Martin Walker: Black Diamond

“They are allowed one sandwich each, and one of each of the cakes. Otherwise we might run out. If you have a brother or sister among them, pick them first. Off you go.”

He heard Simon muttering, “I’m sure that’s Bruno” as they left, so he raised his voice again, gave a few more Ho, ho, hos and walked across to the mothers with the toddlers.

“ Mesdames, I count on you not to let your little ones grab too much or make a mess. Perhaps you would go after the under-sixes have been fed.”

Then Bruno turned to the over-sixes, who were almost dancing with impatience, and he told them to go to the CD player and decide which of the Christmas music discs they wanted to hear. He waved Bill over and asked him to supervise the music. The elder Pons had disappeared, and the mayor was being political, kissing the cheeks of each of the venerable ladies who were watching proudly from behind the tables as their cakes and biscuits were eagerly devoured.

“Where are the presents, and when do you want to give them out?” Bruno asked Mathilde.

“I think Monsieur Pons wants to hand out the presents,” she said crisply. “That’s what he said, and he added very firmly that since he’d paid for them, he was the one to do it.”

“Ah,” said Bruno. “Well, just so long as he doesn’t dress up as Pere Noel to do it. The kids would get awfully confused if they saw two of us.”

“You’re right,” she said. “I’d better go and find out what he’s planning.”

Bill had gotten the CD player to work. Pamela stood close beside him. Bruno could discern the gentle tones of “Silent Night” being drowned by the low roar of children’s voices. Ah well, time for some more Ho, ho, hos, and perhaps a sandwich or two. He headed over to the tables, ruffling the hair on little heads along the way and lifting toddlers for a Christmas kiss until one of them became alarmed and started to bawl. He quickly handed the infant back to a clucking mother and moved on.

“I think these two want a kiss from Pere Noel,” said Florence, pushing her children toward him, their cheeks round with food and their mouths smeared with chocolate.

“Happy Christmas, Dora,” he said, swinging her up. “And you, Daniel,” he said, scooping up the boy with the other arm. He received a smacking kiss from each, and then their mother leaned forward and kissed him on each cheek.

“Merry Christmas to you, Pere Noel, and thanks for everything. You’ve got a bit of chocolate on your beard.” Florence pulled a tiny handkerchief from her sleeve, popped a corner into her mouth to wet it and began to scrub his cheek. He felt himself blushing, convinced that Pamela was watching.

“Ho, ho, ho. Thank you, Florence. I’d better get some food before it all goes.”

He had time to devour a ham-and-cheese sandwich, a madeleine and a galette, and was washing them down with a glass of orange juice when the mayor approached with an urgent look on his face and holding out a mobile phone.

“It’s Nicco from Ste. Alvere,” he said. “There’s been a tragedy and they want you over there.”

Bruno took the phone, but couldn’t hear. He turned away toward the door to the kitchens, fumbling to unhook his beard from his ear as he tried to make out what Nicco was saying.

“It’s Bruno, it’s Bruno,” called out one of the older children as his beard swung down to one side of his face and Nicco’s voice said, “It’s Didier-he’s dead. He shot himself.”

Then the kitchen door swung open and another Father Christmas emerged, flanked by two elves dressed in green and carrying large sacks. Bruno had just begun to register this when Pamela appeared before him, her face tight with anger.

“I’m not going to make a fuss here, but I think you’re a bastard.”

He stared at her in bafflement, and one of the elves brushed against his arm with a sack of presents, knocking the mobile phone from his hand. He bent down to grope for the phone on the floor. People were turning to look at the appearance of the second Father Christmas as Pons strode majestically to the center of the hall.

“I suppose you didn’t know Dominique was doing her Christmas shopping in Bordeaux and saw you and your Isabelle together in your hotel last night,” Pamela snapped as his hand found the phone. “She just told me. Well, good luck with your policewoman. But that’s it for me.”

He had the phone, rose and in one fluid movement took Pamela firmly by the arm and frog-marched her out bodily through the kitchen door before letting her go in front of three very startled old ladies.

“Listen to me,” he said urgently. “I’ve just been told somebody has killed himself, and I have to get to Ste. Alvere. Second, yes, I was in Bordeaux and Isabelle was there because we were working on the same case. We slept in separate rooms.”

“I don’t believe you. Dominique saw you huddled together in the bar.”

“That’s all she saw. I slept alone. Third, I had to get out of that room because there are hundreds of kids who want to believe in Father Christmas, one Father Christmas, not two. I’m sorry I hauled you out here, but that’s why. And I’m even more sorry it has to end this way, but I have to go.”

“I suppose you’ll try and pin all this on Bill as well,” she said. “You’ve been out to get him ever since he challenged that precious mayor of yours. It was you who got his restaurant closed down, and it’s all your damn politics, Bruno, and I’ve had enough.”

“Closed his restaurant? When?”

“This morning. A huissier came with a court order to close the only hopeful Green place in the region. They even closed the campsite and made people leave. Some made-up claim about water supplies, but I know that you were behind it, you and the damn mayor. You’ll do anything to win this election and stay in power.”

“This damn mayor had nothing to do with the arrival of the bailiffs, madame,” came a voice from behind Bruno. The mayor had slipped into the kitchen. “On my word of honor, Bruno and I weren’t responsible for this. I only just heard about it.”

An odd time of year to have campers, thought Bruno as he began pulling off his red jacket and red trousers. But he had to get to Ste. Alvere. The old ladies were rapt with attention, as if this scene was almost worth growing old for.

“Damn the pair of you,” Pamela said, and turned to walk past them. “You might as well be one person, the two of you. Your harassment of Bill has been unforgivable.”

The kitchen door swung closed behind her. The mayor came up and put a hand on Bruno’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “She’ll calm down. But what’s happened in Ste. Alvere?”

“That investigation you asked me to make into the truffle market,” Bruno said, taking off his false beard. He turned to the kitchen tap and splashed cold water onto his face and looked in the mirror. He was still wearing the Father Christmas hat. He pulled it off and turned back. “I gave their mayor my report this afternoon. It was the market manager, stealing them blind, and I advised him to call in the Police Nationale. Now the manager’s killed himself, and they want me over there.”

“You did not hear that, mesdames,” the mayor said to the old ladies. “This is police business.”

“That means it will be all over town within the hour,” said Bruno, steering the mayor out of the kitchen to the bathroom where he had left his clothes. “There’s something else you need to know. It looks as if Boniface Pons is up to his neck in this truffle business.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” said the mayor. “I’ve always seen him as a bit of a crook, ever since he came back from Algeria with enough money to build his new sawmill. How’s he involved?”