Текст книги "Bruno, Chief Of Police"

Автор книги: Martin Walker

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footballer. Why had that photo disappeared along with the medal?

‘Hey, Bruno. Robbed any good banks lately?’ grinned

J-J

, striding into the room

with Isabelle at his heels. ‘I always thought you must have been the brains

behind that job. It was too smart for those idiots we put away.’

‘It’s good to see you,

J-J

.’ Bruno smiled with genuine pleasure as they shook

hands. They had been taken to a magnificent celebration dinner at Le Centenaire

in Les Eyzies at the end of the case by the bank’s regional manager. Two

Michelin stars, a couple of bottles a head of some of the best wine Bruno had

ever tasted, and a chauffeur to take him home again. He’d had to stay off work

the next day. ‘I see you’re a big shot now, top cop in the Departement.’

‘And there’s not a day goes by that I don’t sit back and feel a twinge of envy

for the life you have here, Bruno.’

J-J

gave him an affectionate slap on the

back. ‘That’s what intrigues me about this vicious little murder – it’s so out

of character for this place. Isabelle tells me you think we might have a lead in

this doctor’s son.’

‘I’m not sure I’d call it much of a lead, but he’s the only local from St Denis

that I recognised in the photos. This is a weekday. He should be at school in

Périgueux.’

Isabelle shook her head. ‘I just checked. He didn’t turn up on Monday. He

reported sick, and they got a note signed by his dad the doctor.’

‘Gelletreau writing a sick note for his son? I think we’d better verify that,’

said Bruno, impressed at her speed of action but wary that she’d gone elsewhere

to make the calls rather than do so in his presence. Not quite a team player,

this Isabelle. ‘He doesn’t like writing sick notes at all, old Gelletreau. He

accuses half his patients of malingering. He told me I just had a cold once, and

it turned into pneumonia. And doctors are notoriously tough on their own

families.’ He reached for the phone.

‘You see why I like this guy?’

J-J

said to Isabelle. ‘Local knowledge. That’s

real policing for you. Not all this computer crap.’

‘Madame Gelletreau?’ Bruno said into his phone. If Isabelle could move fast, so

could he. ‘Could I speak to Richard, please? It’s Bruno about the tennis, or is

he too sick? He’s at school in Périgueux, you say. Oh, my mistake, I’d heard he

was at home sick. Very well, it’s not urgent.’ He rang off.

‘This looks a little more serious,’ said

J-J

. ‘A false note to school, and he’s

at neither place.’

Bruno drove down to the tennis club with Isabelle and checked the records. The

semi-finalist from Lalinde was named Jacqueline Courtemine. Bruno rang his

counterpart in Lalinde, a young ex-serviceman called Quatremer whom he knew only

slightly and asked for an address and some information about the family. In

return, Bruno explained that they were looking for a young man who might be in

her company, and that Quatremer might want to keep an eye on the house until the

Police Nationale turned up in force.

Then he called Quatremer’s predecessor, an old hunting friend named René who had

retired the previous year, put the same question and elicited a volley of

information. Jacqueline’s parents were separated, perhaps divorced. The mother

was living in Paris on money from the wealthy father, who had inherited a family

furniture store and expanded it into a profitable chain that now stretched

across the region. Between his business and his mistresses he was rarely at

home, and Jacqueline had the large house on the outskirts of town pretty much to

herself, as well as her own car. René thought she would be going to university

in the fall and, he said, she had a reputation as a wild one. Bruno scribbled

quick notes on how to find the house while Isabelle called

J-J

, and then warned

his old friend that Quatremer might need some support and advice. ‘And warn your

Mayor,’ Bruno added, before ringing off.

Isabelle was already waiting in her car. She drove down to the main road leading

to Bergerac and pulled in to wait for

J-J

. She fished in the back seat for the

magnetic blue light, and as she clamped it onto her roof J-J’s big black Citroën

drew up, flashing its lights, with another police car close behind. They joined

the small convoy and raced towards Lalinde.

