Текст книги "Bruno, Chief Of Police"

Автор книги: Martin Walker

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double faults in a row.

‘Did I ever tell you about how we left Algeria?’ he asked suddenly. Bruno shook

his head.

‘We were in Oran, at the harbour. Chaos it was. De Gaulle had signed the peace

deal at Evian and then the Paras and half the army in Algeria launched that

crazy coup d’état. I was the only officer in my unit who refused to join and I

would have done, except that I wouldn’t go against de Gaulle. Anyway, my lads

would never have joined in. I was running a platoon of conscripts by then, young

Frenchmen, and they all had those new-fangled little transistor radios from

Japan so they could listen to their rock music. But what they also got on their

radios at that time was de Gaulle, telling them to disobey any officer who

wanted them to take up arms against the Republic, against him, against France.

So the conscripts stayed in their barracks and wouldn’t move – that’s what

stopped the coup. They stayed there until the troopships came in to take us

home.’

‘This was that time in ‘61?’ Bruno asked. ‘General Salan and those people who

went on to start the

OAS

, the ones who tried to assassinate de Gaulle?’

‘That’s right,’ said the Baron grimly. ‘Anyway, I got our unit down to the

troopship, and on the way we picked up those of my old Harkis that we could

find, or who were smart enough to know they had better get out fast. My sergeant

had been with me all through the war and he liked the Harkis, so he helped. We

scrounged some uniforms – no shortage of them – and we just let them board with

us. There were no lists, nothing organised because there were so few officers,

so I just bullied them all aboard.’

‘And when you got to France?’ Bruno asked. ‘How did you get them ashore?’

‘They couldn’t put us all into the naval base at Toulon, where at least they had

some kind of control system, so we docked at Marseilles, at the commercial port,

and the Army laid on dozens of trucks to drive us to the nearest bases. But

there was no system for which unit went to which base, so the sergeant and I

told my lads to go home for a few days and as long as they reported back within

a week I’d make sure it was OK. We all just rushed off the ship, boarded any old

truck, and lads, including my Harkis, were dropping over the tailboard at every

corner. We had raided the kitbags in the ship’s hold and got them some civilian

clothes and a few francs. Apart from that, all they had was my name and

address.’

‘It sounds crazy,’ said Bruno. ‘I knew the Algerian war ended in a mess, but I

didn’t know about that.’ Vaguely, he heard Dougal call out ‘five-fou’ in his

funny accent and the four men were changing ends. It looked as if the set was

almost over. He had barely noticed.

‘You have to remember, in those days there were no computers,’ the Baron went

on. ‘There were just lists on paper. We lost ours in the chaos, and the

troopship was too crowded for any proper roll-calls. What wasn’t lost was burned

by me and the sergeant when we got back to the regimental base at Fréjus.

Remember, I was the only officer who had stayed loyal, so they were not going to

give me a hard time. The Colonel even congratulated me for getting the men back

at all.’

‘Game and set,’ called Dougal, and on the court they began collecting the tennis

balls.

‘The thing I remember best,’ said the Baron, ‘was the very last moment. I stayed

at the foot of the gangplank, trying to be sure I had all my men. I was one of

the last aboard. And one of the Algerian dockworkers was standing there by the

bollard, ready to cast off the ship’s rope. He looked me straight in the eye,

and he said, “Next time, we invade you.” Just like that. And he kept his eyes

fixed on me until I turned and boarded the ship. I’ll never forget it. And when

I look at France these days, I know he was right.’

As always after their game, the group of men walked back to the clubhouse,

slowly this time since the rain had eased. They showered and then brought in the

ingredients of their ceremonial Friday lunch from their cars. Bruno provided the

eggs from his hens and the herbs from his garden. In early spring, he picked

boutons de pissenlit, the tiny green buds of the dandelion, but now it was young

garlic and flat-leaved parsley, and some of his own truffles that he had stored

in oil since the winter. Michel brought his own paté and rillettes, made from

the pig they had gathered to slaughter in February, in happy defiance of the

European Union regulations. Dougal supplied the bread and the cheese and the

bottle of scotch whisky that they took as an aperitif after their first,

thirst-quenching beers from the tap at the clubhouse bar. Rollo brought the

beefsteaks and Xavier the salad and the tarte aux pommes, and the Baron provided

the wine, a St Emilion ’98 that was tasted and judged to be at its best.

Bruno cooked, as he always did, and when they had set the table and prepared the

salad the men gathered at the hatch between the kitchen and the bar. Usually

they joked and gossiped, but this time there was only one topic on their minds.

