Bruno and le Pere Noel

by Martin Walker

  BRUNO AND LE PÈRE NOËL

  A Bruno, Chief of Police, Christmas Story

  Martin Walker

  CONTENTS

  Bruno and le Père Noël

  An Excerpt from Bruno, Chief of Police

  Also by Martin Walker

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  BRUNO AND LE PÈRE NOËL

  The last market day before Christmas in the small French town of St. Denis was unusually cold. In the main square and all along the Rue de Paris, stallholders stamped their feet and blew on their chilled hands as they served the throngs of customers. Young men made jokes about global warming and the older ones sniffed and said this was nothing; they recalled years when families had slept with the cows and livestock for their body heat. From a steel-blue sky the pale December sun tried valiantly to give some memory of warmth. Ducks waddled over the thickening ice along the banks of the river Vézère, and a man dressed as Santa Claus emerged from the Mairie to post on the town’s official noticeboard an announcement of free firewood for the elderly.

  In his usual spot by the stone steps to the upper square, grand-père Pagnol, wearing a Russian-style fur cap, was doing a roaring trade in roasted chestnuts. Shoppers clustered around his brazier for a little heat, while Pagnol cheerfully warned them all that weather such as this meant that snow was coming and they could look forward to a white Christmas.

  Bruno Courrèges, the town policeman, usually felt slightly embarrassed when he dressed as Father Christmas. Today, however, he was grateful for the false beard that protected much of his face against the chill. He saluted the crowd around Pagnol’s brazier before climbing the steps to greet the small band of choristers who were about to launch another of Bruno’s experiments.

  A woman he recognized only by her eyes avoided the beard and kissed him on the lips. Her striking red-bronze hair was hidden under a beret of white angora wool. This was Pamela, known affectionately in St. Denis as the Mad Englishwoman, although she was really a Scot. She had told him, on one of those delightful if infrequent nights when he shared her bed, that there were three things she missed about Christmas in her homeland. The first was snow, which she now seemed likely to see. The second was a proper Christmas pudding with brandy butter and a sixpenny piece hidden inside, whose annual discovery was always one of the treats of her childhood. The third was singing Christmas carols in the open air, and this Bruno had been able, with a little diplomacy, to arrange.

  Calling on the church choir for volunteers and fleshing out the numbers with some of the English families who lived in the district, he had persuaded Fabrice to provide the music. The young man, who played accordion at the rugby club dances, had provided himself with gloves that left his fingers free. But he complained that his hands were still too cold to play. Bruno nodded with understanding and shepherded the entire choral group down to stand on the steps. He positioned Fabrice in pride of place beside Pagnol’s glowing brazier and signalled to Father Sentout, looking even more rotund than usual with the extra clothing he was wearing under his soutane, to begin.

  Vive le vent was the first, suitably jaunty number. To Bruno’s ears it was all the more interesting since the English contingent had insisted on singing the “Jingle Bells” lyrics they knew. During rehearsals, Bruno had been happy to learn that most of the French carols had their English equivalents and each nationality seemed happier singing their own version. So “Silent Night” also became “Douce Nuit,” and “Viens, Peuple Fidèle” was twinned with “Oh Come, All Ye Faithful.” With the unexpected inclusion in the choir of Horst, a German professor of archaeology who kept a house in St. Denis, Mon Beau Sapin became both “O Christmas Tree” and O Tannenbaum. This, thought Bruno, was how Europe ought to be, with everyone happily singing the same tune in their own tongue.

  As the choir launched energetically into “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” to which the French sang Le P’tit Renne au Nez Rouge, Bruno waved the Red Cross collection can at all the passers-by and cheered loudly at the end of each carol. Pretty soon he was using the coins in the tin as maracas to beat time. People had to stop him to put money in. More and more of them crowded round to do so, which meant that Bruno’s experiment was a success. And grand-père Pagnol had never done such trade.