CHAPTER

9

The police convoy drew up to a large, detached house that stood on the low hill

that rose above Lalinde with a sweeping view of the river Dordogne. The river

was wide and shallow here, on its descent from the high plateau and into the

flat farmlands that had for a century produced tobacco to make the dark

Gauloises cigarettes. Designed in the traditional Périgord style, with a steep

tile roof, tall chimneys and turrets like witches’ hats, the house gleamed with

a brightness of stone that showed it had been newly built. Four cars, a

motorbike and two small scooters called mobylettes were parked untidily on the

broad gravel forecourt. Behind the house was a large garden, and then the land

rose gently again to the hill that stretched all the way to Bergerac. Noisy rock

music came from the open windows, and an empty bottle of wine lay on its side in

the hallway.

‘Very welcoming,’ said

J-J

. ‘A wide-open door and the smell of grass – so we can

hold her on a possession charge if we have to.’ He directed the second carload

of detectives to go round to the back, knocked quietly on the open wooden door,

waited for a moment and strode in.

Several teenagers wearing vacant expressions were sprawled around a table in the

big dining room that opened onto a patio and swimming pool at the rear. A large

bar ran along the side of the room. Cans of beer and bottles of wine stood on

the table, along with dirty plates, a cheese board and a bowl of fruit. Through

the window, Bruno could see three young men with shaven heads and tattoos

playing in the pool with two bare-breasted girls.

J-J

went over to the

impressive stereo and pressed a button. The music whined to a blessed halt.

Bruno could see no sign of Richard Gelletreau at the table or in the pool.

‘Mademoiselle Courtemine?’

J-J

asked. Silence. He repeated her name. The silence

lengthened. ‘Is Mademoiselle Courtemine or the owner of this property present?

This is a police inquiry.’

One of the girls at the table put her hand to her mouth and glanced at the wide

staircase.

J-J

gestured with his head and Isabelle went quickly up the stairs.

‘Seize that,’

J-J

told another detective, gesturing to the bag of grass and

rolling papers on the table. ‘Then get all their names and ID. Bring that local

copper in from the front gate. He should know most of them. What’s his name

again, Bruno?’

‘Quatremer.’

‘Good, now we’ll try again,’ said

J-J

, facing the young people round the table.

‘I’m looking for Richard Gelletreau.’

No response. The girls in the pool had their hands over their breasts. The lads

were looking round, probably considering running for it, Bruno thought, but at

that moment more police came round from the side of the house. Bruno tried to

focus on the faces, to see if he recognised any of the young people. The youths

in the pool looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from the surveillance photos he had

seen. His eyes kept drifting back to the half-naked girls. His own teenage years

had never been like this. If they had been, who knows what strange political

group he might have been ready to join.

‘

J-J

,’ called Isabelle from upstairs. ‘Here.’

J-J

motioned Bruno to come with him. They walked side by side up the wide and

handsome staircase. The landing above was the size of an average living room.

Straight ahead was a corridor with a series of closed doors onto rooms that

would have faced the town. They followed the sound of Isabelle’s voice to a

second wing that must have stretched towards the garden. They walked into a

large room that would have been bright and airy had the curtains been open, but

was now dark but for some low lighting and the flickering of a TV. On the

tangled bed were two young people, hauling themselves from sleep. The girl was

trying to pull the sheet up to cover them. She was wearing a black bra, and a

black peaked cap lay on her pillow. The boy, who was naked, could not move. His

wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts with scarves.

Bruno raised his eyes from the couple on the bed to two posters on the wall. One

was of Jean-Marie Le Pen, leader of the Front National; the other was what

looked like an original cinema placard for the film The Battle of Algiers. Above

the bed various objects hung on the wall, forming a tableau that included

bayonets, daggers and a German Wehrmacht helmet. The boy on the bed turned his

head away from the sudden light and groaned. It was Richard. He looked around,

recognised Bruno, and groaned again.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ the girl spat. ‘Get out.’