‘All I can say is that we don’t yet have any firm evidence, and so no obvious

suspect,’ Bruno told them as he broke the dozen eggs, lit the grill for the

steaks, and threw a stick of unsalted butter into the frying pan. He began to

slice the truffle very thin. ‘We have some leads that we’re following. Some

point one way and some another, and some of them I don’t know about because I am

on the fringes of this investigation. That’s all I can say.’

‘The doctor’s son has been arrested, along with a bunch of Front National

thugs,’ said Xavier. ‘That we know.’

‘It may not be connected,’ said Bruno.

‘It looks connected,’ said Michel. ‘Front National thugs and a swastika carved

into the poor old bastard’s chest. Who else would do that?’

‘Maybe the murderer did that to cast suspicion elsewhere,’ said Bruno. ‘Have you

thought of that?’

‘Which doctor’s son?’ asked Rollo.

‘Gelletreau,’ said Xavier.

‘Young Richard?’ said Rollo, startled. ‘He’s still at the lycée.’

‘He was playing truant from his lycée this week. He forged a note from his dad,’

said Bruno, tossing the whipped eggs into the sizzling butter and the fresh

garlic. As the base of the omelette began to cook, he threw in the sliced

truffle and twirled the pan.

‘In the Front National? Richard?’ Rollo repeated, disbelief in his voice. ‘I

never had any idea when he was at the college here. Well, he was younger then.’

He paused. ‘Well, I suppose there was one thing, a fight with one of Momu’s

nephews, but nothing too serious. Two bloody noses and some name-calling, the

usual thing. I suspended them both from school for a day and sent a note to the

parents.’

‘A fight with an Arab? With one of Momu’s nephews, and then Momu’s dad gets

killed?’ said the Baron. ‘That sounds significant. What was the name-calling?

Sale beur– dirty Arab, that kind of thing?’

‘Something like that,’ Rollo said stiffly. ‘Look, I didn’t mean … it was just

one of those tussles that boys get into. It happens all the time, we know that.

I should never have mentioned it.’

They fell into a silence, all eyes on Bruno as he lifted and tilted the heavy

iron pan, gave two strategic pushes with his wooden spoon and tossed the herbs

into the runny mix before folding the giant omelette over onto itself. Without a

word, they all trooped to the table and sat. The Baron poured the wine and Bruno

served the perfect omelette, the earthy scent of the truffle just beginning to

percolate as he divided it onto six plates.

‘One of your best, Bruno,’ said the Baron, slicing the big country loaf against

his chest with the Laguiole knife he took from the pouch at his belt. He was not

trying to change the subject, since all the men understood that something

significant had been said and the matter could not be allowed to rest.

‘But you did mention it, my dear Rollo,’ the Baron went on, reverting to the

topic. ‘And now you must satisfy not just our curiosity but the judicial

questions this must raise. Our friend Bruno may be too delicate to insist, but

you understand what is at issue here.’

‘It was just boys,’ Rollo said. ‘You know how they are. One gets a bloody nose,

the other gets a black eye and then they’re the best of friends.’ He looked from

one to the other, but none was meeting Rollo’s eye.

‘Well, were they?’ asked Michel.

‘Were they what?’ snapped Rollo. Bruno could see he hated the way this was

going.

‘Did they become the best of friends?’

‘They didn’t fight again.’

‘Friends?’

‘No, but that doesn’t mean anything. They got on. Momu even invited the boy back

to his home, sat him down to dinner with the family so he could see for himself

they were just another French family. No difference. Momu told me he liked the

boy. He was bright, respectful. He took flowers when he went.’

‘That would have been his mother’s idea,’ said Xavier.

‘She’s on the left, isn’t she?’ Michel asked.

‘Green,’ said Xavier, who followed such allegiances closely. ‘She got involved

in that campaign against the pollution from the sawmill. Thirty jobs at stake

and those daft Ecolos want to close it down.’

‘What I mean is that Richard wouldn’t have heard any of this anti-immigrant

stuff at home. His mother is a Green and the doctor doesn’t seem to have any

politics,’ Michel continued. ‘So where did he pick it up?’

‘In bed, I think,’ said Bruno. ‘I think he fell for that girl from Lalinde who

got to the tennis semi-finals last year, and she was in the Front pretty deep.

She’s a pretty thing and he was besotted with her.’

