Bruno, Chief of Police

by Martin Walker

  “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 they 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 liters themselves on a well-lubricated day to which they both looked forward and which, inevitably, by evening had become a large party for half the village at the Baron’s château.

  “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 drug 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 if we can.”

  Bruno felt uneasy about the spreading word of mouth. Half the town seemed to know about 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 neighbor, but there were layers to this rumor, about Arabs and Islam, that were something new both for him and for the town. There were six million Muslims among a French population of sixty million people. Most of them came from North Africa and too few of them had jobs, probably through no fault of their own, Bruno felt. He knew about the riots and the car burnings in Paris and the big cities, about the number of votes the Front National had won in the last election, but he had always felt that that was something remote from St. Denis. There were fewer Muslims 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 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, buying a little time to settle on what he wanted to say.

  “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 Muslims. 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,” said Raoul. “But you look at the rest of them, six and seven kids, and the girls don’t even go to school half the time. When I was a kid 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. 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?” said 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 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. He understood what these people were saying, what they feared. But it was all totally, dangerously wrong. He knew that this kind of conversation, this kind of sentiment, had existed even in quiet little St. Denis for a long time. Now it was out in the open.

  “You know me,” he said after a pause. “I’m a simple man, simple tastes and simple pleasures. I follow the law, and not only 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 under arrest, and now a load of drugs floating around,” said Raoul. “Nobody is talking about anything else.”

  Bruno bought some butter and some of the garlic-flavored canaillou 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 walking down 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 St. Denis. It had been under way for fifteen years already; he never seemed to make much progress, and he was usually glad of an interruption.

  “Ah, my dear Bruno,” Mangin said, rising and moving across the thick Persian rug, which glowed in soft reds against the dark wooden floorboards, to the small corner cupboard where he kept a few bottles. “Let’s have a 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. 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. The mood will turn sour very fast. I just wish there was something we could do to speed things up. By the way, that reminds me.” He picked up a sheet of paper 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. All the players were young North Africans. The coach was a former professional player for Marseilles named 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 some school-yard 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 vin de noix, which Bruno had to admit was probably just a little better than his own—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 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 a page of notes.

  “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.”

  “I’m not too sympathetic to their point of view. I’m worried about the damage this could do to St. Denis,” 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, of course.” He turned to a 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 tourists will stay away.”

  Bruno was worried about the same things, and the mayor’s responsibilities were far greater: he had a duty to almost three thousand souls, to a history that went back centuries, and to their forebears who 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. He had been awed then, in his first meeting with the mayor, by the heavy dark beams on the ceiling and the wood paneling on the walls, the rich rugs and the desk that seemed made for the governance of a town far grander than St. Denis.

  “Indeed, the law must do as it must,” said the mayor. “And for the moment the course of the law seems to be based in Périgueux, and in Lalinde. I know it’s not nice to say, but if there is to be trouble, I would much rather it took place in Périgueux and Lalinde than here. You understand me, Bruno? It won’t be easy to deflect attention from St. Denis, 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. Montsouris is planning to hold a small demonstration here at lunchtime on Monday. A march of solidarity, he calls it.” Bruno could sense 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 schoolchildren marching against racial hatred and extremism. What do you think?”

  Bruno began to calculate how many people might be involved and what the route might be, and wondering whether he would have to block the road. And recalling the conversation he had just had in the market with Stéphane and Raoul, a march of solidarity might not be altogether popular.

  “We certainly can’t stop it, so we will just have to keep it as low-key as possible,” he said.

  “You know as well as I do that Montsouris and his wife will call all the newspapers and TV and get some of the trade unions involved, all publicity we don’t need.”

  “Well, I think it’s better if we are known as a town that stands up for racial harmony than if we’re seen as a center of race hatred,” said Bruno. “As 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 take place with you at the head and all the council and responsible people, rather than leave it to the red flags.”

  “You could be right,” the mayor said, still not pleased.