‘Check out the TV,

J-J

,’ said Isabelle. ‘Nazi porn.’

And it was. Two men in black uniforms with swastika armbands and SS lapel

flashes were being serviced by two young women, one white and blonde and

evidently willing, one black and in manacles.

J-J

moved very fast as the girl squirmed to the side of the bed. He caught her

wrist in his strong hand and yanked it behind her back as she yelped. He held

her firmly while he looked at the bedside table for which she had been reaching.

A razor blade lay next to a small mirror on which sat some grains of white

powder.

‘You’ve been a naughty girl,’

J-J

said, still holding her firmly. ‘Cocaine.

That’s three years, right there.’ He took a pen from his pocket and poked the

lid of a small box beside the mirror. He shook his head at the pile of small

white pills inside and then looked at the girl, who was now silent. She had

stopped squirming and the bed sheets had fallen away to reveal that she was

wearing black stockings, supported by a black suspender belt over a shaven

pubis.

‘All this and Ecstasy too,’ said

J-J

quietly. It appeared to Bruno that

J-J

looked genuinely shocked. ‘I think we have enough here for trafficking charges.

That could be ten years in prison, Mademoiselle. I hope you enjoy the company of

tough old lesbians. You are going to be spending a lot of time with them.’

He turned to Isabelle. ‘Put the cuffs on this young lady of the house, and then

let’s take our own photos of this scene. I want another forensics team to go

through this room and check out every knife in the house. The Périgueux boys are

still at St Denis so you may have to call more in from Bergerac, and we’ll also

have the narcotics lads in. We could do with some extra manpower for the search.

It’s a big property.’

He looked at Bruno. ‘Bruno, we must track down the owner of the house and this

girl’s parents. They’ll have to be informed, and you’d better do the same with

the boy’s father. Then tell my boys to organise a search of the premises as soon

as they have all the young thugs downstairs arrested, charged with possession of

illegal drugs and in police cells where we can question them. I take it this is

indeed the young Richard?’ Bruno nodded. ‘He looks very like his photo.

Isabelle, I want a lot of shots of the pair of them and make sure you get the

focus just right. Then you can start checking out all the other videos and films

in Mademoiselle Courtemine’s collection.’

‘Including her own,’ Isabelle said drily, pointing at the back wall. Neither

Bruno nor

J-J

had yet noticed the small video camera on its tripod that pointed

at the bed, a red light on its side still blinking.

As evening began to fall, more carloads of police arrived, along with two vans

to take away a total of eight young people. Jacqueline waited in handcuffs;

Richard was finally untied once the police photographers had finished with the

bedroom and the forensics team had taken their samples. He and Jacqueline were

then each given a set of the plastic white overalls the forensics team used,

handcuffed again and taken to police HQ in Périgueux. Bruno had tracked down the

families. Jacqueline’s father was on a business trip to Finland and would fly

home the next day. The mother was driving down from Paris. Richard’s father

would meet them in Périgueux. Lawyers had been arranged, but the search had

already found four shoe boxes of what the narcotics boys said were Ecstasy pills

in one of the outbuildings.

‘Street value of twenty thousand euros, they tell me,’ said

J-J

, lighting an

American cigarette. He and Bruno were standing on the wide terrace in front of

the house that looked down to the small town of Lalinde and the broad Dordogne

river. ‘They just found another shoe box in her car, hidden under the spare

wheels. Lots of fingerprints. She can’t talk her way out of it. And those

tattoo-covered louts in the pool turn out to be members of the Front’s Service

d’Ordre, its own private security guard. They had photos of themselves with Le

Pen at some party rally. Drugs in their cars and very large amounts of cash in

their wallets.’

‘Have you told Paris yet?’ asked Bruno. ‘The politicians will love that. Front

National types involved in a drug-running gang, perverting our French youth.’

