Martin Walker: Bruno, chief of police

‘I quite understand, Capitaine,’ Bruno said emolliently. ‘You’re quite right and your orders are entirely proper. This hooliganism is a nasty blot on our reputation as a quiet and law abiding town, and we must work together on this.

You will have my full cooperation.’

He beamed across his desk at Duroc, who now sported two white, bloodless patches on his otherwise red face. Clearly, the Captain was very angry indeed.

‘So, who is it?’ Duroc demanded. ‘I want to bring them in for questioning. Give me the names – you must know who’s responsible.’

‘No, I don’t. I might make some guesses, but that’s what they’d be. And guesses are not evidence.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Duroc snapped. ‘You wouldn’t even know what evidence is. You’re just a country copper with no more authority than a traffic warden. All you’ve got to offer is a bit of local knowledge, so you just stay out of it and leave it to the professionals. Give me the names and I’ll take care of the evidence.’

‘Evidence will not be easy to come by, not in a small town like this where most of the people think these European laws are quite mad,’ Bruno said reasonably, shrugging off the insults. In time Duroc would discover how much he needed Bruno’s local knowledge and, for his own good, he would have to cultivate the patience to teach his superior. ‘The people round here tend to be very loyal to one another, at least in the face of outsiders,’ he continued. ‘They won’t talk to you – at least, not if you go round hauling them in for tough questioning.’

Duroc made to interrupt, but Bruno rose, raised his hand to demand silence, and strolled across to the window.

‘Look out there, my dear Capitaine, and let us think this through like reasonable men. Look at that scene: the river, those cliffs tumbling down to the willows where fishermen sit for hours. Look at the old stone bridge built by Napoleon himself, and the square with the tables under the old church tower.

It’s a scene made for the TV cameras. They come and film here quite often, you know. From Paris. Foreign TV as well, sometimes. It’s the image of France that we like to show off, the France we’re proud of, and I’d hate to be the man who got blamed for spoiling it. If we do as you suggest, if we go in all heavy-handed and round up kids on suspicion, we’ll have the whole town round our ears.’

‘What do you mean, kids?’ said Duroc, his brows knitted. ‘It’s the market types doing this stuff, grown-ups.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Bruno said slowly. ‘You ask for my local knowledge, and I’m pretty sure that a few kids are doing this. And if you start hauling in kids, you know what the outcome will be. Angry parents, protest marches, demonstrations outside the Gendarmerie. The teachers will probably go on strike in sympathy and the Mayor will have to take their side and back the parents. The press will descend, looking to embarrass the government, and the TV cameras will film newsworthy scenes of the heartland of France in revolt. It’s a natural story for them – brutal police bullying children and oppressing good French citizens who are trying to protect their way of life against those heartless bureaucrats in Brussels. You know what the media are like. And then all of a sudden the Prefect would forget that he ever gave you any orders and your chief back in Paris would be unavailable and your career would be over.’

He turned back to Duroc, who was suddenly looking rather thoughtful, and said, ‘And you want to risk all that mess just to arrest a couple of kids that you can’t even take to court because they’d be too young?’

‘Kids, you say?’

‘Kids,’ repeated Bruno. He hoped this wouldn’t take too much longer. He had to do those amendments to the contract for the public fireworks for the Fourteenth of July, and he was due at the tennis club at six p.m.

‘I know the kids in this town very well,’ he went on. ‘I teach them rugby and tennis and watch them grow up to play in the town teams. I’m pretty sure it’s kids behind this, probably egged on by their parents, but still just kids.

There’ll be no arrests out of this, no examples of French justice to parade before Brussels. Just a very angry town and a lot of embarrassment for you.’

He walked across to the cupboard and took out two glasses and an ancient bottle.

‘May I offer you a glass of my vin de noix, Capitaine? One of the many pleasures of this little corner of France. I make it myself. I hope you’ll share a small aperitif in the name of our cooperation.’ He poured two healthy tots and handed one to Duroc. ‘Now,’ he went on, ‘I have a small idea that might help us avoid this unpleasantness.’

The Captain looked dubious, but his face had returned to a normal colour.

Grudgingly he took the glass.

‘Unless, of course, you want me to bring in the Mayor, and you can make your case to him,’ Bruno said. ‘And I suppose he could order me to bring in these children, but what with the parents being voters, and the elections on the horizon…’ He shrugged eloquently.

‘You said you had an idea.’ Duroc sniffed at his glass and took a small but evidently appreciative sip.

‘Well, if I’m right and it’s just some kids playing pranks, I could talk to them myself – and have a quiet word with the parents – and we can probably nip this thing in the bud. You can report back that it was a couple of underage kids and the matter has been dealt with. No fuss, no press, no TV. No nasty questions to your minister back in Paris.’

There was a long pause as the Captain stared hard at Bruno, then looked out of the window and took another thoughtful sip of his drink.

‘Good stuff this. You make it yourself, you say?’ He sipped again. ‘I must introduce you to some of the Calvados I brought down with me from Normandy.

Maybe you’re right. No point stirring everything up if it’s just some kids, just so long as no more tyres get slashed. Still, I’d better report something back to the Prefect tomorrow.’

Bruno said nothing, but smiled politely and raised his glass, hoping the inspectors had not yet found the potato.

‘We cops have got to stick together, eh?’ Duroc grinned and leaned forward to clink his glass against Bruno’s. At that moment, to Bruno’s irritation, his mobile, lying on his desk, rang its familiar warbling version of the Marseillaise. With a sigh, he gave an apologetic shrug to Duroc and moved to pick it up.

It was Karim, breathing heavily, his voice shrill.

‘Bruno, come quick,’ he said. ‘It’s Grandpa, he’s dead. I think – I think he’s been murdered.’ Bruno heard a sob.

‘What do you mean? What’s happened? Where are you?’

‘At his place. I came up to fetch him for dinner. There’s blood everywhere.’

‘Don’t touch anything. I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ He rang off and turned to Duroc. ‘Well, we can forget about childish pranks, my friend. It looks like we have a real crime on our hands. Possibly a murder. We’ll take my car. One minute, while I ring the pompiers.’

‘Pompiers?’ asked Duroc. ‘Why do we need the firemen?’

‘Round here they’re the emergency service. It might be too late for an ambulance but that’s the form and we had better do this by the book. And you’ll want to tell your office. If this really is a murder, we’ll need the Police Nationale from Pйrigueux.’

‘Murder?’ Duroc put his glass down. ‘In St Denis?’

‘That’s what the call said.’ Bruno rang the fire station and gave them directions, then grabbed his cap. ‘Let’s go. I’ll drive, you ring your people.’

Karim was waiting for them at the door of the cottage, white-faced. He looked as if he had been sick. He stepped aside as Bruno and Duroc, still in his full-dress uniform, strode in.