Bruno, Chief Of Police

any closer,’ he said, smiling as she took his flowers and wine, laid them on the

table, and then took both his hands in hers.

‘That’s one of the best black eyes I’ve ever seen, Bruno,’ she said. ‘And

stitches! I didn’t know you’d have stitches, but I’m not surprised after seeing

that club he hit you with.’ She turned as Christine appeared. ‘Just look at

Bruno’s stitches.’

Christine came up, kissed him on both cheeks and hugged him tightly, bathing him

in her perfume. ‘Thank you, Bruno. Truly, thank you for coming to our rescue.’

He thought of replying that there were other women there to be defended, or that

he would have made a poor job of it but for Isabelle’s presence, or that the

whole damned event was probably his own fault. But none of it seemed quite right

so he remained silent and beamed at them both.

‘We heard you on the radio this afternoon,’ Christine said. ‘And we bought all

the newspapers.’

‘I’m just sorry you got caught up in it, and sorry too that St Denis now has

this dreadful reputation for fighting and racial troubles,’ he said. ‘Some of

the tourist businesses have had cancellations, so I hope it won’t hurt your

rentals this summer, Pamela. I was told there was something in the English

newspapers.’

‘And on the

BBC

,’ said Christine.

‘I should be fine,’ Pamela said, handing him the champagne to open. ‘I don’t use

St Denis in the address of this place, only the postal code. I just give the

name of the house, then the name of the little hamlet of St Thomas et

Brillamont, and then Vallée de la Vézčre. It sounds so much more French to the

English ear.’

‘I didn’t know the house had a name,’ he said, gently tapping the hollow at the

base of the bottle to prevent the foam from overflowing.

‘It didn’t before I christened it Les Peupliers, the poplars.’

‘I think you would call that le marketing,’ laughed Christine as he began

pouring the wine. She too was wearing a long dark skirt and blouse, but her hair

had been freshly curled. They had dressed up for him and he began to regret not

wearing a tie.

‘So perhaps you’d tell me what this English dinner you’ve kindly invited me to

will be?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ said Pamela.

‘A surprise for me as well,’ said Christine. ‘I don’t know what Pamela has

cooked, but she does cook very well. My contribution was to spend the day on the

computer on your behalf, researching into your Arab football team.’

‘I tried the sports editor of le Marseillais today,’ said Bruno. ‘He was very

helpful when he realised I was the same St Denis cop whose picture was in his

newspaper, but there was nothing in their files. He said he would ask some of

the retired journalists if they knew of anything in the old archives. He even

looked through the back issues of those months in 1940, but he said they didn’t

seem to cover amateur leagues.’

‘Well, I have something,’ Christine said. ‘I decided to check the thesis data

base. You know there are all these new graduate studies in areas like sports and

immigration history? Well, they all have to write theses, and I found two that

could be useful. One of them is titled: “Sport and Integration; Immigrant

football leagues in France, 1919– 1940”, and the other is called “Re-making

society in a new land: Algerian social organisations in France”. I couldn’t get

the texts from the internet, but I did get the name of the authors, and I

tracked down the first one. He teaches sport history at the University of

Montpellier, and he thinks he knows about your team. There was an amateur league

in Marseilles called Les Maghrébins, and the team that won the championship in

1940 was called Oran, after the town in Algiers where most of the players came

from. And here is his telephone number. He sounded very nice on the phone.’

‘This is amazing,’ Bruno marvelled. ‘You got all that from your computer?’

‘Yes, and I now have a copy of his thesis all printed out and ready for you. He

emailed it to me.’

‘This is very kind,’ said Bruno. ‘It’ll be my bedtime reading. But for now, the

night is young and our glasses are filled with champagne. I’m in the company of

two beautiful women and I’m looking forward to my English cuisine, so no more

talk of crime and violence. Let’s enjoy the evening.’

‘First tell us what you expect of English cooking,’ said Pamela. ‘Let us know

the worst.’

‘Roast beef that is overcooked, mustard that is too hot, sausages made of bread,

fish covered in soggy thick batter and vegetables that have been cooked so long

they turn to mush. Oh yes, and some strange spiced sauce from a brown bottle to

drown all the tastes. That’s what we had when we all went over to Twickenham for

the rugby international. We all liked the big egg and bacon breakfasts but I

have to say the rest of the food was terrible,’ he said. ‘Except now I hear that

your new national dish is supposed to be some curry from India.’

‘Well, Pamela’s cooking will change your mind,’ said Christine. ‘But first, what

did you think of the champagne?’

‘Excellent.’

‘It’s from England.’ Pamela turned the bottle so that he could see the label.

‘It has beaten French champagnes in blind tastings. The Queen serves it, and

Christine brought me a bottle so it seemed a good time to serve it. I should

confess that the winemaker is a Frenchman from the Champagne district.’

‘I’m still impressed. It reminds me that the English are full of surprises,

especially to us French.’

Bruno felt more than a little uncomfortable, not knowing what to expect of the

evening, or what was expected of him. It was the first time he had dined in an

English home and the first time he had dined alone with two handsome women.

Dining alone with either one would have been easier, on the familiar territory

of flirtation and discovery. Two against one left him feeling not so much

outnumbered as unbalanced, and the ritual jokes about the English and the French

would hardly suffice to carry an entire evening. But it was their occasion, he

told himself, and up to them to guide the proceedings. And the evening had

already more than justified itself, thanks to the news of Christine’s

researches.

The women led him indoors, and Bruno looked around with interest to see what the

English would do with a French farmhouse. He was in a large, long room with a

high ceiling that went all the way to the roof, and a small balustraded gallery

on the upper floor. There was a vast old fireplace at the end of the room, two

sets of French windows, an entire wall filled with books, and half a dozen large

and evidently comfortable armchairs, some of leather and some covered in chintz.

‘I like this room,’ he said. ‘But it wasn’t like this when you arrived here, I

imagine?’

‘No. I had to repair the roof and some of the beams, so I decided to do away

with half the upper floor and make this high ceiling. Come through to the dining

room.’

This was a smaller, more intimate room, painted a colour somewhere between gold

and orange, with a large oval table of dark and ancient-looking wood and eight