  “If you take charge, and set the route, perhaps we could limit it? You could say the route will be from the Mairie to the war memorial, because old Hamid was a veteran and a war hero,” said Bruno. “He won the Croix de Guerre, so you could make it a patriotic march, nothing to do with Arabs or Muslims and the extreme Right, but the town commemorating the tragic death of a brave soldier of France.”

  “You’re becoming quite a canny politician,” the mayor said. It was meant to be a compliment. The mayor raised his glass and they drank.

  Their mood was suddenly shattered by the braying sound of the siren on a gendarmerie van. The sound grew, and then stayed, as if right beneath the window. The two men moved as one toward the window and saw blue uniforms and gray 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’s arm was held firmly by a self-congratulatory Captain Duroc. The two men in gray suits, Bruno knew, were the hygiene inspectors from Brussels, civil servants working on a Saturday One of them held a large potato above his head in triumph.

  “This is the culprit,” said his partner. “We caught him red-handed.”

  “And this is the potato, just like the one he used on our car on Tuesday,” said the one holding it.

  “Leave this to me, gentlemen,” Duroc said emphatically, and glanced triumphantly around at his audience—market people and shoppers who were gathering to enjoy the scene. “This kid is going to prison.”

  “Mon Capitaine, perhaps it would help if I came along,” said Bruno, suppressing the anger he felt for this buffoon, and for himself. If only he had thought ahead and stopped this nonsense of slashing tires. “I can ensure that we inform the parents, mon Capitaine. 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.”

  “What about my eggs?” shrilled old Madame Vignier, pointing to the mess of shells and yolks on the ground beside her overturned stall. “Who’s going to pay for them?”

  One of the inspectors bent down to retrieve a shell, and came up staring at her.

  “No date stamp on this egg, madame. You know that’s strictly against the regulations? Such eggs may be consumed for private use but it is an offense under the food-hygiene law to sell them for gain.” He turned to Captain Duroc. “This woman is to be fined, Officer.”

  “Well, you had better find a witness to confirm 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 to the old hag who was staring at him, her mouth agape. But her brain moved fast enough for her to nod assent.

  The old woman was dirt poor, since her husband drank the farm away. She bought the cheapest eggs at the local supermarket, rubbed off the date stamps, rolled them in straw and chicken shit and sold them to tourists as farm-laid for a euro apiece. No local ever bought anything from her except her eau-de-vie, since her one useful legacy from her husband had been his ancestral right to eight liters a year and she naturally made a lot more than that.

  “I’m sure the local priest would testify to Madame Vignier’s good character,” Bruno went on. “Our Father Sentout is a very important man, you know, about to be made a monsignor.”

  “No, no,” said the inspector. “No need to bother the good Father. The lady may go. We are only concerned with this boy and his damage to state property, namely, our car.”

  “You saw him damage your car today?” inquired Bruno politely. He had to find a way out of this for the boy. And he was damned if these two gray men were going to get away with this.

  “Not exactly,” said the inspector. “But we saw him hanging around our car and we called the gendarmes, and when we pounced he had a potato in his hand.”

  “Forgive me, but t
his is a vegetable market with hundreds of potatoes on sale. What’s so unusual about a boy holding a potato?”

  “He used a potato to immobilize our car at the Tuesday market, that’s what. The engine gave up on the road to Périgueux.”

  “Somebody threw a potato at your car? Was the windscreen broken?” Bruno was beginning to enjoy this.

  “No, no. The potato was stuffed into the exhaust pipe to block the escaping gases, and the engine died. We had to wait two hours for a repair truck.”

  “Did you see this boy do this on Tuesday?”

  “Not exactly, but Captain Duroc told us when we complained that he thought it must have been some boy, and so we came back today to see if we could see one—and we caught him.”

  “Isn’t it unusual that you are on duty today, on a Saturday?” Bruno asked. “I presume you are on duty.”

  “Not exactly,” the inspector repeated, “but since our duties bring us to the Dordogne this week and next, we decided to stay over and make a weekend of it.”

  “So, you are not exactly on duty today. Yes or no?” Bruno had taken on a serious air.