courtyard. There were two embracing wings of well-trimmed poplars set back from
the house, sufficient to deflect the wind in winter but too far to cast a shade
over the buildings or grounds. Ivy climbed up one side of the pigeon tower and a
splendid burst of bright pink early roses covered the side by the old
iron-studded door. In the middle of the courtyard stood a handsome old ash tree,
and large terracotta pots filled with geraniums made splashes of colour against
the gravel. Beside the largest barn was a vine-covered terrace with a long
wooden table that looked a fine place to dine in summer. Off to its side was a
vegetable garden, a greenhouse and a level area for parking. On the other side,
behind a low fence covered in climbing roses, he saw the corner of a swimming
pool.
From the top of the long gentle rise of the meadow, the property looked charming
in the late afternoon sunlight, and Bruno drank in the sight. He had seen many a
fine house and some handsome small chateaux in his many tours through his
Commune, but hed rarely seen a place that looked so completely at peace and
welcoming. It came as a relief after the shock and horror of what he had found
at Hamids cottage, as if the two places, barely a kilometre apart, could not
exist in the same universe. He felt calmer and more himself for seeing it, and
was reminded that he had a job to do.
He drove slowly up the gravel road, lined on each side with young fruit trees
that would form a handsome avenue some day, and stopped in the parking area. The
mad Englishwomans old blue Citroën was parked alongside a new VW Golf
convertible with English number plates. He settled his cap on his head, switched
off his engine, and heard the familiar plop-plop of a tennis ball. He strolled
around to the back of the farmhouse, past an open barn where two horses were
chewing at hay, and saw an old grass tennis court that he had never known was
there.
Two women in short tennis dresses were playing with such concentration that they
didnt 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 hed 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 Brunos 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 were asking all the neighbours if theyve seen anything
unusual in the course of the day.
The other woman came to join them, said bonjour and shook Brunos 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 Périgord.
A serious crime? Here, in St Denis? Excuse me, Im forgetting my manners. Im
Pamela Nelson and this is Mademoiselle Christine Wyatt. Christine, this is our
Chef de Police Courrčges. Look, we were just knocking a ball about and its
probably time for a drink. We shall certainly have one so may I offer you a
petit apéro?
Im afraid not this time, Madame. Im on duty. Its about the old Arab
gentleman, Monsieur Bakr, who lives in that small cottage near Yannicks house.