‘That can’t be right,’ said Rollo. ‘This fight took place three years ago, when

they were at the college here. They’d have been thirteen or so. And young

Richard didn’t meet the girl until the tournament last summer.’ He took his

glass as if he were about to gulp the wine, but remembered himself and took an

appreciative sniff of the St Emilion and then a sip. ‘When he left my care, he

was a fine boy, a good pupil, a credit to the town. I thought he might go on to

Paris, the Sciences-Po or the Polytechnique.’

‘Instead, it looks like it could be prison for your fine boy,’ said the Baron,

using a chunk of bread to mop up every last trace of buttery egg from his plate.

CHAPTER

11

Bruno did not normally drink in the mornings, but Saturday was the exception. It

was the day of the small market of St Denis, usually limited to the open space

beneath the Mairie where the stall holders set out their fruit and vegetables,

their homemade breads and their cheeses between the ancient stone pillars.

Stéphane, a dairy farmer from the rolling country up the river, parked his

custom-made van in the car park to sell his milk and butter and cheeses. He

always arranged a small cassecroűte, a breaking of the crust, at about nine

a.m., an hour after the market opened. For Stéphane, who rose at five to tend

his cows, it was like a mid-morning snack, but for Bruno it was always the first

bite of his Saturdays, and he took a small glass of red wine with the thick hunk

of bread stuffed with Stéphane’s rabbit pâté. The wine came from young Raoul,

who had taken over his father’s business selling wines at the various local

markets. This day he had brought along a young Côtes de Duras, best known for

its whites, but he thought this red was special. It was certainly an improvement

on the Bergerac Bruno normally drank on Saturday mornings.

‘What does that one sell for?’ he asked.

‘Normally five euros, but I can let you have a case for fifty, and you should

keep it three or four years,’ said Raoul.

Bruno had to be careful with his money, since his pay was almost as modest as

his needs. When he bought a wine to store it was usually to share with friends

on some special occasion, so he preferred to stay with the classic vintages that

his chums would know. Mostly he bought a share of a barrel with the Baron from a

small winemaker they knew in Lalande de Pomerol, and they bottled the three

hundred litres themselves, a well-lubricated day to which they both looked

forward and which, inevitably, by evening became a large party for half the

village at the Baron’s chateau.

‘Have you seen the doctor?’ Stéphane asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Bruno. ‘It’s out of my hands. The Police Nationale are involved

and everything is being handled over in Périgueux.’

‘He’s one of us, though,’ Stéphane said, avoiding Bruno’s eye and taking a large

bite of his bread and pâté.

‘Yes, and so are Karim and Momu,’ Bruno said firmly.

‘Not quite the same way,’ said Raoul. ‘The doctor’s family has been here forever

and he delivered half the babies in town, me and Stéphane included.’

‘I know that, but even if the boy is not involved in the murder, there’s still a

serious drugs case being investigated,’ said Bruno. ‘And it’s not just some

weed, there are pills and hard drugs – the kind of things we want to keep out of

St Denis.’

Bruno felt uneasy about the spreading word of mouth. Half the town seemed to

know about young Richard Gelletreau’s arrest, and everybody knew the doctor and

his wife. There were not many secrets in St Denis, which was usually a good

thing for police work, but not this time. Naturally people would talk about the

arrest of a schoolboy, the son of a prominent neighbour, but there were layers

to this rumour, about Arabs and Islam, that were something new both for him and

for St Denis. Bruno read his morning newspaper and watched the TV and listened

to France-Inter when he worked in his garden. He knew there were supposed to be

six million Muslims in a France of sixty million people, that most of them came

from North Africa and too few of them had jobs, probably through no fault of

their own. He knew about the riots and the car burnings in Paris and the big

cities, about the votes that the Front National had won in the last elections,

but he had always felt that was something remote from St Denis. There were fewer

Arabs in the Dordogne than in any other department of France, and those in St

Denis were like Momu and Karim: good citizens with jobs and families and

responsibilities. The women did not wear the veil and the nearest mosque was in

Périgueux. When they married, they performed the ceremony in the Mairie like

good republicans.

‘I’ll tell you what we also want to keep out of St Denis,’ said Raoul, ‘and

that’s the Arabs. There are too many here already.’

‘What, half a dozen families, including old Momu who taught your kids to count?’

‘Thin end of the wedge,’ said Raoul. ‘Look at the size of the families they have

– six kids, seven sometimes. Two or three generations of that and we’ll be

outnumbered. They’ll turn Notre-Dame into a mosque.’

Bruno put his glass down on the small table behind Stéphane’s van, and wondered

how best to handle this without getting into a row in the middle of the market.

