Children of War Read Free

year it’s not a bit of rain but the possibility of hail that worries me. I’ve seen whole vineyards flattened.’
    Bruno nodded. In the storms that came around the equinox, in March and September, he’d known hailstones the size of golf balls, big enough to break roof tiles and demolish greenhouses and coming down so thickly they lay ankle-deep on the roads. He declined Julien’s offer of a glass of wine but accepted a cup of freshly pressed grape juice, warm and sticky. He rinsed his hands and left for the
Mairie
. French schools had reopenedafter the summer and the rush of tourists had gone, but there were still British families and older Dutch and German couples enjoying the September sun as they breakfasted on Fauquet’s terrace and watched the river flow beneath the old stone bridge. Yogurt and honey were a fine mixture but not what Bruno thought of as breakfast, so he stopped at Fauquet’s for a coffee and croissant.
    ‘Albert was in just now, told us about the murder,’ said Fauquet, leaning over the bar with the conspiratorial air he liked to assume when pumping Bruno for information. ‘Terrible sight, he said it was. Legs all burned away. Do you know who it was?’
    ‘There’ll be a statement later today from the
Police Nationale
in Périgueux,’ Bruno told him. ‘They’re in charge now. I just went to secure the scene until they arrived.’
    ‘Philippe was here when Albert came in. He’s gone up there now, said he’d be taking photos of the police at work,’ Fauquet went on, handing Bruno his espresso. ‘He was asking if you’d been in.’
    As he bit into his croissant and took his first sip of coffee, relishing the way the two tastes seemed made for one another, Bruno resigned himself to being pestered by Philippe Delaron. A cheerful young man, Philippe ran the town’s camera shop, with a lucrative sideline in taking photos for
Sud Ouest
, the regional newspaper. A huge family of siblings and cousins gave him contacts in every walk of the town’s life. Philippe often knew as much about local developments as Bruno, but tended to see them in a far more sensational light. Bruno helped Philippe when he could and told him frankly when he couldn’t. They had few qualms about using each other for their own ends, which made for a reasonable if somewhat wary relationship.
    ‘And Father Sentout wanted to know if there might be a burial,’ Fauquet added. Bruno shrugged but remained silent, knowing that if he said the dead man was probably a Muslim it would be all over town and on Radio Périgord by lunchtime.
    Bruno put a two-euro coin on the counter and reached for the café’s copy of
Sud Ouest
. He began glancing at headlines as he chewed his croissant, a signal that he wanted no more questions. Fauquet shuffled along the bar to talk to a bunch of regular customers, doubtless hinting that he’d learned far more from Bruno than he could ever reveal. Gossip was as much his stock in trade as coffee and croissants.
    The front page carried the latest depressing news about rising unemployment in France and more violence in the Middle East. The inside pages, by contrast, were filled with happy scenes of grapes being picked in the vineyards, photos of the new schoolteachers and of couples celebrating fifty years of marriage. The sports pages covered in great detail all the doings of the local rugby, tennis and hunting clubs. That was why people bought
Sud Ouest
, he thought, for the chance of seeing local news and pictures of people they knew. He closed the paper, made his farewells and left for his office.
    A stack of mail awaited his attention on his desk inside the
Mairie
. He turned on his computer and leafed through the envelopes while it booted up. The ding of an incoming email drew him to the screen. The email address of the sender tugged at his memory; ZigiPara, a name he had not heard for a decade and more. Zigi was a shortened form of Tzigane, or gypsy, which was what the army called anyone of