“Momu,” he said. “Sorry to bother you, but it’s Bruno. Something has come up in the case. You remember when young Richard had that fight in the playground and you invited him to your home for dinner?”
Isabelle watched Bruno as he spoke on the phone. Without looking in her direction, he knew while he listened to Momu that she was appraising him. He sensed she was making up her mind about going or staying, if she was asked. The call ended, but he held the phone to his ear and delayed returning to the table, trying to fathom her intentions. He assumed that she liked him, and she was bored in St. Denis just as she was bored in Périgueux. She probably thought he might make an amusing diversion. But she was out of her depth here in the country. Had this been Paris, she would have known the ways to signal whether or not she was ready to stay, but she was smart enough to understand that the social codes were different here, the mating rituals more stately, more hesitant. She would probably find that interesting in itself, to flirt a while with a stranger in this strange land they called la France profonde, deepest France.
“Another dead end,” said Bruno, turning off his phone. “Momu—that’s the son of the murdered man—had Richard over to dinner when he was thirteen years old, and told him how proud the family was that his father had won the Croix de Guerre fighting for France. That’s how he knew about the medal.” He sank down on his chair. “Some coffee, Isabelle?”
“No thanks. I’d never sleep, and I have to get up early to check on those tires. J-J will be coming down tomorrow to make sure everything is in order for the guy from Paris.”
He nodded. “By the way, there’s some demonstration being arranged for Monday at noon, a march of solidarity organized by our communist councillor, but the mayor will probably lead it. I don’t expect many people, mainly schoolchildren.”
“I’ll tell J-J, make sure the RG are there with their cameras,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “Just for the files. But I think we both know how much the official files can never know and explain.” She stood. “I should go,” she said, but didn’t move.
“Isabelle, thank you for this unexpected but very pleasant evening, and Gigi thanks you for the dinner he’s making from the scraps. Let me walk you to your car.” When they reached it, he opened the car door for her. She kissed him briefly on both cheeks, but before she could close her door Gigi darted past Bruno’s legs and put his paws on her thighs and stretched, trying to reach her face. She leaned over to pet him and he licked her face. She gave a start, then laughed, and Bruno pulled his dog away.
“Thank you, Bruno,” she said. “I really enjoyed the evening. It’s lovely here. I hope you’ll let me come again.”
“Of course,” he said. He wondered if she felt disappointed to be leaving. “It would be my pleasure,” he added, and was surprised by the brilliant smile she gave him in return, a smile that seemed to transform her face.
Isabelle closed the door, started the engine and drove off, watching him in her rearview mirror standing there waving farewell, Gigi at his knee. As the lights of her car disappeared he looked up and gazed at the great sweep of the stars twinkling in the black night above him, his thoughts jumbled and starting to race the way they sometimes did on those rare occasions when he could not sleep. He sighed and went back into the kitchen to wash the dishes, but feeling the tug of memory as he went about the familiar task. It had not just been the presence of Isabelle, the prospect she represented of a new woman in his life, it was her direct touch on the memory of his lost love.
What strange feminine alchemy had inspired Isabelle to run her finger down the spine of the slim volume of Baudelaire’s poems? It was a gesture that had been characteristic of Katarina, a gentle touch of greeting to a well-remembered friend. And what intuitive force had led Isabelle’s finger to the very book that Katarina had given him, the only tangible memory he had of her? He had half expected her to open the book and inevitably to read the inscription, but somehow she had let it be.
A snuffling at his feet brought him back to awareness of his surroundings. He blinked his eyes and kneeled to caress Gigi, who was waiting amiably at his feet, hoping that perhaps not all the scraps from dinner were gone. Bruno cradled the dog’s head in his hands, scratching those soft spots behind its ears, then bent his own head so that their foreheads met and he made an affectionate noise deep in his throat, hearing its echo as his dog responded. Gigi twisted his head to lick Bruno’s face, clambering up so that his front paws rested on his master’s shoulders, the better to lick his ears and nuzzle into his neck. Bruno relished the contact and the affection, and hugged his dog before patting its shoulders and getting to his feet.