‘Sure, sure,’ said

J-J

, ‘but it’s the murderer I’m after. I don’t much care

about the politics, except that I hate that Nazi stuff. My God, after what this

country went through in the war, to see these young kids getting caught up in

that filth … that, and drugs and the kinky sex. Whatever happened to this

generation, Bruno? Do you have kids?’

‘No kids,

J-J

, and no wife as yet,’ said Bruno, surprising himself with the note

of sadness he heard in his own voice. Where had that come from? He changed the

subject. ‘And straight sex was always good enough for me. If I came across a

woman dressed in that Nazi way and wanting to tie me up, I think I’d be laughing

too much to do her justice.’

‘Well, I certainly can’t say that porno film turned me on,’ said

J-J

. ‘Mind you,

at my age there’s not much that does light my fire.’

‘Yet in the old days, there wasn’t much that didn’t get you going. Your

reputation still goes ahead of you,

J-J

. I’m surprised that little Isabelle

isn’t wearing armour.’

‘Not necessary with these new regulations, Bruno. Sexual harassment, rights of

women – you’re lucky to be out it, down here in your little Commune. They can

fire you these days if you so much as look at a woman colleague.’

‘We have that as well. It’s everywhere. We aren’t insulated from what goes on

everywhere else,’ said Bruno. ‘Maybe I was fooling myself when I thought we were

different down here, with our little weekly markets and all the kids playing

sports and staying out of trouble. A good place to raise a family, you’d think,

and now this. You know,

J-J

, this is my first murder.’

‘So when do your start on your own family, Bruno? You aren’t getting any

younger. Or do you have your own little harem among the farmers’ wives?’

Bruno grinned. ‘I wish. Have you seen the farmers’ fists?’

‘No, and I haven’t seen the farmers’ wives either,’ laughed

J-J

. ‘But seriously,

aren’t you planning to settle down? You’d make a good father.’

‘I haven’t found the right woman,’ shrugged Bruno, and embarked on the usual

half-truth that he deployed to keep his privacy, and to damp down the memory of

the woman he had loved and lost, rescued and then failed to save. It was

nobody’s business but his own. ‘I suppose I came close to it a couple of times,

but then I didn’t feel quite ready, or I got nervous, or she lost patience and

moved away.’

‘I remember that pretty brunette who worked for the railway – Josette. You were

seeing her when we worked together.’

‘She went away when they did the cutbacks. They moved her up north to Calais to

work on the Eurotunnel service because she spoke good English. I miss her,’ said

Bruno. ‘We got together once in Paris for a weekend, but somehow it wasn’t the

same.’

J-J

grunted, a sound that seemed to acknowledge many things, from the power of

women to the corrosive effects of time and the inability of men to ever quite

explain or comprehend them. As darkness spread over the river below them, they

stood in silence for a moment.

‘I guess I’m lucky, really, having something close to an ordinary family life,’

said

J-J

. ‘Most cops’ marriages don’t work out, what with the strange hours and

the things you can’t talk about, and it’s not easy making friends outside the

police. Civilians get nervous around us. But you know that – or maybe it’s

different down here for you, a country copper in a small town where everybody

knows you and likes you and you know everybody’s name.’

This time it was Bruno’s turn to grunt. He did think it was different in St

Denis, at least for him, but he was sure

J-J

did not want to hear that.

‘The only thing she gives me grief about now is grandchildren,’

J-J

went on.

‘She goes on and on about why our kids aren’t married and breeding.’ He sighed.

‘I suppose your folks are getting at you about the same thing.’

‘Not really,’ Bruno said shortly. No, he couldn’t leave it there. ‘I thought you

knew I was an orphan.’

‘I’m sorry, Bruno. I didn’t mean—’

J-J

turned away from the view to scrutinise

him. ‘I remember somebody telling me that, but it slipped my mind.’

