Bruno, Chief Of Police

I saw cans of Fray Bentos – do you know how that got its name?’

Bruno shook his head, but leaned forward, suddenly fascinated by this

conversation. Of course the huge conscript armies would need tinned food. The

First World War in the trenches could probably not have been fought without it.

‘Fray Bentos is a town in Argentina that began exporting meat extract to Europe

in the 1860s, to use up the surplus meat from all the animals that were killed

for the Argentine leather trade. And pretty soon the meat trade was far bigger

than the leather.’

‘Amazing,’ said Bruno. ‘I knew you were a historian of France, but not of food.’

‘It’s how I teach my students about globalisation,’ said Christine. ‘You have to

show them that history means something to their lives, and there’s no easier way

than to talk about the history of food.’

‘I wish I’d had teachers like you. Our history lessons were all kings and queens

and popes and Napoleon’s battles,’ said Bruno. ‘I’d never thought of it like

this.’

‘I agree with all that Christine says about the history,’ Pamela said. ‘But

World War Two and rationing, which continued for nearly ten years after the war,

made everything worse. After depending so long on cheap imported food, Britain

was nearly starved by the German submarine campaign. People were limited to one

egg a week, and hardly any meat or bacon or imported fruits. Even the tradition

of better cooking in restaurants nearly died because there was a very low limit

on how much they could charge for a meal. It took a generation to recover and to

get people travelling again and enjoying foreign food, and to have the money to

go to restaurants and buy cookbooks.’ She lifted the dark bottle off the tray.

‘And now I want you to try this as your digestif instead of cognac. It’s a

Scotch malt whisky, which is to ordinary whisky what a great chateau wine is to

vin ordinaire. This one is called Lagavullin, and it comes from the island where

my grandmother was born, so it has a taste of peat and the sea.’

‘You sip it like cognac?’

‘My father brought me up to sniff it first, a really long sniff, then to take

the tiniest sip and roll it around your mouth until it evaporates, and then take

a deep breath through your mouth so you feel the flavour all down your throat.

Then you take a proper sip.’

‘It feels warm all the way down,’ said Bruno, after taking his deep breath.

‘That’s very good indeed,’ he said, after a long sip. ‘A most unusual smoky

taste, but a very satisfying digestif after a wonderful meal and a great

conversation. I feel that I’ve learned a lot. Thank you both.’

He raised his glass to them, trying to decide which of the two he found the most

attractive. He knew that they’d been teasing a little throughout the evening,

and he might try some teasing in return.

‘So let me sum up,’ he said, ‘ by asking whether I’ve really had English cuisine

this evening?’ Pamela looked slightly disconcerted. ‘I’ve had Scotch malt whisky

and Scotch salmon, wine from Cornwall, French beef and French kidney, French

salad and vegetables and strawberries, and French-style champagne that was made

in England. The only wholly English part of this meal was the cheese. And it was

all wonderfully cooked by an Englishwoman with the very good taste to live in

the Périgord.’

CHAPTER

20

With the taste of the whisky still lingering pleasantly in his mouth, Bruno

cruised to the end of Pamela’s drive. He stopped on the brow of a hill where the

signal would be better, took out his mobile and checked the time. Just after ten

thirty. Not too late. He called Jean-Luc, a brawny man who was a strong

supporter of the rugby club and his best friend among the local cops. A woman’s

voice answered.

‘Francine, it’s Bruno. Are they out tonight?’

‘Hi, Bruno. You’d better take care. Capitaine Duroc has the boys out just about

every night these days. The bastard wants to break the record for drunk-driving

arrests. Hold on, I’ll get Jean-Luc.’

‘Out drinking again, Bruno?’ said his friend, his voice a little blurred with

wine. ‘You ought to set a better example. Yes, the bastard sent the lads out

again. He had me and Vorin on the Périgueux road last night, and he took the

road junction that goes off to Les Eyzies – with young Françoise. I think he

might be a bit sweet on her but she can’t stand the sod. Neither can any of us.

He’s got us on alternate night shifts and we’re all getting fed up with him. I

tell you what. Young Jacques is out on patrol tonight. I’ll call him and see

where he’s stationed and call you back.’

Bruno waited and let his thoughts linger on the two women with whom he’d spent

the evening. Christine was conventionally pretty, a dark-eyed brunette of the

kind he always liked, and her liveliness and quick intelligence made her seem

somehow familiar. Aside from her accent, she could almost be French. But Pamela

was different, handsome rather than pretty, and with that wide and graceful

stride of hers and her upright posture and strong nose, she could only be

English. There was something rather splendid about her, though, he reflected.

Serene and self-confident, she was a woman out of the ordinary, and a very fine

cook. Now what should he cook for them? They had probably had more than enough

Périgord cuisine, and he certainly had, so he could forget the touraine soup and

the foie gras, and the various ways with duck, but he still had some truffles

stored in oil so a risotto with truffles and mushrooms would be interesting. The

two women would be standing gracefully at the counter in his kitchen while he

stirred it, and—

His phone rang, jolting him out of his reverie. ‘Bruno, it’s Jean-Luc. I rang

Jacques and he’s on the bridge. He said Duroc has gone out to the junction at

Les Eyzies again. Apparently he found good pickings there. Where are you? Up

near the cave? Well, you could come back by the bridge and give a wave to

Jacques as you pass, he knows your car. Or you could go around by the water

tower and have a clear run home. Is it just you or are some of the rest of the

lads out tonight?’

‘Just me, Jean-Luc, and thanks. I owe you a beer.’

He took the long way home, down to the narrow bridge and up the ridge to the

water tower, smiling grimly at all the things about St Denis that Duroc would

never know, and wondering if the man would ever learn that the rules were rather

different in rural France. It was interesting to hear that he had his eye on

young Françoise, a plumpish blonde from Alsace with a sweet face and generous

hips, who was said to have a small tattoo on her rump. It was listed in her

personal file as an identifying mark, according to Jean-Luc. There were a series

of private bets among the other gendarmes over what it might be; a spider or a

cross, a heart or a boyfriend’s name. Bruno’s bet was a cockerel, the symbol of

France. Nobody had yet claimed the prize and Bruno hoped it would not be Duroc

who succeeded in uncovering Françoise and her secret, although perhaps an affair

was just what Duroc needed. But the man went so carefully by the book that he