Time for bed, he told Gigi, for both of us, and he led the hound out into the yard. He took a last attentive look at the fence around his henhouse. An owl was hooting far off in the woods. He checked that nothing was left on the table, splashed water on the ashes in the barbecue and saw Gigi to his kennel, realizing as he watched his dog settle that he now deeply regretted his tame acceptance of Isabelle’s departure. Why had he not kissed her and invited her to stay?
Bruno went back into his house, turned off the lights and, once in his bedroom, picked up the photo of a younger Bruno, beaming broadly at the camera, Katarina graceful and smiling beside him. That summer in Bosnia had been the only time they had together, a small chapter of happiness that he had known between the horror of the spring and the even deeper anguish of the winter that followed. His hand reached down to touch the scar at his waist from the sniper’s bullet, a wound that had yet to be inflicted when the photo was taken. He felt again the sudden confusion of memories, of noise and flames, the world spinning as he fell, the glare of headlights and blood on the snow. It was a sequence he could never get straight in his mind, the events and images all jumbled. Only the soundtrack remained clear, a discordant symphony of helicopter blades in low rhythm against the counterpoint chatter of a machine gun, the slam of grenades, the squealing clatter of tank tracks and the shouting of men.
He replaced the photo and picked out Katarina’s book from the shelf, and on an impulse opened it at random and raised it to his face to see if some elusive scent of her or of that summer might still remain. Whatever might have lingered was long gone. He turned to the flyleaf, to read yet again her inscription to him and to stare at the flowing signature. He could almost hear her voice, reading the poems aloud to him in that charmingly liquid French that she had taught her schoolchildren before the war came.
It was more than ten years since the summer of Katarina, and yet he felt her memory so strongly that it almost became her presence, each time a new woman began to stir his interest. Partly from courtesy partly from a wish to protect his own privacy he always put Katarina’s photo away in a drawer when there was a chance that a new lover might see it. But this time he had been taken unawares by Isabelle, who had not only seen the photograph but read his Army files. She knew enough to put him into a wider context than the placid life of a village policeman. And some instinct had steered her hand to Katarina’s book, to touch it but to leave it closed and in its place. It had been, Bruno concluded as he composed himself to sleep, an acknowledgment but not an invasion.
14
It was a lovely May morning as the Baron drove his big old Citroën up the lane beside Yannick’s house. As they passed, Bruno glanced quickly up the side road that led to Hamid’s lonely cottage, now sealed with police tape. They approached Pamela’s farmhouse and the Baron slowed his car to a halt, gazed at the scene in solemn approval and then climbed out to stand and take a longer look. Bruno opened his door and joined him, enjoying the Baron’s reaction to the surroundings and pleased that it matched his own. They looked in silence, until a drumming noise came from behind them and they turned to see two women on horseback, their hair flowing free, cantering toward them along the ridge and spurring into a near gallop as they saw the car and the two men.
Pamela was wearing a white shirt open at the neck, with a green silk scarf that flowed into
her auburn hair, and some jeans stuffed into her riding boots. The Baron let out a low whistle of admiration that only Bruno could hear, and raised his hand in salute.
“We’ll just be a moment, Bruno. And welcome to your friend,” called Pamela as she reined in her snorting brown mare to a quick trot. Christine rode on at speed, lifting a hand briefly in greeting before bending over her horse’s neck and racing on down the slope. Pamela turned back to call, “We’ll take the saddles off and change and see you on the court. You can use the cabane by the swimming pool if you need to change.”
“Two handsome women riding fast on horseback. Mon Dieu, but that’s a magnificent sight,” said the Baron, and Bruno knew that whatever happened on the tennis court, the day would be a success.
