to be his idea. He has asked for my support with Rollo to get the school

children marching against racial hatred and extremism. What do you think?’

Bruno weighed the issue quickly, calculating how many people might be involved

and what the route might be, and wondering whether he would have to block the

road. In the back of his mind, he remembered the conversation he had just had in

the market with Stéphane and Raoul. A march of solidarity might not be

altogether popular given the current mood of the town.

‘We certainly can’t stop it, so we may have to go along with it and keep it as

low-key as possible,’ he said.

‘Don’t tell me you don’t know Montsouris and his wife and how they operate?

They’ll call all the newspapers and TV and get some of the trade unions involved

– all the publicity that we don’t need.’

‘Well, I think it might be better if we are known as a town that stands up for

racial harmony than if we get stuck with the label of a centre of race hatred,’

said Bruno. ‘You know what the Americans say: if they give you lemons, make

lemonade. And if we have to have such a march, it might be better that it takes

place with you at the head and the moderates, rather than leave it to the red

flags.’

‘You could be right.’ The Mayor was grudging.

‘If you take charge, Sir, and set the route, perhaps we could limit it? Just

make it from the Mairie to the war memorial, because old Hamid was a veteran and

a war hero,’ said Bruno, suddenly seeing a way through this potential political

mess. ‘You remember I told you he won the Croix de Guerre, so you could make it

a patriotic march, nothing to do with Arabs and the extreme right, but the town

commemorating the tragic death of a brave soldier of France.’ He paused, then

added quietly, ‘It has the merit of being true.’

‘You’re becoming quite a canny politician.’ In the Mayor’s terms, if not in

Bruno’s, this was a compliment.

‘It must be your influence, Sir,’ he said, and they smiled at one another with

genuine affection. The Mayor raised his glass and they drank.

Suddenly their calm mood was shattered by the braying sound of the Gendarmerie

van. The sound grew, and then stayed, as if right beneath the window. The two

men looked at each other and moved as one towards the window and saw blue

uniforms and grey suits scrambling amid the market stalls. They were closing in

upon an agile boy who was darting between them and ducking beneath the stalls,

delaying the inevitable moment of his capture.

‘Merde,’ said Bruno. ‘That’s Karim’s nephew.’ And he dashed for the stairs.

By the time Bruno reached the covered market, the boy had been caught and his

arm was held firmly by a self-congratulatory Captain Duroc. The two men in grey

suits, whose faces Bruno recognised, were the hygiene inspectors from Brussels,

civil servants who should never have been working on a Saturday. One of them

held a large potato above his head in triumph.

‘This is the rascal,’ declared the other grey suit. ‘We caught him red-handed.’

‘And this is the potato, just like the one he used on our car on Tuesday,’ piped

up the one holding it.

‘Leave this to me, gentlemen,’ said Duroc very loudly, and glanced triumphantly

around at his audience of market people and shoppers who were gathering round to

enjoy the scene. ‘This young devil is going to the cells.’

‘Mon Capitaine, perhaps it would help if I came along,’ said Bruno, surprising

himself with the smoothness of his voice, since he was churning inside with

anger, directed mainly against himself. If only he had thought ahead and made

sure this nonsense of slashing tyres and immobilising cars had been stopped; if

only he had not stayed for that ridiculous self-congratulatory drink with the

Mayor; if only he had remembered to talk to Karim … But of course he couldn’t

raise it with Karim, not with his grandfather just murdered, and now he had to

make sure that Karim’s young nephew didn’t bring down a lot more trouble on

everyone else. Think, Bruno!

‘I can ensure that we inform the parents, mon Capitaine,’ he said. ‘You know the

regulations about minors, and I think I have their number in my phone. You can

take the statements of complaint of these two gentlemen at the Gendarmerie while

I contact the boy’s family.’

Duroc paused, and pursed his lips. ‘Ah, yes. Of course.’ He turned to glower at

the two civil servants. ‘You know how to find the Gendarmerie?’

‘What about my eggs?’ shrilled old Mother Vignier, pointing to the mess of

shells and yolks on the ground beside her overturned stall. ‘Who’s going to pay

for that?’

One of the inspectors bent down to retrieve a shell, and came up with a nasty

look of triumph.

‘No date stamp on this egg, Madame. You know it’s strictly against the

regulations? Such eggs may be consumed for private use but it is an offence

under the Food Hygiene law to sell them for gain.’ He turned to Captain Duroc.

‘We have here another offence in this market, officer.’

‘Well, you had better find a witness that these eggs were being sold,’ said

Bruno. ‘Madame Vignier is known for her generosity, and makes a regular donation

of her surplus eggs to the poor. And if she has any left over after the Saturday

market, she gives them to the church. Is that not so, Madame?’ he said

courteously, turning to the old hag who was staring at him, her mouth agape. But

her brain moved fast enough for her to nod assent.

Everybody knew the old woman was poor as a church mouse since her husband drank

the farm away. She bought the cheapest eggs at the local supermarket, scraped

off the date stamps, rolled them in straw and chicken-shit and sold them to

tourists as farm-laid for a euro a piece. No local ever bought anything from her

except her eau de vie since her one useful legacy from her drunk of a husband

had been his ancestral right to eight litres a year – and she naturally made a

very great deal more than that.

‘Shall I summon the local priest to testify to Madame Vignier’s good character?’

Bruno went on. ‘You may not yet have had the time to make the acquaintance of

our learned Father Sentout, a very important man of the church who is soon, I

gather, to be made a Monsignor.’

‘A Monsignor?’ said Duroc suspiciously, as if he had never heard the word.

‘No, no,’ said the inspector. ‘We need not bother the good Father with this

minor matter of the eggs. The lady may go. We are only concerned with this boy

and his damage to state property, namely, our automobile.’

‘You saw him damage your car today?’ enquired Bruno politely. He was damned if

these two grey men were going to get away with this.

‘Not exactly,’ said the inspector. ‘But we saw him hanging around our car and we

called the gendarmes, and when we pounced he had a potato in his hand.’

‘Forgive me, but this is a vegetable market with hundreds of potatoes on sale.

What’s so unusual about a boy holding a potato?’

‘He used a potato to immobilise our car at the Tuesday market. That’s what. The

engine seized up on the road to Périgueux.’

‘Somebody threw a potato at your car. Was the windcreen broken?’ Bruno was

beginning to enjoy this.

‘No, no. The potato was stuffed into the exhaust pipe to block the escaping

gases, and the engine died. It was quite badly damaged and we had to wait for

two hours for a breakdown truck.’

‘Did you see this boy do this on Tuesday?’

‘Not exactly, but Capitaine Duroc told us when we complained that he thought it