final details to clear with

the company that had the contract for the three firework displays of St Denis –

the June eighteenth event that really launched the season, the usual national

celebration on the fourteenth of July, and the feast day of St Denis at the end

of August, which the town celebrated as its birthday. The company had wanted

60,000 euros for the three events, but with a little trimming of the display and

a lot of negotiation he managed to reduce the bill to 48,000, which was just

short of his 50,000 euro budget. That meant more money for the sports club fund.

Then he had to call all the local businessmen to persuade them to take out their

usual ads in the tournament brochure for the tennis club, and each had to

grumble about the bad season and cancellations, but finally it was done. A

tourist had lost a purse and he had to take a statement. He had to brief the

Mayor on the latest developments in the murder case, fend off two interview

requests, and check over the Mayor’s deposition describing the riot. He just had

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.

Isabelle, he judged, was a woman who would decide for herself whether and when

and where to take a lover, and yet it would feel odd to him – and probably to

her – if he did not make an advance on his own turf. Neutral ground was called

for, and the lady wanted a picnic, so a picnic it would be.

He drove up the long hill past the water tower and out onto the plateau that

gave the best views along the bank of the river, and Isabelle made suitably

appreciative noises. At a road so small it looked like a track, he turned off.

They climbed another low hill, and came to the foot of a high and almost

vertical cliff where he parked on a small patch of ancient gravel, opened her

door for her and then released Gigi. He took a small picnic bag from the cool

box and she heard the tinkling of glasses.

‘I want you to meet a friend of mine,’ he said. He led her up a track, round a

corner and there, nestling into the base of the cliff, was a small house. It had

a door, two windows, and its roof was the great rock itself. A small stream

flowed from the base of the house through a gutter to tumble down the hill with

a soft sound. In front of the house was a narrow terrace, with an old metal

table and three chairs, and beyond it was a small vegetable garden. A black and

white mongrel dog was tied to a hook screwed into the doorpost, and growled when

it first saw Gigi. But Bruno’s dog knew his manners and approached slowly and

humbly, his tail wagging as if asking permission, and the two dogs sniffed each

other courteously.

‘They’re old friends,’ Bruno explained. ‘We go hunting together.’

The door opened and a small elderly man poked his head into the open. ‘Ah

Bruno,’ he said, as if they had last met a few minutes ago. ‘Welcome, welcome,

and who is your friend?’

‘Isabelle Perrault, this is Maurice Duchęne, owner and keeper of the sorcerer’s

cave, who was born in this cliff house and has lived here all his life. Maurice

Duchęne, meet Inspector Isabelle of the Police Nationale, a colleague but also a

good friend.’

‘My home is honoured to receive you, my dear Mademoiselle.’ The old man,

terribly bent with age, came forward to shake her hand. He had to cock his head

sideways to peer up at her, but Bruno noticed his glance was keen and almost

roguish.

‘A beauty, my dear Bruno, you have brought a real beauty to my home, and my

magnificent Gigi, prince among hunting dogs. This is a pleasure, such a

pleasure.’

‘Come, sit and have a drink with us, Maurice, and then with your permission I’d

like to show Isabelle the cave. And could you bring us some of your water?

Isabelle is from Paris and she will never have tasted anything like it so we

must take care of her education.’

‘Gladly, gladly, my dears. Sit down and I shall be with you immediately.’ He

turned and hobbled back into the house. Isabelle sat, and Bruno took a dark wine

bottle with no label from his bag and three small wine glasses, and poured.

Isabelle sat back and turned to look at the view, a vast sweep of the valley

with trees marking the river’s meandering course and more cliffs on its far

side.

‘Here we are, here we are, the finest water of mother nature and father

Périgord,’ said the old man, coming out with a tray and a jug of water and three

tumblers that were opaque with age. ‘Straight from the rock, straight into my

kitchen and bathroom, always running water. It never runs dry. And Bruno has

brought my favourite aperitif. He makes it himself, you know, every year on St

Catherine’s day. This must be last year’s vintage.’

‘No, Maurice, in your honour, and for Isabelle, I have brought the ’99 that you

like. Here, let us drink a toast to friendship, but first, Isabelle, I should

tell you that this is vin de noix, made from our local green walnuts and

Bergerac wine and eau de vie from my own peaches. You won’t find this in Paris.’

‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘And what a magnificent view you have, Monsieur Duchęne.

But is it not cold up here in winter?’