He had warned the Baron that the two women played in tennis dresses, so both men wore white shorts and T-shirts. It struck Bruno that their four white-clad figures looked almost formal as they met on the court and made introductions. The Baron bowed as he presented Pamela with a bottle of Champagne “to toast your victory, mesdames.” She took it quickly to the cabane, where an ancient refrigerator purred noisily, and by the time she rejoined them, the Baron had invited Christine to be his partner and Bruno was sending forehands over the net to each of them in turn.
“It looks like you’re stuck with me,” he said as Pamela came onto the court, bringing a can of tennis balls.
“I always prefer to have the law on my side, Bruno,” she said with a smile, and they put two balls in play, with Bruno sending his to Christine and the Baron sending backhands to Pamela. The women played well and with careful control, placing each ball deep, and Bruno found himself responding in kind and getting into a rhythm of forehand after forehand.
The first set went to four all, with Bruno barely holding serve. Pamela and Christine knew the strange ways of the grass court. They used their experience to position themselves while Bruno and the Baron tired themselves scrambling after each wayward bounce. The women still looked cool and fresh and in control, while the men were mopping their brows and flapping the fronts of their shirts.
At set point, Bruno waited for the crucial serve, swaying gently on the balls of his feet, knowing the Baron’s game well enough to expect a slice. But the Baron fooled him, serving a fast ball to his forehand, and Bruno played it down the line back to Christine. She returned it to him, and he played the same shot back to her from the baseline. Five strokes, six and then eight, then Christine suddenly changed tactics and hit her next forehand hard to Pamela. She played it back to the Baron, and it was their turn to exchange strokes from the baseline. Then Pamela’s sixth shot hit some bump in the grass surface and the ball bounced high and just within the sideline. The Baron scrambled after it but he barely reached the net with his flailing return. Game and set.
“What a magnificent rally,” called Pamela, with an enthusiasm so warm that Bruno could not think it quite genuine. “Well done, Baron, and hard luck on that very unfair last bounce. I think you had us but for that.”
“I need a drink,” said Christine, running forward to shake Bruno’s hand and then going back to kiss the Baron on both cheeks. “And I need a shower,” Pamela said, laughing, “and then a drink. And thank you for the game and that last rally. I can’t think when I played one that went so long.”
Bruno admired the easy skill of the women in smoothing bruised male egos. He and the Baron had been outplayed. Dripping with sweat, they looked as if they had been through three hard sets of singles instead of a single set of mixed doubles. The Baron, usually grim-faced and brooding when he lost, was almost purring with pleasure at their attention.
“You’ll find a shower and towels in the cabane,” Pamela told them. “We’ll take our showers inside and see you out here in twenty minutes for the Champagne. Meanwhile, there are bottles of water in the refrigerator. Help yourselves.”
Bruno mopped his neck with his towel, and put away his racket as the Baron limped up smiling.
“What charming girls,” he said.
Bruno grinned a weary assent. They were indeed charming, and yes, they were also girlish, and if they could twist the cynical old Baron around their little fingers so easily, they were two very formidable women. After Bruno had drunk a liter of water, showered and changed, he sauntered out to the table by the pool, where four Champagne flutes and an ice bucket stood ready, beside a bottle of dark purple cassis. He looked discreetly at the label. It was a bottle of the real stuff from the Bourgogne, not the industrial black-currant juice they sold in supermarkets.
Pamela and Christine had changed into jeans and blouses when they reappeared carrying trays—with plates, knives and napkins on one, pâté, olives, cherry tomatoes and a fresh baguette on the other. The Baron uncorked his Champagne, poured a splash of cassis into each glass and then filled them carefully with the wine.
“Next time, you must let me partner you, Bruno,” said Christine. “Unless the Baron would like to help me take our revenge.”
“I’m not changing a winning team,” said Pamela. “I’ll stick with Bruno.”
“We are at your disposal, ladies,” said the Baron. “Perhaps we might invite you to play at our club tournament later this summer. You would do very well, partnering each other or in the mixed doubles.”