‘Look, Raoul. Your grandmother had six kids, or was it eight? And your mother

had four, and you have two. That’s the way it goes, and it will be the same for

the Arabs. Birth rates fall, just as soon as the women start to get an

education. Look at Momu – he only has two kids.’

‘That’s just it. Momu is one of us. He lives like us, works like us, likes his

rugby,’ replied Raoul. ‘But you look at some of the rest of them, six and seven

kids, and the girls don’t even go to school half the time. When I was a lad

there were no Arabs here. Not one. And now there’s what, forty or fifty, and

more arriving and being born every year. And they all seem to have first call on

the public housing. With prices the way they are now I don’t know how my own

youngsters will ever get a start in life and be able to afford their own house.

And for our family, this is our country, Bruno. We’ve been here forever, and I’m

very careful about who I want to share it with.’

‘You want to know why the Front National gets the vote it does?’ chimed in

Stéphane. ‘Just open your eyes. It’s not just the immigrants, it’s the way the

usual parties have let us down. It’s been coming for years, that’s why so many

people vote for the Greens or for the Chasse party. Don’t get me wrong, Bruno.

I’m not against the Arabs, and I’m not against immigrants; not when my own wife

is the daughter of a Portuguese who immigrated here back before the war. But

they are like us. They are white and European and Christian, and we all know the

Arabs are something different.’

Bruno shook his head. In one part of his mind he knew that there was some truth

in this, but in another he knew that it was all totally, dangerously wrong. But

most of all he knew that this kind of conversation, this kind of sentiment, had

been threatening to come, even to quiet little St Denis, for a long time.

Finally it was here.

‘You know me,’ he said after a pause. ‘I’m a simple man – simple tastes, simple

pleasures – but I follow the law because it’s my job. And the law says anybody

who is born here is French, whether they are white or black or brown or purple.

And if they’re French, they’re just the same as everybody else in the eyes of

the law, and that means in my eyes. And if we stop believing that, then we are

in for real trouble in this country.’

‘We already have trouble. We’ve got a murdered Arab and one of our own lads

under arrest, and now a load of drugs floating around,’ said Raoul flatly.

‘Nobody is talking about anything else.’

Bruno bought some butter and some of the garlic-flavoured Aillou cheese from

Stéphane, a pannier of strawberries, and a big country loaf from the organic

baker in the market and took them up the stairs to his office in the Mairie

before going along the hall to the Mayor’s office. His secretary didn’t work

Saturdays, but the Mayor was usually in, smoking the big pipe his wife wouldn’t

allow around the house and working on his hobby, a history of the town of St

Denis. It had been under way for fifteen years already, never seemed to make

much progress, and he was usually glad of an interruption.

‘Ah, my dear Bruno,’ Gérard Mangin said, rising and moving across the thick

Persian rug that glowed in soft reds against the dark wooden floorboards to the

small corner cupboard where he kept his drink. ‘A pleasure to see you on this

fine morning. Let us share a small glass and you can tell me your news.’

‘Not very much news, Sir, just what

J-J

could tell me on the phone this morning.

And just a very small glass, please, I have to drive home and see to the garden.

You know young Gelletreau was arrested, and he has a lawyer; so does the young

girl from Lalinde. So far they are saying very little except that they know

nothing at all about the killing of Hamid. We’re still waiting for the

forensics, but there’s nothing obvious to connect them. No fingerprints, no

blood traces.’

The Mayor nodded grimly. ‘I had hoped everything might be settled quickly, even

if it meant one of our local boys is responsible. But if this business is going

to go on without any obvious result, the mood will turn sour very fast. I’m not

sure which is worse. I just wish there was something we could do to speed things

up – ah yes, and that reminds me.’ He picked up a sheet of notepaper from his

desk. ‘You asked me about the old man’s photograph of his soccer team. Momu

remembers it well. It was an amateur team that played in a youth league in

Marseilles and all the players were young North Africans. They had a coach, a

former professional player for Marseilles called Villanova, and he was in the

photo along with the rest of the team. They won the league championship in 1940.

Momu remembers that because his father held a soccer ball in the photo with the

words Champions, 1940 painted in white. But that’s all he remembers.’

‘Well, it’s a start, but it doesn’t tell us why the killer might want to take

the photo away, or the medal,’ said Bruno. ‘By the way, I had to tell

J-J

about

the fight that Gelletreau got into with Momu’s nephew, which is probably

meaningless but it is a connection. Of course the boy is still in big trouble

because of the drugs and the politics, and

J-J

says he expects Paris to send

down some big shot to make a big political case of it to discredit the Front.’