‘I never knew them,’ Bruno said levelly, not looking at

J-J

. ‘I know nothing of

my father, and my mother left me in a church when I was a baby. It was the

priest who christened me Benoît, the blessed one. You can understand why I call

myself Bruno instead.’

‘Jesus, Bruno. I’m really sorry.’

‘I was in a church orphanage until I was five, and then my mother committed

suicide up in Paris. But first she wrote a note to her cousin down in Bergerac

naming the church where she’d left me. The Bergerac cousins raised me, but it

wasn’t easy because they never had much money. That’s why I went off to the Army

as soon as I left school. It wasn’t a very happy childhood but they’re the

nearest to a family I’ve got, and they have five kids of their own so there’s no

pressure on me.’

‘Do you still see them?’

‘Weddings and funerals, mostly. There’s a lad I’m close to because he plays

rugby. I’ve taken him out hunting a few times, and tried to talk him out of

going into the Army. He sort of listened; joined the Air Force instead.’

‘I thought you enjoyed your time in the service? I remember you telling some

stories, that night we went out to dinner.’

‘Bits of it were fine. Most of it, really. But I don’t tend to talk about the

bad times. I’d rather forget them.’

‘You mean Bosnia?’

Yes, he meant Bosnia. He’d been there with the UN peacekeepers, but he quickly

found there wasn’t much peace to be kept. They’d lost over a hundred dead, a

thousand wounded, but nobody remembered that any more. They barely even noticed

at the time. They were being hit by snipers and mortars from all sides, Serbs,

Muslims and Croats. He’d lost friends, but the UN orders were they were not to

fight back, hardly even to defend themselves. Not a glorious chapter. This was

partly why he’d chosen to come and live here, in the quiet heart of rural

France. At least it used to be quiet before they got a dead Arab with a swastika

carved in his chest. He told

J-J

some of this, but not all.

‘Well, you turned out okay, despite everything. The orphanage, Bosnia, all

that,’

J-J

said finally. ‘And I’m a prying old busybody. I suppose it goes with

the job. Still, I meant it about my wife, she’s a good woman. I’m lucky.’

J-J

paused. ‘You know she’s got me playing golf?’

‘She never has,’ laughed Bruno, grateful for the change of subject, and of mood.

‘She started playing with a couple of her girlfriends, then she insisted I take

some lessons, said we had to have some common interests for when I retire,’

J-J

said. ‘I quite enjoy it; a nice stroll in the open air, a couple of drinks

after, some decent types in the club house. We’re planning on going down to

Spain this summer on one of those special golfing vacations – play every day,

get some lessons. Look, bugger this, I need a drink. Stay here. I’ll be right

back.’

Bruno turned and looked back at the house. All the lights were on and

white-garbed figures crossed back and forth behind the windows. The last time he

had seen this many police was in the passing-out parade from his training

course. He thought he knew what

J-J

was building up to say. This was going to be

a very messy case, with politics and media and national interest, and he’d want

Bruno out of it. That would be fine with Bruno, except that his job was to look

after the interests of the people of St Denis, and he had no idea how to do

that.

‘Well, it looks like we have our chief suspect for the poor old Arab.’ J-J’s

silhouette loomed out of the light in the house, offering him a glass. A Ricard,

mixed just right, not too much ice. The furniture tycoon would hardly miss a

couple of drinks.

‘It’s circumstantial, unless forensics come up with some traces or we find the

weapon,’ Bruno said.

‘One of those Nazi daggers on the wall, if you ask me. I told forensics to take

special care with them.’

‘You know you’re going to lose control of this case once Paris gets involved.

There’s too much politics.’

‘That’s why I want to wrap it up fast,’ said

J-J

. ‘They’re sending down a

Juge-magistrat from Paris, along with something they call a media coordinator to

handle the press. They’ll be spinning everything for the evening news and the

Minister’s presidential ambitions. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t come down here

himself, maybe even for the funeral.’