  Nothing in his work gave Bruno greater pleasure than to organize and cajole the townsfolk into doing things together, particularly events that brought the various nationalities into a common venture. Standing in the front row between Pamela and Florence, the science teacher at the local collège, was a new face. The woollen cap and scarf could not conceal the dark, Mediterranean looks of Miriam. A Lebanese Christian and a devout churchgoer, Miriam had recently arrived in St. Denis to take a job as a dental hygienist. She had a young son who had enrolled in Bruno’s rugby class and already showed promise as a sprinter. Delighted at her regular attendance at mass, Father Sentout had swiftly recruited her for the choir and given her the starring role in his choice for the finale, the ancient Latin hymn, Gaudete.

  Fabrice stopped playing his accordion with relief and pushed his frozen hands close to the brazier. The choir launched into the chorus of the a capella song, and then Miriam’s pure soprano soared alone into the wintry air:

  Mundus renovatus est, a Christo regnante.

  Miriam was a woman with a burden. Bruno did not know its origin, but few could miss her air of sadness. Father Sentout had warmed to her, and Florence and Pamela had taken her under their respective wings in the choir. Fabiola, the doctor who rented one of Pamela’s gîtes, had struck up a friendship with her. But if any of them knew what was troubling the young woman, they had chosen not to share it with Bruno.

  Now it seemed that her melancholy had lifted in the pleasure and fellowship of singing. The rest of the carol singers surrounded her in congratulation. Old Pagnol handed her the last of his chestnuts with a courtly bow. Richard, her son, glowed with pride as he darted from the sheltering skirts of Father Sentout’s housekeeper to hug his mother. The collection tin in Bruno’s hand grew heavy as the crowd showed their appreciation in euro coins and notes. The choir went off together to Fauquet’s café for hot chocolates and coffees rich with the scent of the dark Antilles rum that Fauquet favoured. Bruno stayed on in the market until his can was too full to rattle.

  He was heading to join them in the café when his phone vibrated. The incoming message was terse and official, from the Préfecture de Police in Paris, asking him to confirm receipt of a fax. Once he reached his office, he hung up his Father Christmas suit and replaced it with his uniform jacket and trousers. The black robe hanging on the rail reminded him that he had to confirm that his friend the Baron would join him as Père Fouettard at the church service on Christmas Day.

  Like many other towns in the Périgord, St. Denis had played host to large numbers of refugees during the war. Most had come from Alsace after 1940, when the conquering German armies had deported all inhabitants of French descent. Some had married locally and stayed; others had taken new wives and husbands home to Alsace after the war. These family connections ensured that the two regions remained close. Towns were twinned, schools exchanged visits and some traditions remained. Along with a fondness for the wines of Alsace and for choucroute, St. Denis had adopted Père Fouettard. He was the black-clad companion to Father Christmas and carried a cane to punish children who had been naughty. These days, Father Christmas handed out the sweets, and Père Fouettard did the same with the sours: salted biscuits, lemon drops and the Alsace delicacy called salmiak, a slightly bitter black liquorice.

  The fax informed Bruno that a prisoner on parole named Jean-Pierre Bo
nneval, age thirty, had absconded from his job and the special hostel where he was supposed to live until his sentence was complete. Bruno noted that the man had only four months left of a three-year term. The second paragraph made it clear why he was being informed. Bonneval’s ex-wife, Miriam, had moved to St. Denis with their son, Richard. Bruno should report at once if the prisoner were to turn up.

  Christmas, Bruno thought to himself, a time when a father might take risks to see his son, even if it meant a return to prison and more time added to the sentence. The final paragraph explained that Bonneval had been convicted of aggravated drug trafficking, smuggling and receiving stolen goods.