The Mayor handed Bruno a small glass of his own vin de noix, which Bruno had to

admit was probably just a little better than his, but then Mangin had had more

practice. The Mayor perched on the edge of his large wooden desk, piled high

with books, files bound with red ribbon, and with an elderly black telephone on

the corner. Neither a computer nor even a typewriter graced the remaining space,

only an old fountain pen, neatly capped and resting on the page of notes he had

been taking.

‘I also heard from Paris today, from an old friend in the Justice Ministry and

then from a former colleague in the Elysée, and they said much the same thing,’

the Mayor told Bruno. The Elysée Palace was the official home, as well as the

personal office, of the President of France. ‘They see some political

opportunities in our misfortune, and I have to say that, in their place, I might

look at things the same way.’

‘But you’re not in their place, Sir. And in St Denis we have a great

embarrassment on our hands that could do a lot of damage,’ said Bruno.

‘Well, I used to be in their place when I was young and ambitious so I

understand their motives and their concerns. But you’re right, we have to

consider what is best for St Denis.’ He turned to his window that overlooked the

small market square and the old stone bridge. ‘If this thing drags on and

becomes a nasty confrontation between Arabs and whites and the extreme right, we

will get lots of publicity and we are likely to have a lot of bitterness that

could last for years. And, of course, we would stand to lose a good deal of this

year’s tourist season.’

‘But the law must take its course,’ said Bruno. He had been worried about the

same things, and the Mayor’s responsibilities were far greater: he had a duty to

almost three thousand souls, and to a history that went back centuries and had

built this Mairie and the serene old room where they now talked. Bruno

remembered his first visit, to be interviewed by this same man, who still had a

political career and a seat in the Senate at the time. Bruno’s only

recommendation had been a letter from the Mayor’s son, Captain Mangin, the best

officer he had ever known in the Army, and the man who pulled the unit through

that bastard of a mission in Sarajevo. He owed a lot to the Mangins, father and

son, two men who had given him their trust. He had been awed then, in his first

meeting with the Mayor, by the heavy dark beams on the ceiling and the wood

panelling on the walls, the rich rugs, and the desk that seemed made for the

governance of a town far grander than St Denis. But that had been before Bruno

came to know it and make it his home.

‘Indeed the law must do as it must, and for the moment the course of the law

seems to be based in Périgueux, and in Lalinde, our sister town,’ the Mayor

said. ‘So if there is to be trouble, I would much rather it took place in

Périgueux and Lalinde rather than here. You understand me, Bruno? It won’t be

easy to deflect attention from our little town, but we must do what we can. I

told Paris that they might want to focus on Périgueux rather than here, but I’m

not sure they quite got the point. Or maybe they got it too well.’

He sighed, and continued. ‘There’s another problem that will certainly concern

you. I’ve just been advised that my dear colleague Montsouris is planning to

hold a small demonstration here at lunchtime on Monday. A march of solidarity,

he calls it.’ The Mayor’s lip curled a trifle and Bruno was left in no doubt of

his irritation. ‘France in support of her Arab brethren under the red flag seems

to be his idea. He has asked for my support with Rollo to get the school

children marching against racial hatred and extremism. What do you think?’

Bruno weighed the issue quickly, calculating how many people might be involved

and what the route might be, and wondering whether he would have to block the

road. In the back of his mind, he remembered the conversation he had just had in

the market with Stéphane and Raoul. A march of solidarity might not be

altogether popular given the current mood of the town.

‘We certainly can’t stop it, so we may have to go along with it and keep it as

low-key as possible,’ he said.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t know Montsouris and his wife and how they operate?

They’ll call all the newspapers and TV and get some of the trade unions involved

– all the publicity that we don’t need.’

‘Well, I think it might be better if we are known as a town that stands up for

racial harmony than if we get stuck with the label of a centre of race hatred,’

said Bruno. ‘You know what the Americans say: if they give you lemons, make

lemonade. And if we have to have such a march, it might be better that it takes

place with you at the head and the moderates, rather than leave it to the red

flags.’

‘You could be right.’ The Mayor was grudging.

‘If you take charge, Sir, and set the route, perhaps we could limit it? Just

make it from the Mairie to the war memorial, because old Hamid was a veteran and

a war hero,’ said Bruno, suddenly seeing a way through this potential political

mess. ‘You remember I told you he won the Croix de Guerre, so you could make it

a patriotic march, nothing to do with Arabs and the extreme right, but the town

commemorating the tragic death of a brave soldier of France.’ He paused, then

added quietly, ‘It has the merit of being true.’

