The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

café tucked into the alley behind the
Mairie
, he had become one of the main sources of the town’s gossip. Along with his excellent croissants and powerful coffee, it was part of his stock in trade. ‘Albert was in earlier. Said it was a really vicious killing, the guy’s head smashed to bits.’
    All along the crowded counter of the café conversation stilled as customers waited to hear what new light Bruno might shed on the case. He knew them all well, local shopkeepers and office workers, people who worked at the
Mairie
. Whatever he said would flash around town within minutes and probably feature on the next news bulletin of Radio Périgord. And it would certainly be swiftly conveyed to Philippe Delaron, who spent much more time on his part-time role as
Sud Ouest
correspondent than he did running the family camera shop.
    ‘Nobody’s been arrested,’ Bruno said, and took a bite of croissant. He could hear himself chewing, so attentive was thesilence along the bar. ‘We were just talking to the guy who found the body and called the emergency service.’
    ‘That’s the Parisian?’ Fauquet persisted. ‘
Gai comme un phoque
, Albert reckoned. He was in here just now.’
    How had the French dreamed up the phrase ‘gay as a seal’ to describe a homosexual, Bruno wondered. Whatever did seals have to do with it? He concentrated on his croissant.
    ‘Takes one to know one,’ said Fauquet with an unconvincing laugh. ‘I always wondered about Albert.’
    Bruno shook his head in mock despair. Happily married for thirty years to a woman who had borne him four children, there was nothing seal-like about Albert. Bruno finished his coffee, put a two-euro coin on the counter with some change, said ‘
Bonne journée
’ to the crowded café and climbed into his van for the drive to Crimson’s house. He was aware of a dryness in his mouth as he anticipated the reunion with Isabelle.
    She was not alone. There was a large white unmarked van parked at the rear of the house and two men in blue overalls were taking in some electronic equipment. Isabelle was prowling the terrace. She still had a slight limp and was puffing at a cigarette as she argued with somebody over a mobile phone. As usual, she was wearing black slacks and a polo neck, flat shoes and a long black raincoat. A turquoise silk scarf worn as a belt provided a splash of colour. Her skin was bronzed from her holiday.
    Part of him wanted to rush to her, take her in his arms and relive those moments when he’d felt closer to her than to any other human being. But another part of him felt – he groped for the right word – not dispassionate so much as detached, observing himself as he watched her, seeing her vulnerabilityas she changed her step to avoid an empty floral urn. Her profile came into view, the slim neck, the hair so short she looked boyish. Then she spun on her heel, chin out and head tilted high, imperious and hard. In that moment, he had a sense of how she would look in another twenty years, her ambition fulfilled and her heart cold, a woman at ease with power. He felt a moment of sadness that she might succeed in making a brilliant career and become one of the handful of people who ran the French state, returning each evening to a magnificent but empty apartment.
    Her eyes widened in recognition as she spotted him. Did they soften? Bruno wasn’t sure. She waved the cigarette at him in cursory greeting, turned and resumed her verbal duel. Bruno sighed, shrugged and began to examine the van, its rear doors open and revealing racks of electronic equipment. Behind it was a new-looking Peugeot with a rental sticker, doubtless Isabelle’s.
    ‘What’s this?’ he asked one of the men. He was carrying what looked like a very fat laptop.
    ‘Ask her,’ came the surly reply, with a glance toward Isabelle.
    ‘They’re with me,’ she called to Bruno. ‘He’s got a secure phone line in there and we’re checking to see if it’s been compromised.’ She returned to her call.
    Bruno considered this. France Télécom had told him the line had gone down at 1 p.m. two days earlier. But would there not have been some kind of automatic alert on a special secure line? Why would Isabelle lie to him, unless she had been ordered to take this opportunity to make a different kind of search, or perhaps to install some microphones? Yet if they were going to plant bugs in the house of a retired British spychief they could have done it at any time. And