The Crowded Grave

briefcase to pull out a file with a sheaf of documents inside. “All bureaucracies work the same way,” she went on, pointing to the stamp of the French Ministry of the Interior at the top right-hand corner of her own papers, with spaces for a date and different departmental codes to be written in.
    “This is a document that has been filed in some kind of registry, possibly official or state controlled. Then somebody took it out of the files and photocopied it while concealing the registry mark that could identify it, and maybe identify whoever had taken it out.”
    She turned the paper over and looked at a small scrawl of numbers on the back, in a different handwriting.
    “Could be a phone number,” she said. Bruno reached for his mobile but she shook her head. “Your number might be known. This one’s anonymous,” she said, picking up a phone from the folding table. She punched in the number and waited.
    “It’s an answering machine in Spanish,” she said. “Asked me to leave a message.” She picked up another phone, gave her name and ID code and asked for a subscriber check on the number. Bruno was studying the map.
    “There’s no writing on it apart from those initials for St. Denis and Les Eyzies. It could come from anywhere,” Bruno said. “French or Spanish or even Russian.”
    “Russians would use their own alphabet,” said Isabelle. “If we assume that Todor was killed by the GAL, then this map could come from the GAL files, or at least from some Spanish file, maybe Ministry of the Interior or police intelligence.”
    “Do we bring Carlos into this?”
    “I’m not sure,” she said thoughtfully. “I’d better fax this to the brigadier and check with him.” She looked at her watch. “He’s going to be here later today and may be on the way. We’ll just keep this to ourselves until he gets here. He can decide how much of this we want to share.”
    “I’ll copy those coordinates and go out to the site and check them,” Bruno said. He paused. “Does this mean that you don’t altogether trust Carlos?”
    “I don’t altogether trust anyone, Bruno. Except maybe the brigadier and, on a good day, you—unless the interests of St. Denis are concerned.” She smiled as she said it, a smile that grew wider as she saw his eyes dart across to the corner where he had put Carlos’s flowers.
    “Now I see why you want to know if I trust Carlos,” she said,teasing him. “Bruno, I do believe you’re getting jealous. And now you’re blushing. That’s not something I’ve seen before.”
    He shook his head, half laughing, half embarrassed, not sure what to say, confused further by the presence in the room of the enormous bed. He was tempted to scoop her up in his arms and carry her to it, close the big damask curtains and forget about the world. “You know I still care for you,” he said.
    “And I for you,” she said, suddenly switching her mood in a way that had always disconcerted Bruno. “So why are you walking around me on eggshells as if you daren’t approach? Is it because of Pamela?”
    “Partly, not entirely. In fact, Pamela had to go home. Her mother had a stroke. I’m waiting for news. Maybe it’s that you’re wounded,” he said. Of course he walked on eggshells around her; he no longer knew the rules of engagement, couldn’t read the signals. Were they ex-lovers and still friends? Or colleagues thrown together by duty who had to forget that they had once shared a bed? Or should Bruno act on the question that sometimes kept him awake at night, the suspicion that Isabelle was the love of his life? He thrust the thought aside; the last time a woman had consumed him so deeply, she had been dead within the year in the snowbound hills around Sarajevo.
    Isabelle was eyeing him coolly, waiting for him to say something else. He floundered for words. “You shouldn’t be back on duty, not yet, not while you still need that cane.”
    “I’m not,” she snapped. “I’m deskbound, light duties only. And I’m not destroyed by this, Bruno. I’m making a full recovery, even if I do have a titanium brace in my thigh.
Merde
, I thought you of all people would be able to understand this. You’ve been shot too. It didn’t stop you from being a man, and a bullet hole in my leg doesn’t stop me from being a woman, so why don’t you treat me like one?”
    “I’d like nothing better than to touch you, Isabelle. You know that.” He took her hand, pushing back the guilty