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understand me?’

‘You mean the car that’s parked in front of the bank? The silver Laguna?’ Joe

said, in a deep and rasping voice that came from decades of Gauloises and the

rough wine he made himself. ‘Well, it’s being taken care of. Don’t you worry

yourself, petit Bruno. The Gestapo can walk home today. Like last time.’

‘Joe, this is going to get people into trouble,’ Bruno said urgently, although

he knew that he might as well argue with a brick wall. How the devil did Joe

know about this already? He must have been in Ivan’s café when Jeanne was

showing the photos around. And he had probably heard about the car from

Marie-Hélčne in the bank, since she was married to his nephew.

‘This could bring real trouble for us if we’re not careful,’ Bruno went on. ‘So

don’t do anything that would force me to take action.’

He closed his phone with a snap. Scanning the people coming across the bridge,

most of whom he knew, he kept watch for the inspectors. Then from the corner of

his eye he saw a familiar car, a battered old Renault Twingo that the local

gendarmes used when out of uniform, being driven by the new Capitaine he had not

yet had time to get to know. From Normandy, they said, a dour and skinny type

called Duroc who did everything by the book. Suddenly an alert went off in

Bruno’s mind and he called Joe again.

‘Stop everything now. They must be expecting more trouble after last time. That

new gendarme chief has just gone by in plain clothes, and they may have arranged

for their car to be staked out. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’

‘Merde,’ said Joe. ‘We should have thought of that but we may be too late. I

told Karim in the bar and he said he’d take care of it. I’ll try and call him

off.’

Bruno rang the Café des Sports, run by Karim and his wife, Rashida, very pretty

though heavily pregnant. Rachida told him Karim had left the café already and

she didn’t think he had his mobile with him. Putain, thought Bruno. He started

walking briskly across the narrow bridge, trying to get to the parking lot in

front of the bank before Karim got into trouble.

He had known Karim since he first arrived in the town over a decade ago as a

hulking and sullen Arab teenager, ready to fight any young Frenchman who dared

take him on. Bruno had seen the type before, and had slowly taught Karim that he

was enough of an athlete to take out his resentments on the rugby field. With

rugby lessons twice a week and a match each Saturday, and tennis in the summer,

Bruno had taught the lad to stay out of trouble. He got Karim onto the school

team, then onto the local rugby team, and finally into a league big enough for

him to make the money that enabled the giant young man to marry his Rashida and

buy the café. Bruno had made a speech at their wedding. Putain, putain, putain

If Karim got into trouble over this it could turn very nasty. The inspectors

would get their boss to put pressure on the Prefect, who would then put pressure

on the Police Nationale, or maybe they would even get on to the Ministry of

Defence and bring in the gendarmes who were supposed to deal with rural crime.

If they leant on Karim and Rashida to start talking, there was no telling where

it might end. Criminal damage to state property would mean an end to Karim’s

licence to sell tobacco, and the end of his café. He might not talk, but Rashida

would be thinking of the baby and she might crack. That would lead them to old

Joe and to the rest of the rugby team, and before you knew it the whole network

of the quiet and peaceful town of St Denis would face charges and start to

unravel. Bruno couldn’t have that.

Bruno carefully slowed his pace as he turned the corner by the Commune notice

board and past the war memorial into the ranks of cars that were drawn up like

so many multi-coloured soldiers in front of the Crédit Agricole. He looked for

the gendarme Twingo and then saw Duroc standing in the usual line in front of

the bank’s cash machine. Two places behind him was the looming figure of Karim,

chatting pleasantly to Colette from the dry cleaning shop. Bruno closed his eyes

in relief, and strode on towards the burly North African.

‘Karim,’ he said, and swiftly added ‘Bonjour, Colette,’ kissing her cheeks,

before turning back to Karim, saying, ‘I need to talk to you about the match

schedule for Sunday’s game. Just a very little moment, it won’t take long.’ He

grabbed him by the elbow, made his farewells to Colette, nodded at Duroc, and

steered his reluctant quarry back to the bridge.

‘I came to warn you. I think they may have the car staked out, maybe even tipped

off the gendarmerie,’ Bruno said. Karim stopped, and his face broke into a

delighted smile.

‘I thought of that myself, Bruno, then I saw that new gendarme standing in line

for cash, but his eyes kept moving everywhere so I waited behind him. Anyway,

it’s done.’

‘You did the tyres with Duroc standing there!?’

‘Not at all.’ Karim grinned. ‘I told my nephew to take care of it with the other

kids. They crept up and jammed a potato into the exhaust pipe while I was

chatting to Colette and Duroc. That car won’t make ten kilometres before the

engine seizes.’

CHAPTER 3

As the siren that sounded noon began its soaring whine over the town, Bruno

stood to attention before the Mairie and wondered if this had been the same

sound that had signalled the coming of the Germans. Images of ancient newsreels

came to mind: diving Stukas, people dashing for aid raid shelters, the

victorious Wehrmacht marching through the Arc de Triomphe in 1940 to stamp their

jackboots on the Champs-Elysées and launch the conquest of Paris. Well, he

thought, this was the day of revenge, the eighth of May, when France celebrated

her eventual victory, and although some said it was old-fashioned and unfriendly