‘This looks a little more serious,’ said

J-J

. ‘A false note to school, and he’s

at neither place.’

Bruno drove down to the tennis club with Isabelle and checked the records. The

semi-finalist from Lalinde was named Jacqueline Courtemine. Bruno rang his

counterpart in Lalinde, a young ex-serviceman called Quatremer whom he knew only

slightly and asked for an address and some information about the family. In

return, Bruno explained that they were looking for a young man who might be in

her company, and that Quatremer might want to keep an eye on the house until the

Police Nationale turned up in force.

Then he called Quatremer’s predecessor, an old hunting friend named René who had

retired the previous year, put the same question and elicited a volley of

information. Jacqueline’s parents were separated, perhaps divorced. The mother

was living in Paris on money from the wealthy father, who had inherited a family

furniture store and expanded it into a profitable chain that now stretched

across the region. Between his business and his mistresses he was rarely at

home, and Jacqueline had the large house on the outskirts of town pretty much to

herself, as well as her own car. René thought she would be going to university

in the fall and, he said, she had a reputation as a wild one. Bruno scribbled

quick notes on how to find the house while Isabelle called

J-J

, and then warned

his old friend that Quatremer might need some support and advice. ‘And warn your

Mayor,’ Bruno added, before ringing off.

Isabelle was already waiting in her car. She drove down to the main road leading

to Bergerac and pulled in to wait for

J-J

. She fished in the back seat for the

magnetic blue light, and as she clamped it onto her roof J-J’s big black Citroën

drew up, flashing its lights, with another police car close behind. They joined

the small convoy and raced towards Lalinde.

CHAPTER

9

The police convoy drew up to a large, detached house that stood on the low hill

that rose above Lalinde with a sweeping view of the river Dordogne. The river

was wide and shallow here, on its descent from the high plateau and into the

flat farmlands that had for a century produced tobacco to make the dark

Gauloises cigarettes. Designed in the traditional Périgord style, with a steep

tile roof, tall chimneys and turrets like witches’ hats, the house gleamed with

a brightness of stone that showed it had been newly built. Four cars, a

motorbike and two small scooters called mobylettes were parked untidily on the

broad gravel forecourt. Behind the house was a large garden, and then the land

rose gently again to the hill that stretched all the way to Bergerac. Noisy rock

music came from the open windows, and an empty bottle of wine lay on its side in

the hallway.

‘Very welcoming,’ said

J-J

. ‘A wide-open door and the smell of grass – so we can

hold her on a possession charge if we have to.’ He directed the second carload

of detectives to go round to the back, knocked quietly on the open wooden door,

waited for a moment and strode in.

Several teenagers wearing vacant expressions were sprawled around a table in the

big dining room that opened onto a patio and swimming pool at the rear. A large

bar ran along the side of the room. Cans of beer and bottles of wine stood on

the table, along with dirty plates, a cheese board and a bowl of fruit. Through

the window, Bruno could see three young men with shaven heads and tattoos

playing in the pool with two bare-breasted girls.

J-J

went over to the

impressive stereo and pressed a button. The music whined to a blessed halt.

Bruno could see no sign of Richard Gelletreau at the table or in the pool.

‘Mademoiselle Courtemine?’

J-J

asked. Silence. He repeated her name. The silence

lengthened. ‘Is Mademoiselle Courtemine or the owner of this property present?

This is a police inquiry.’

One of the girls at the table put her hand to her mouth and glanced at the wide

staircase.

J-J

gestured with his head and Isabelle went quickly up the stairs.

‘Seize that,’

J-J

told another detective, gesturing to the bag of grass and

rolling papers on the table. ‘Then get all their names and ID. Bring that local

copper in from the front gate. He should know most of them. What’s his name

again, Bruno?’

‘Quatremer.’

‘Good, now we’ll try again,’ said

J-J

, facing the young people round the table.

‘I’m looking for Richard Gelletreau.’

No response. The girls in the pool had their hands over their breasts. The lads

were looking round, probably considering running for it, Bruno thought, but at

that moment more police came round from the side of the house. Bruno tried to

focus on the faces, to see if he recognised any of the young people. The youths

in the pool looked vaguely familiar, perhaps from the surveillance photos he had

seen. His eyes kept drifting back to the half-naked girls. His own teenage years

had never been like this. If they had been, who knows what strange political

group he might have been ready to join.

‘

J-J

,’ called Isabelle from upstairs. ‘Here.’

J-J

motioned Bruno to come with him. They walked side by side up the wide and

handsome staircase. The landing above was the size of an average living room.

Straight ahead was a corridor with a series of closed doors onto rooms that

would have faced the town. They followed the sound of Isabelle’s voice to a

second wing that must have stretched towards the garden. They walked into a

large room that would have been bright and airy had the curtains been open, but

was now dark but for some low lighting and the flickering of a TV. On the

tangled bed were two young people, hauling themselves from sleep. The girl was

trying to pull the sheet up to cover them. She was wearing a black bra, and a

black peaked cap lay on her pillow. The boy, who was naked, could not move. His

wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts with scarves.

Bruno raised his eyes from the couple on the bed to two posters on the wall. One

was of Jean-Marie Le Pen, leader of the Front National; the other was what

looked like an original cinema placard for the film The Battle of Algiers. Above

the bed various objects hung on the wall, forming a tableau that included

bayonets, daggers and a German Wehrmacht helmet. The boy on the bed turned his

head away from the sudden light and groaned. It was Richard. He looked around,

recognised Bruno, and groaned again.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ the girl spat. ‘Get out.’

‘Check out the TV,

J-J

,’ said Isabelle. ‘Nazi porn.’

And it was. Two men in black uniforms with swastika armbands and SS lapel

flashes were being serviced by two young women, one white and blonde and

evidently willing, one black and in manacles.

J-J

moved very fast as the girl squirmed to the side of the bed. He caught her

wrist in his strong hand and yanked it behind her back as she yelped. He held

her firmly while he looked at the bedside table for which she had been reaching.

A razor blade lay next to a small mirror on which sat some grains of white

powder.

‘You’ve been a naughty girl,’

J-J

said, still holding her firmly. ‘Cocaine.

That’s three years, right there.’ He took a pen from his pocket and poked the

lid of a small box beside the mirror. He shook his head at the pile of small

white pills inside and then looked at the girl, who was now silent. She had