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 café 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 Courrčges,’ 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 Courrčges 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

pressé, 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.

‘No, it’s the concrete courts,’ Pamela explained. ‘I hurt my knee skiing some

time ago and the hard court is bad for it.’

‘But we have a covered court with a rubber surface. You could play there.’

‘I get quite busy here in the summer when the guests start to come. Once I have

all three of the gîtes filled, it takes most of my time. That’s why it’s such a

treat to have Christine here and play some tennis with her. It’s not a great