The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

said.
    ‘We’ve got the GPS address. See you there early tomorrow.’ And she had rung off, leaving him to speculate what she had meant by ‘We’ as he allowed Hector to pick up the pace and canter after the two women. Hector quickly narrowed the gap, treating Bruno to the delightful sight of his two friends bouncing in their saddles. Pamela looked especially magnificent, with her trim waist and that red-bronze hair flaring out behind like a fox’s tail.
    Hearing the approach of his horse’s hoofs, Fabiola glanced back, waved, and pushed her mare to a canter and then all three of them launched into a gallop along the lower slope of the ridge. Bruno heard Pamela whooping with joy as she rounded the edge of the woods and sent rabbits scurrying and a flock of crows exploding noisily from the trees. Balzac gave one of his eager little barks, just deep enough to hold the promise of the full-throated bay of a mature hound. For the first time that day, Bruno felt at ease with the world.
    His mood continued through the soothing chore of rubbing down and feeding the horses and the ceremony of Pamela’s return and the gifts she had brought. There was a bottle of Lagavulin for him, the magnificent scotch whisky that he had first tasted at Pamela’s table, a cashmere sweater for Fabiolaand food for them all. She had picked up a leg of Scottish lamb, a whole smoked salmon and some Lanark Blue cheese made of ewe’s milk that could only be found in Scotland. The lamb had been roasting in the oven since Pamela’s return and the rich, luscious smell pervaded the kitchen.
    Fabiola set the table and then went into the garden to pick the early strawberries and the first of the
haricots verts
. Bruno opened the wine he had brought, two treasures selected from his cellar to go with the food he was sure Pamela would be bringing. For the smoked salmon, he’d brought a Bergerac white from Château de la Vieille Bergerie. For the lamb, he had sacrificed one of his last remaining bottles of the Grand Millésime 2005 from Château de Tiregand. The wines of Bergerac, he believed, were one of France’s better-kept secrets. While half of him looked forward to the day when they took their place alongside the great vintages of Bordeaux, he also feared that he’d be less and less able to afford them.
    The wines ready and the glasses polished, Bruno went out to the garden to dig up some potatoes. Back in the kitchen he washed and peeled them as Fabiola beside him topped and tailed the beans and Pamela began slicing the salmon at the big round kitchen table. Glancing up from the sink, Bruno could see Pamela’s swimming pool and a corner of her grass tennis court, whose lumps and dips persistently frustrated his attempts to roll them smooth. The vivid green of late spring covered the slope that rose to the woods and the ridge that looked down on St Denis.
    ‘Shall I collect some mint?’ he asked. Pamela had introduced him and Fabiola to the British custom of eating mint saucewith lamb. ‘Not today,’ she replied. ‘We’re trying something different, something a little magical.’
    She laid the slices of salmon onto the plates, black pepper and fresh lemons beside them, and began to slice the big round loaf of Meyrals bread she had bought on the way back from Bergerac airport. Then she took from her bag a small dark jar and chanted in theatrical tones: ‘Rowan tree and red thread, keep all witches deep in dread.’
    ‘My mother used to say that every time we had rowan jelly,’ she said. ‘The rowan tree is meant to be good magic, you find it often in churchyards. We used to bring a bough of rowan indoors on Good Friday to keep away witches and the dark forces. And my father liked to squeeze a little rowan juice into his gin and tonic. Made into jelly, it goes well with lamb, so I brought some for you to try.’
    The potatoes and the haricots were bubbling in their saucepans as Pamela put a meat thermometer into the lamb and pronounced it done. She left it on the stove top to rest, took off her apron and ushered them to table.
    ‘Welcome home,’ said Bruno, pouring out the white wine.
    ‘And welcome to you both,’ she said, clinking the glasses and giving the good news that her mother’s estate was now settled and her financial future looked reasonably secure. Her worst fears had not been realized; her mother had not left everything to the Battersea Dogs’ Home or some charity that rescued old donkeys. She would be able to