  A second sheet was a poor but recognizable photograph of a fit-looking young man, full face and profile. He had neatly cut hair, clear eyes and likeable features that seemed almost ready to break into a grin. That was odd, thought Bruno. Usually anybody in a police photo looks like a villain. Studying the image, Bruno reckoned Bonneval had the look of a rugby player and a face that seemed almost trustworthy. He could understand Miriam falling for the guy and even imagined enjoying a beer with him. This was foolishness, Bruno told himself; a professional con man would probably have a similarly reassuring look.

  Bruno confirmed receipt of the fax and called the CIP, the Conseiller d’Insertion et de Probation, whose name, office and number in Paris were listed in the notes. A young woman answered the phone and gave her name. Bruno explained that as yet there had been no sign of Bonneval, but he would visit Miriam’s home and report back. Was there anything the probation officer could tell him that might be helpful?

  “He was at work when he found some way to break his electronic bracelet, and then he dropped off the radar screen,” she explained. “He had some sort of row with his employer and disappeared.”

  It was routine to request checks on all family and connections when a prisoner disappeared, but the CIP added that this was an unusual case. Bonneval had been a model prisoner and had qualified for a special program of conditional release into civilian life. He was allowed to live in supervised accommodation and to work for an approved employer.

  “I see he had less than four months to go,” Bruno said. “Why would he go on the run at this point?”

  The CIP agreed, adding that Bonneval had left her a phone message on the evening of his disappearance. He’d said he was sorry to let her down, but he was being cheated of his pay by his boss. He’d complained of this before, and he was not the first to do so.

  “The problem is to get any employers to agree to take prisoners who are on probation. They aren’t always ideal and this one less than most,” she said. “But I thought I’d persuaded Jean-Pierre to stick it out.”

  By the end of the conversation, Bruno was on first-name terms with Hélène and established that she came from Brive-la-Gaillarde, a town less than an hour’s drive from St. Denis. She knew the Périgord region well. They exchanged mobile numbers, and she also gave him the number of her mother’s home in Brive, where she would be for Christmas.

  “You don’t sound like a gendarme,” she said, a hint of flirtation in her voice.

  “That’s because I’m not.” He explained that he was a municipal policeman, employed by the mayor of the town.

  By the time he reached Fauquet’s café, Miriam and her son and most of the choristers had left for lunch. Pamela sat at one of the small round tables, nursing her drink as Florence donned her coat, hat and gloves and prepared to leave.

  “That was a wonderful event,” he said, putting the collection box on the table and unscrewing the lid. “Now we have to count the takings before handing them over.”

  “I have to get back to the twins,” said Florence, who had already become the treasurer of the local Red Cross, the secretary of the local branch of the Green Party, and chorister as well as science teacher. She was the kind of woman who’d probably be the first female mayor of St. Denis once her children were grown up, Bruno thought.

  “If you’re home this afternoon, I can drop the money off or pay it straight into the bank, whichever you prefer,” Pamela said as Florence turned to leave.

  “Whichever is easier,” said Florence, departing.

  With Bruno counting the coins and Pamela the notes, they added up their sums and scribbled down a total of 217 euros and 63 cents. Then Bruno counted the notes and Pamela began piling up the coins. They beamed at one another as they confirmed the same figure. He piled the money back into the can and sealed the lid.

  “That’s very good,” said Bruno. He knew from experience that a collection for charity usually took a great deal more effort to collect and resulted in considerably less money. “Do you want me to take it to the bank for you?”

  “No, thanks,” Pamela replied. “You have that ‘on duty’ look as if you ought to be somewhere else, and it won’t take me a minute. Has something come up?”

  He nodded without explaining. Pamela was discreet, but these things had a way of becoming known. It wouldn’t be fair to Miriam or her son if one of the first details the town learned of the new arrivals was that the boy’s father had been in prison. He kissed Pamela goodbye and made for his van.