“Sorry, but I only have until mid-June,” said Christine. “Then it’s back to England to write up my research before the end of my sabbatical.”
“That reminds me,” said Bruno. “You know something of the archives here and the local wartime history. How would I go about researching a soccer team in Marseilles, around 1939?”
“Start with the local newspapers, la Marseillaise or le Provençal, or the sports paper, l’Equipe,” Christine said. “Contact the local sports federation to see if they have any records. If you have the names of the players, or of the team, it should be quite straightforward.”
“I only have one player’s name, but not the name of the team or any other information. The team played in an amateur youth league, and won a championship in 1940, but I think their coach had been a professional player. I have his name.”
“It could be a long search, Bruno,” Christine said. “Regional papers like la Marseillaise tend to keep microfiche records, but I’d be surprised if they have been digitized, and so you can’t do an electronic search. You may have to go through all the issues for 1940. But if they won a championship, that would probably be at the end of the season, in the springtime, March or April. You might try just looking for those months. Is this to do with that murder inquiry you refused to tell us about when you were last here? We saw the reports in Sud Ouest.”
“Yes. Hamid. Nothing seems to have been taken except his wartime medal and this old photo, so I’m curious to see if it might shed some light on the affair. It’s just a chance—he may have taken the things down from the wall himself or thrown them away. We might be following a false trail, but so far we don’t have much to go on.”
“I thought I heard on Radio Périgord that some suspects had been detained, in Lalinde, was it not?” asked Pamela. “They didn’t give any names.”
“They’re under eighteen, juveniles, so their names can’t be released. Some local young people involved in the Front National have been the subject of police investigation, but so far there’s no real evidence to connect them to Hamid’s killing, or even to connect them with Hamid.”
“I don’t know too many young people around here,” said Pamela thoughtfully. “Some of my guests have teenage children and it’s always a good thing to introduce them to some young locals. We did that a bit last summer with a young French couple who played tennis on the court here. Rick and Jackie, I think they were called.”
“Rick and Jackie?” Bruno said sharply. “Could that have been Richard and Jacqueline?”
Pamela shrugged. “I just knew them by those names. An attractive young couple, about sixteen or seventeen. She’s a pretty thing, blond hair, a very good tennis player. He’s slim, maybe sixt
y kilos. I think he said his father is a doctor around here. Why? Do you know them?”
“How did you meet them, Pamela? And when was this, exactly?”
“They said they’d been walking in the woods and noticed my tennis court. They said they’d never played on grass before and asked if they could give it a try. I had an English family with some teenage children and they spent the afternoon playing tennis. They seemed very pleasant and polite, but I got the impression they had been courting pretty energetically in the woods, rather than just walking. It must have been late August, maybe early September, last year. Rick and Jackie came two or three times. I think she had a car, but I haven’t seen them this year.”
“You say they came out of the woods and down to your property. Which woods, exactly?”
“Those over that hill.” She pointed. “Over toward Hamid’s place. From the hill, you can see both my place and his.”
“Did they ever mention Hamid, or meet him, or see him here when he came to tell you how to prune your roses?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“When they came to visit you again, did they come the same way, from the woods?”
“No, they came up the road by car. I remember it well because she drove too fast and I had to tell her to slow down.”
“Did they go walking off into the woods again?”
“Yes, I think they did, teenage passion and all that. You’re sounding very policeman-like and serious, Bruno. Do you think they could be connected to Hamid’s murder?”
“I don’t know, but it suggests that they may have known the old man, or seen him, or at least had the opportunity to do so, and other than that there is nothing to connect them with Hamid.”
“They didn’t seem like Front National types. They weren’t skinheads or thuggish in any way. They seemed pretty well educated and had good manners, always saying please and thank you. They even brought me some flowers once. They spoke quite a bit of English, got on well with the English kids. They were really very pleasant—I enjoyed meeting them.”
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