‘The Mayor is already worried enough about the impact on tourism this summer

without having ministers making headlines. I can just see it now.’ Bruno shook

his head. ‘St Denis: the little town of hate.’

‘In your shoes, I’d try to keep out of the way. Let the big boys do their thing

and then try and sweep up the broken crockery when they go. That’s the way it

works.’

‘Not with my Mayor, it doesn’t,’ said Bruno. ‘Don’t forget he used to be on

Chirac’s staff up in Paris. Anybody who worked for a president of the Republic

can play politics with the best of them. And he’s my boss.’

‘Well, they can’t fire you.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Bruno. ‘He’s been good to me – helped me, taught me a lot.

I don’t want to let him down.’

‘You mean, like the father you never had?’

Speechless for a moment, Bruno stared intently at

J-J

then took a deep breath

and told himself to relax. ‘You must have been reading some paperback on

psychology,’ he said, more curtly than he had intended.

‘Merde, Bruno, I didn’t mean anything by it.’

J-J

leaned forward and gave him a

soft punch on the arm. ‘I was just talking, you know …?’

‘Forget it, maybe you’re right,’ Bruno said. ‘He has been like a father to me.

But it’s not just the Mayor. It’s the town itself and the damage all this mess

could do. It’s my home, and it’s my job to defend it.’

CHAPTER

10

It was raining, not the hard driving downpour of a summer thunderstorm but a

thin persistent drizzle that would last for a couple of hours, so the four men

hurried across the wet grass to the covered court of which Bruno was rather

proud. It looked like a disused hangar on an old airfield, with a corrugated

roof in translucent plastic and tarpaulins for walls. But the court was sound

inside, and boasted an umpire’s chair, a scoreboard, and benches for spectators.

An array of small placards, advertising local businesses and the Sud-Ouest

newspaper, hung on the metal frame

Bruno partnered with the Baron, who was not a real baron but, as the main

landowner in the district and a man of sometimes imperious habits, was widely

known by the nickname and openly rejoiced in it. Xavier and Michel took the

other side, as they usually did, and they began to knock up, not too hard and

none too skilfully, for the pleasure of the game and of the weekly ritual. When

Bruno took the ball to serve, the Baron stayed alongside him at the back of the

court. He preferred playing the back court, letting ‘young Bruno’ take the

volleys at the net. As always, each man was allowed to have his first serve as

many times as he required to get the ball in. And, as usual, Bruno’s hard first

serve went long but his second was decently placed. Xavier played it back to the

Baron, who returned one of his deceptive drop shots. Michel was the better

player, but the men played together so often they knew each other’s game and

limitations. After a double fault, a missed volley and one accidentally

excellent serve that made Bruno think he might one day be able to play this

game, they changed ends.

‘Have you caught the bastard yet?’ Michel asked as they passed each other at the

net. He ran the local public works department. Sixteen men served under him and

he supervised a motor pool of trucks, ditch-diggers and a small bulldozer. He

was a powerful man physically though not tall, and compact with a small but firm

paunch. He was even more powerful in the life of the town and his signature was

needed on any planning permission. He came from Toulon, where he had served

twenty years in the Navy engineers.

Bruno shrugged. ‘It’s out of my hands. The Police Nationale are running the

show, and Paris has got involved. I don’t know much more than you do, and if I

did, you know I couldn’t talk about it.’

He knew that his companions wouldn’t let him get away with that. These four were

the town’s shadow government. The Baron owned the land, and was rich enough to

make the discreet donations that helped the tennis and rugby clubs to keep

functioning as they did. Michel was a man of real influence and Xavier was the

Maire-adjoint, the deputy who did most of the administrative work and ran the

day-to-day business of the Mairie. He had worked in the sub-Prefecture in Sarlat

until he came home to St Denis, where his father ran the Renault dealership and

his father-in-law owned the big local sawmill. Along with Bruno and the Mayor,

these men ran the business of the town. They had learned to be discreet and they

expected Bruno to keep them informed, above all at these ritual Friday meetings.

