Martin Walker - Black Diamond

Bill poured. “Tell me what you think.”

Bruno sipped and made polite noises, but it wasn’t to his taste at all. The baron put his cup down after a sip and muttered about having to drive and beware of the gendarmes. Fabiola, who made a point of putting honesty first, said it was not her idea of a digestif.

“It’s interesting, different from what I expected,” said Pamela. “What did you do in Asia? Did you get a job or teach French or start a business or what?”

“All of those,” he said, with a charming smile that even his bruises could not dilute. “At different times, of course. I was a cognac salesman in Shanghai, ran a wineshop in Vientiane, taught French in Bangkok and even worked as a croupier in a Macao casino. But my primary business was to have a small share in what became a very successful restaurant in Macao and then Hong Kong. That’s where I met my chef, Minxin Hu. He’s become a good friend. Let me introduce him.” He rose. “Anyone want coffee?”

“I have to work tomorrow, so I don’t want to be too late,” said Fabiola. “Let’s say hello to your Chinese partner as we get our coats.”

Bill headed for the kitchen and quickly reappeared with the tall and solemn-looking Chinese man. The clothes were impeccable, gleaming white and freshly pressed, as if he had just put them on. Bruno, who had seen Chinese cooks drenched in sweat after working close to their steaming woks, was surprised. “Thank you for a memorable meal,” said Bruno, rising to shake Minxin’s hand. The man gave a tight-lipped smile and a short bow.

“ Merci, merci -my French very bad,” the chef said, and shook hands all around as Bruno asked Pons once more for the bill.

“You are my guests tonight,” he said airily.

“No, it’s kind of you, but we can’t accept that,” Bruno said firmly. “Policemen can’t accept free meals. We’d like to pay.”

Bill studied Bruno for a moment, his bruised face impassive. Then he nodded and turned aside to the small reception table and scribbled out a bill. It said simply “4 fusion menus at 20 euros, 1 bottle wine 20 euros. Total 100 euros.”

“By the way, Minxin’s nieces need to be registered for school,” said Bruno, handing over two fifty-euro notes. He turned to help Pamela on with her coat. The baron helped Fabiola, and the two men voiced a cheerful good night as they steered the two women into the darkness, ignoring their protests about paying their share of the bill.

“We’d have been there all night if we’d stopped to hand over four credit cards,” Bruno explained. “You can all pay me back later.”

“It’s just as well, Bruno. I really do have to be at work early tomorrow,” said Fabiola, clambering into the back of Pamela’s car. “Good night, Baron. It was a wonderful meal.”

Pamela drove off in silence, Bruno beside her. He realized that it was one of those deafening silences that only women knew how to manufacture, a silence that any mere male broke at his peril. He looked glumly at the road ahead, knowing that he needed to think about his own future if the mayor lost the election. Despite his political neutrality, Bruno was the mayor’s appointee and was widely known as one of the mayor’s right-hand men. A new mayor would be wary, even suspicious, and might well want to appoint his own nominee to the post. Not that Bruno could be fired; French employment law didn’t work that way. But he could be forced to transfer elsewhere in the departement or the region, or even to a much larger municipal police force in a big town. He’d hate that. And with his rank, Bruno would probably be catapulted into a senior post ahead of some bright young man who was expecting promotion. He’d have an enemy from the start. Worst of all, he’d probably have to move, sell his house and find somewhere else to live that would take his dog. He’d have to give away his chickens and his ducks and geese, leave his vegetable garden and his truffles to a new buyer. He would have to make new friends, build new relationships, carve out a new life. And where would that leave him and Pamela?

Fabiola interrupted his thoughts. “That violence at the sawmill wasn’t your fault, Bruno. And you stopped it pretty fast. Don’t brood about it. And don’t worry about Bill. That pretty face of his looks a lot worse than it is.”

“I wouldn’t call him pretty,” said Pamela. “Handsome certainly, but there’s too much character there to call him pretty. He’s had an interesting life. I wonder if one of those windmill things would work for me.”

“You can get grants for that these days,” said Bruno. “And for adding insulation to your roof. We’ve got some pamphlets about it at the mairie. ”

“It’s not just about money,” Pamela said crisply, and Bruno lapsed into silence again.

When they reached Pamela’s place, Fabiola pecked them both on the cheek, said a quick good night and darted into her own house.

“Perhaps I’d better walk back to town,” Bruno said.

“Don’t be silly. It’s far too cold,” Pamela said, going through her kitchen door and shedding her coat. “Help yourself if you want coffee or anything. You know where it all is.” She served herself a glass of water from the tap, leaned against the sink and turned to face him. He hung up his coat and sat at the kitchen table. “You seemed rather down this evening. Don’t you approve of Bill?”

Bruno shrugged. “I don’t know enough about him to approve or disapprove. But it’s a good restaurant, and I certainly approve of the energy saving. What surprises me is his sudden decision to go in for politics. He’s only been here a few months, and now there’s talk of him running for mayor already.” Bruno wondered how to put into words his discomfort at the threatening pace of change, at the disruption of the calm and ordered way of life in St. Denis that he cherished.

“You mean you spent ten years sinking your roots into St. Denis and this attractive young prodigal son blazes back into town and starts to take over. It sounds as though you’re jealous.”

Bruno looked her in the eye. “I’ve got nothing to be jealous about. If you find him attractive, you’re a free woman. I have no claims on you.” But the moment he said it, Bruno knew that it didn’t reflect quite what he felt. He smiled at her, trying to make a joke of it.

“I take you as you are,” he said. “Whatever the terms.”

“The terms are still under negotiation,” she said, unfolding herself from the sink and coming across to take his face in her hands and kiss him softly on the lips. “Come on, dearest Bruno, and take me to bed.”

Didier, the manager of the truffle market, was a short man with a clammy handshake, a potbelly and a bad haircut. Bruno tried to damp down the instinctive dislike he felt even as he turned himself a little sideways to avoid the man’s sour breath. Didier was explaining the various steps required to match a basket of truffles sold in the market hall with an Internet order. Bruno tried to concentrate on the process as he observed Didier for any signs of nervousness. Bruno had assumed even without Hercule’s hints that a successful fraud would require somebody on the inside who was familiar with the way the market worked. Didier was his guide to this process but also an obvious suspect. Bruno had expected defensiveness, but that was not the way Didier seemed to be reacting.

“The difficulty is that we don’t have the authority to control the whole market,” Didier said, sounding more aggrieved than nervous. “If all the sales had to go through us, there’d be no problem. But the mayor doesn’t want to upset the renifleurs. He might lose their votes, and some of the big customers insist on using them anyway.”