‘You’re becoming quite a canny politician.’ In the Mayor’s terms, if not in

Bruno’s, this was a compliment.

‘It must be your influence, Sir,’ he said, and they smiled at one another with

genuine affection. The Mayor raised his glass and they drank.

Suddenly their calm mood was shattered by the braying sound of the Gendarmerie

van. The sound grew, and then stayed, as if right beneath the window. The two

men looked at each other and moved as one towards the window and saw blue

uniforms and grey suits scrambling amid the market stalls. They were closing in

upon an agile boy who was darting between them and ducking beneath the stalls,

delaying the inevitable moment of his capture.

‘Merde,’ said Bruno. ‘That’s Karim’s nephew.’ And he dashed for the stairs.

By the time Bruno reached the covered market, the boy had been caught and his

arm was held firmly by a self-congratulatory Captain Duroc. The two men in grey

suits, whose faces Bruno recognised, were the hygiene inspectors from Brussels,

civil servants who should never have been working on a Saturday. One of them

held a large potato above his head in triumph.

‘This is the rascal,’ declared the other grey suit. ‘We caught him red-handed.’

‘And this is the potato, just like the one he used on our car on Tuesday,’ piped

up the one holding it.

‘Leave this to me, gentlemen,’ said Duroc very loudly, and glanced triumphantly

around at his audience of market people and shoppers who were gathering round to

enjoy the scene. ‘This young devil is going to the cells.’

‘Mon Capitaine, perhaps it would help if I came along,’ said Bruno, surprising

himself with the smoothness of his voice, since he was churning inside with

anger, directed mainly against himself. If only he had thought ahead and made

sure this nonsense of slashing tyres and immobilising cars had been stopped; if

only he had not stayed for that ridiculous self-congratulatory drink with the

Mayor; if only he had remembered to talk to Karim … But of course he couldn’t

raise it with Karim, not with his grandfather just murdered, and now he had to

make sure that Karim’s young nephew didn’t bring down a lot more trouble on

everyone else. Think, Bruno!

‘I can ensure that we inform the parents, mon Capitaine,’ he said. ‘You know the

regulations about minors, and I think I have their number in my phone. You can

take the statements of complaint of these two gentlemen at the Gendarmerie while

I contact the boy’s family.’

Duroc paused, and pursed his lips. ‘Ah, yes. Of course.’ He turned to glower at

the two civil servants. ‘You know how to find the Gendarmerie?’

‘What about my eggs?’ shrilled old Mother Vignier, pointing to the mess of

shells and yolks on the ground beside her overturned stall. ‘Who’s going to pay

for that?’

One of the inspectors bent down to retrieve a shell, and came up with a nasty

look of triumph.

‘No date stamp on this egg, Madame. You know it’s strictly against the

regulations? Such eggs may be consumed for private use but it is an offence

under the Food Hygiene law to sell them for gain.’ He turned to Captain Duroc.

‘We have here another offence in this market, officer.’

‘Well, you had better find a witness that these eggs were being sold,’ said

Bruno. ‘Madame Vignier is known for her generosity, and makes a regular donation

of her surplus eggs to the poor. And if she has any left over after the Saturday

market, she gives them to the church. Is that not so, Madame?’ he said

courteously, turning to the old hag who was staring at him, her mouth agape. But

her brain moved fast enough for her to nod assent.

Everybody knew the old woman was poor as a church mouse since her husband drank

the farm away. She bought the cheapest eggs at the local supermarket, scraped

off the date stamps, rolled them in straw and chicken-shit and sold them to

tourists as farm-laid for a euro a piece. No local ever bought anything from her

except her eau de vie since her one useful legacy from her drunk of a husband

had been his ancestral right to eight litres a year – and she naturally made a

very great deal more than that.

‘Shall I summon the local priest to testify to Madame Vignier’s good character?’

Bruno went on. ‘You may not yet have had the time to make the acquaintance of

our learned Father Sentout, a very important man of the church who is soon, I

gather, to be made a Monsignor.’

‘A Monsignor?’ said Duroc suspiciously, as if he had never heard the word.

‘No, no,’ said the inspector. ‘We need not bother the good Father with this

minor matter of the eggs. The lady may go. We are only concerned with this boy

and his damage to state property, namely, our automobile.’