Martin Walker - Bruno, chief of police

Two women in short tennis dresses were playing with such concentration that they didn’t notice his arrival. An enthusiastic but not very gifted player himself, Bruno watched with appreciation, for the women as much as for their play. They were both slim and lithe, their legs and arms graceful and already tanned against the white of their dresses. The mad Englishwoman – called Pamela Nelson, he had heard – had her auburn hair tied up in a ponytail, and her dark-haired opponent wore a white baseball cap. They were playing a steady and impressive baseline game. Watching the fluidity of her strokes, Bruno realised that the mad Englishwoman was rather younger than he’d thought. The grass court was not very fast and the surface was bumpy enough to make the bounce unpredictable, but it was freshly mowed and the white lines had been recently painted. It would be very pleasant to play here, Bruno thought, and the mad Englishwoman could evidently give him a good game.

In Bruno’s view, anyone who could keep up a rally beyond half a dozen strokes was a decent player, and this one had already gone beyond ten strokes and showed no sign of stopping. The balls were hit deep, and were directed towards the other player rather than to the corners. They must be knocking up rather than playing a serious match, he thought. Then the mad Englishwoman hit the ball into the net. As her opponent turned to pick up some balls from the back of the court, Bruno called out, ‘Madame, if you please?’

She turned, shading her eyes to see him against the slanting sun that was sparkling golden lights in her hair. She walked to the side of the court, bent gracefully at the knees to put down her racquet, opened the gate and smiled at him. She was handsome rather than pretty, he thought, with regular features, a strong chin and good cheek bones. Her skin glowed from the tennis, and there was just enough sweat on her brow for some of her hair to stick there in charmingly curling tendrils.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Policier. Is this a business call or can I offer you a drink?’

He walked down to her, shook her surprisingly strong hand, and removed his hat.

Her eyes were a cool gray.

‘I regret, Madame, this is very much business. A serious crime has been committed near here and we’re asking all the neighbours if they’ve seen anything unusual in the course of the day.’

The other woman came to join them, said ‘bonjour’ and shook Bruno’s hand.

Another English accent. The mad Englishwoman was the taller of the two but they were both attractive, with that clear English skin that Bruno had been told came from having to live in the perpetual damp of their foggy island. No wonder they came over to Pйrigord.

‘A serious crime? Here, in St Denis? Excuse me, I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Pamela Nelson and this is Mademoiselle Christine Wyatt. Christine, this is our Chef de Police Courrиges. Look, we were just knocking a ball about and it’s probably time for a drink. We shall certainly have one so may I offer you a petit apйro?’

‘I’m afraid not this time, Madame. I’m on duty. It’s about the old Arab gentleman, Monsieur Bakr, who lives in that small cottage near Yannick’s house.

Have you seen him today, or recently, or seen any visitors?’

‘Hamid, you mean? That sweet old man who sometimes comes by to tell me I’m pruning my roses all wrong? No, I haven’t seen him for a couple of days, but that’s not unusual. He strolls by perhaps once a week and pays me pretty compliments about the property, except for the way I prune the roses. I last saw him in the cafй earlier this week, chatting with his grandson. What’s happened?

A burglary?’

Bruno deliberately ignored her question. ‘Were you here all day today? Did you see or hear anything?’ he asked.

‘We were here until lunchtime. We lunched on the terrace and then Christine went into town to do some shopping while I cleaned the barn for some guests who arrive tomorrow. When Christine came back we played some tennis for an hour or so until you arrived. We’ve had no visitors except for the postman, who came at the usual time, about ten or so.’

‘So you haven’t left the property all day?’ Bruno pressed, wondering why they were still knocking up after an hour rather than playing a game.

‘No, except for my morning ride. But that takes me towards the river, away from Hamid’s cottage. I went as far as the bridge, and then picked up some bread and the newspaper and some vegetables at the market and a roast chicken for lunch. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. But do tell me, is Hamid alright?

Can I do anything to help?’

‘Forgive me, Madame, but there is nothing you can do,’ Bruno said. ‘And you, Mademoiselle Wyatt? What time did you do your shopping?’

‘I can’t say exactly. I left after lunch, probably some time after two, and was back here soon after four.’ She spoke perfectly grammatical French, but with that rather stiff accent the English had, as if they could not open their mouths properly. ‘We had tea, and then came out to play tennis.’

‘And you are one of the paying guests?’ She had very fine dark eyes and carefully plucked eyebrows but wore no make-up. Her hands and nails, he noticed, were well cared for. No rings, and the only jewellery was a thin gold chain at her neck. They were two very attractive women, Bruno decided, and probably somewhere near his own age, although he reminded himself that you could never really tell with women.

‘Not really, not like the people coming tomorrow. Pamela and I were at school together and we’ve been friends ever since, so I’m not renting but I do the shopping and buy the wine. I went to the supermarket and to that big wine cave at the bottom of the road. Then I stopped at the filling station and came back here.’

‘So you’re here on vacation, Mademoiselle?’

‘Not exactly. I’m staying here while working on a book. I teach history at a university in England and I have this book to finish, so I worked all morning until lunchtime. I don’t think I’ve met your Arab gentleman and I don’t recall seeing another car, or anybody on the way to the supermarket and back.’

‘Please tell me what’s happened, Monsieur Courrиges,’ said the mad Englishwoman, who was clearly not mad at all. ‘Is it a burglary? Has Hamid been hurt?’

‘I fear that I cannot say at this stage, I’m sure you understand,’ he said, feeling slightly ridiculous as he usually did when required to play the formal role of policeman. He thought he’d better try to make up for it. ‘Please call me Bruno. Everyone does. When I hear someone say Monsieur Courrиges I look around for an old man.’

‘OK, Bruno, and you must call me Pamela. Are you sure I can’t offer you a drink, some mineral water perhaps or a fruit juice? It’s been a warm day.’

Bruno finally accepted, and they settled on some white metal chairs by the swimming pool. Pamela emerged with a refreshing jug of freshly made citron pressй, and Bruno leaned back to enjoy the moment. A cool drink in a delightful setting with not one but two charming and interesting women was a rare treat, and infinitely preferable to what would now be a madhouse of squabbling gendarmes and detectives and forensic specialists at Hamid’s cottage. That brought the sobering thought that his next task would be to go and tell Momu of his father’s death – if the Mayor hadn’t beaten him to it – and arrange a formal identification. Wasn’t there something special about Muslim burial rites? He’d have to check.

‘I didn’t know you had your own tennis court here,’ he said. ‘Is that why we never see you at the tennis club?’ Bruno was proud of the club, with its three hard courts and its single covered court where they could play in winter, and the clubhouse with bathrooms and changing rooms, a bar and a big kitchen. The Mayor had used his political connections in Paris to get a government grant to pay for it.