‘He never comes to confession, though – just like you, Bruno. We only ever see

you in church for baptisms, weddings and funerals.’

‘And choir practice, and Christmas and Easter,’ Bruno protested.

‘Don’t change the subject. I’m interested in Karim and his family, not in you.’

‘Karim’s religion I don’t know about, and I don’t think he really has one, but

his father is most definitely an atheist and a rationalist. It comes from

teaching mathematics.’

‘Do you know the rest of the family?’

‘I know Karim’s wife, and his cousins, and some of the nephews who play with the

minimes, and his niece Ragheda who has a chance to win the junior tennis

championship. They’re all good people.’

‘Have you met the older generation?’ the priest pressed.

Bruno turned patiently away from a perfectly good tarte tatin and looked the

priest squarely in the eye.

‘What is this about, Father? I met the old grandfather at Karim’s wedding, which

was held in the Mairie here without any priest or mullah in sight. Are you

trying to tell me something or worm something out of me?’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Father Sentout nervously. ‘No, it is just that I met the

old man by chance and he seemed interested in the church, so I just wondered

He was sitting in the church, you see, while it was empty, and I think he was

praying. So naturally, I wanted to know if he was a Muslim or not.’

‘Did you ask him?’

‘No, he scurried away as soon as I approached him. It was very odd. He wasn’t

even polite enough to greet me. I had hoped perhaps he might be interested in

Catholicism.’

Bruno shrugged, not very interested in the religious curiosity of an old man.

The Mayor tapped his glass with a knife and rose to make the usual short speech.

As he listened dutifully, Bruno began to long for his after-lunch coffee, and

then perhaps a little nap on the old couch in his office, to restore himself for

a tiresome afternoon of administration at his desk.

CHAPTER 4

Bruno always made it his business to establish good relations with the local

gendarmes, who kept a station of six men and two women on the outskirts of town,

in front of the small block of apartments where they lived. Since the station

supervised several Communes in a large rural district in the largest Department

of France, it was run by a Captain, in this case, Duroc. Right now, a very angry

Duroc, dressed in full uniform, was leaning aggressively across Bruno’s untidy

desk and glowering at him.

‘The Prefect himself has telephoned me about this. And then I got orders from

the Ministry in Paris,’ he snapped. ‘Orders to stop this damned hooliganism.

Stop it, arrest the criminals and make an example of them. The Prefect does not

want embarrassing complaints from Brussels that we Frenchmen are behaving like a

bunch of Europe-hating Englishmen. My boss in Paris wants no more destruction of

the tyres of government inspectors who are simply doing their job and enforcing

the law on public hygiene. Since I am reliably told that nothing takes place in

this town without you hearing about it, my dear Chief of Police, I must formally

demand your cooperation.’

He almost spat the final words and delivered ‘Chief of Police’ with a sneer.

This Duroc was a most unappetising man, tall and thin to the point of gauntness,

with a very prominent Adam’s apple that poked out above his collar like some

ominous growth. But, thought Bruno, one had better make allowances. Duroc was

newly promoted, and evidently nervous about getting orders from high in his

first posting as officer in charge. And since he would be here in St Denis for a

couple of years at least, getting off on the wrong foot with him would be

disastrous. In the best interests of St Denis, Bruno knew he had better be

diplomatic, or he could forget his usual courteous requests to ensure that the

traffic gendarmes stayed at home with their breathalysers on the night of the

rugby club dance or the hunting club dinner. If the local sportsmen couldn’t

have a few extra glasses of wine on a special night without getting stopped by

the cops, he would never hear the end of it.

‘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