  He’d already looked up Miriam’s address. It was a short drive to the hamlet a couple of kilometres out of town, where she rented two rooms on the upper floor of a small house belonging to la veuve Madourin. Widowed for many years and with no children in the region, Madame Madourin probably welcomed the company as much as the rent. Bruno noted the cheap new bicycle with its child seat fixed behind the saddle. Two helmets hung from the handlebars, so he knew that Miriam was at home. His knock on the door sent half a dozen chickens clucking and scuttling from the yard into a small outbuilding.

  As the door opened and Madame Madourin greeted him, Bruno’s phone rang. It was Pamela, sounding rushed and strained.

  “Bruno, I‘ve been robbed, just outside the bank. The thief ran away up the back streets towards the church.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No, just a bit shocked.”

  “Stay where you are and I’ll be right with you,” he said.

  He quickly apologized to Madame Madourin, put two quick questions to her and raced back to his van, scattering chickens all over again. With a final shout over his shoulder that he’d be back, he leaped inside, biting his lip in impatience for the ten seconds it took for the diesel engine to start. He turned on his flashing blue light and hurried towards St. Denis, cursing himself for not insisting on escorting Pamela into the bank. At least he’d learned from the widow that there had been no visitors for Miriam and no strangers had been seen in the hamlet.

  This sort of casual street robbery just didn’t happen in St. Denis. Nearly everyone in the community under the age of twenty-five had been in Bruno’s rugby or tennis classes. Not only did Bruno know them and their parents and uncles and aunts and siblings, but all the youngsters knew him. He’d driven them to sports events, shared their triumphs and failures and thrown them barbecues at his home at the end of each season. They’d grown up with him, and Bruno strongly believed that this was the best crime-prevention system he could devise. Many of them engaged in the usual youthful mischief, but theft, vandalism and criminal violence were unheard of in St. Denis. So the thief was a stranger, which meant there was one obvious candidate.

  As his van turned into the square, Pamela came out of the bank, where she’d been sheltering from the cold. She looked calm.

  “I was passing between those two parked cars and somebody simply lunged at me. He was quite tall and slim and moved like a young man. He must have been lying in wait,” she began. “He grabbed the collection box, pushed me back so I fell against the side of a car and darted off. By the time I looked, he’d disappeared. All I remember is that he was wearing jeans and one of those black hooded sweater things with a scarf over his face. I didn’t even see his eyes. It took me completely by surprise, and there was nobody else ar
ound. The people in the bank saw nothing.”

  Two hours later, after taking her statement, briefing Sergeant Jules at the Gendarmerie and seeing Pamela home, Bruno was going from shop to shop along the Rue de Paris. He showed the faxed photo of Jean-Pierre Bonneval, asking if anyone had seen this young man that morning, dressed in a black hooded jacket.

  Madame Lespinasse in the tabac said a young man very like that had bought a pack of Lucky Strikes. He’d then stood, huddled and smoking, in the shelter of her doorway, while the choir had been singing around the steps. And Mirabelle, the young waitress in Fauquet’s, said she had sold him a baguette when the crowd of choristers had come in from their warming drinks. Was that before Bruno had joined them? Could Bonneval have seen him counting the money with Pamela?

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He spent a while looking at the cakes and chocolates before he bought the bread. He looked like he was very cold.”

  Fauquet’s was L-shaped, with the counter for bread and cakes around the corner from the much larger café and bar. Bruno went to the precise spot where Bonneval would have stood and found that he was hidden by a tall revolving cake stand. Through the array of chocolate and cream cakes and fruit tarts, Bruno could see into the café where the choir had been sitting and where he’d opened the collection tin.

  Back in his office, he called Hélène, the probation officer in Paris, and said, “He’s here. And I think he just committed a street robbery.”

  A sigh came through the phone. “That means we can’t persuade him to come back and smooth things over. We’ll have to send him back to prison, and it’s such a waste.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He was doing so well. I thought he was going to be the first that I’d really been able to help get a job, a place to live—to straighten his life out. And now he screws it all up, just before Christmas.”

  “What do you know about his family?”