Michel had a classic serve, a high toss of the ball and good follow-through, and

his first service went in. Bruno’s forehand return hit the lip of the net, and

rolled over to win the point.

‘Sorry,’ he called, and Michel waved acknowledgement then bounced the ball to

serve again. When they reached deuce, which they called egalité, two men entered

the court, shaking the raindrops from their faces. Rollo from the school always

arrived a little late. He waved a greeting, and he and Dougal, a Scotsman who

was the Baron’s neighbour and drinking chum, sat on the bench to watch the end

of the set. It was not long before Rollo and Dougal rose to take their turn.

This was the usual rule. One set, and then the extra men played the losers.

Bruno and the Baron sat down to watch. Rollo played with more enthusiasm than

skill and loved to attack the net, but Dougal had once been a useful club player

and his ground shots were always a pleasure to watch.

‘I suppose you can’t say much,’ the Baron began, in what he thought was a low

voice.

‘Not a thing,’ replied Bruno. ‘You understand.’

‘It’s just I heard there were some arrests over in Lalinde last night and that

you were involved. A chum of mine saw you there. I just want to know if there

was a connection to our Arab.’

‘Our Arab, is he now?’ Bruno asked. ‘I suppose he is, in a way. He lived here,

died here.’

‘Our Arab I said, and I mean it. I know Momu and Karim as well as you do. I know

the old man was a Harki, and I have a very special feeling for the Harkis. I

commanded a platoon of them in the Algerian war. I spent the first month

wondering when one of them would shoot me in the back, and the rest of the war

they saved my neck on a regular basis.’

Bruno turned and looked at the Baron curiously. In the town, he had a reputation

as a real right-winger, and it was said that only his devotion to the memory of

Charles de Gaulle kept the Baron from voting for the Front National.

‘I thought you were against all this immigration from North Africa,’ Bruno said,

breaking off to applaud as Michel served an ace.

‘I am. What is it now, six million, seven million Arabs and Muslims over here,

swamping the place? You can’t recognise Paris any more. But Harkis are

different. They fought for us and we owed them – and we left too damn many of

them behind to have their throats cut because we wouldn’t take them in. Men who

fought for France.’

‘Yes, the old man was a Harki. More than that, he got a medal. He fought for us

in Vietnam too, that’s where he won it.’

‘In that case, he wasn’t a Harki. They were irregulars. He sounds like he was in

the regular Army, probably a Zouave or a Tirailleur. That’s what most of their

regiments were called. They were allowed back into France when it was over, but

most of the Harkis were refused entry and got their throats slit. And most of

the ones who made it to France were put in camps. It was a shameful time. Some

of us did what we could. I managed to bring some of my lads back on the

troopship, but it meant leaving their families, so the bulk of them decided to

stay and take their chances. Most of them paid the price.’

‘How did you find out that they had been killed?’ Bruno wanted to know.

‘I stayed in touch with the lads I brought over, helped them get jobs, that sort

of thing. I took some of them on in my business. They had ways of keeping

contact through their families. You know I’m not much of a churchgoing type, but

every time I heard one of my Harkis had been killed, I used to go and light a

candle.’ He stopped, looked down at his feet. ‘It was all I could do,’ he

murmured. He cleared his throat and sat up. ‘So tell me about our Arab, a good

soldier of France. Do you know who killed him?’

‘No. Our enquiries continue, just like the police spokesmen say. We’re just at

the start of the case and I’m not even really involved. As I said, the Police

Nationale are handling it. They’ve set up a temporary office in the exhibition

rooms.’

‘What about Lalinde?’

‘There may not even be a connection. It seems to have been more of a drugs

bust,’ Bruno said, careful not to tell his friend an outright lie.

The Baron nodded, his eyes still fixed on the game. Rollo had just served two