Black Diamond

the brigadier said. “There were rumors among the old
barbouzes
that Hercule was up to something like this. He’d been asking questions of some old comrades. I guess Pons heard those rumors too.”
    “Are you going to release it for publication?” Bruno asked.
    “That’s not my decision, and there’s a lot of other stuff in there that we wouldn’t want to see made public. But if you subpoena parts of the manuscript for evidence in a murder trial, the memoirs would have to be made available to the court. Just remember you didn’t hear that from me.”
    “But if Pons is dead, there’ll be no murder trial.”
    “He’s dead?” asked the brigadier. “Are you sure?”
    “No, but we think he died in the fire, in bed with a little Chinese girl,” said Bruno.
    “There will be a murder trial,” said J-J. “That young Chinese thug you arrested in Bordeaux gave us a DNA match on the tissues and the cigarettes in the abandoned Mercedes that was at the murder scene.”
    There was one more question Bruno had to ask before the others came back into the room. “How’s Isabelle?”
    “Still not awake when we left, but the doctors say she’ll be as good as new. They have to put a titanium brace onto her thighbone. After a few months, she won’t know it’s there, but she’s in for a long convalescent leave.”
    “Can the others come back in now?” Bruno asked. The brigadier nodded, and J-J opened the door and beckoned them in.
    “Here,” said the brigadier, handing Bruno a new mobile phone. “It’s got your old number, and you’ve got dozens of messages already, half of them from the media.”
    “The other half are from me, calling to apologize,” said Pamela. She didn’t look in the least apologetic, perhaps a little embarrassed. Mainly she looked her usual self, and Bruno felt a rush of affection.
    “No need,” said Bruno, smiling at her. “Pons fooled all of us. I didn’t even know he was running a child brothel. And I agreed with a lot of what he said that night at the public meeting.”
    “Have you any idea how funny you look in those filthy shorts?” she asked him.
    “I don’t think he cares,” said Fabiola, and Bruno tried to work out which of the two meanings of the phrase Fabiola had meant. One of them was wrong. He still cared for Pamela. But he also knew that as soon as he could he’d be heading for Bordeaux to visit Isabelle.
    “Could you fetch Gigi for me from your car, please?” he asked the mayor. His room was so crowded that a dog wouldn’t make much difference. The mayor squeezed his way out.
    “Do you want to come with me to Pons’s place?” Bruno asked J-J and the brigadier.
    “I can’t,” said the brigadier. “The helicopter is taking me to Marseilles, where we’ll have the truce meeting. Vien sends you his regards, and Bao Le says he’ll let you know if they learn anything about the girl. The Vinhs will be home in St. Denis tomorrow and back in the market next week.”
    “I’ll gladly come with you,” said J-J. “But I don’t think there’s much hurry.”
    Then came the sound of running paws and Gigi darted into the room and made a flying leap to join Bruno on his bed.
    “For God’s sake,” said Fabiola, with an exasperated laugh. “This is supposed to be a hospital.”
    She and Pamela sat down beside Bruno on the bed and joined him in stroking Gigi’s long velvet ears.
    “I’ll be off,” said the brigadier. “My offer still stands, Bruno. I want you on my team. Think about it.”
    Raising his face to escape Gigi’s tongue, Bruno looked around the room at his friends, the mayor and the baron and J-J, Pamela and Fabiola. Through the window behind them the wintry sun gilded the old stone of the
mairie
and glinted from the bronze eagle atop the war memorial.
    “I don’t think I could leave this,” Bruno said. “Besides, I’ve got the rugby club New Year’s dance to arrange, and Stéphane expects me at the farm to help kill the pig next month. I’ve still got to sort out the contracts for the town fireworks on
le quatorze juillet
, and then there are the children who are expecting me to carry on teaching them to play tennis. On top of that, I came across this recipe I want to try, called
truffes cendrillon
, little pies with foie gras topped with truffle and baked in cinders. I was thinking of inviting you all to a Christmas dinner at my place with Florence and her children to welcome them to St. Denis.”
    “Dear Bruno,” said Pamela,