The Resistance Man (Bruno Chief of Police 6)

and given it to him to raise? He’d have found nurses, babysitters, taken it to the crèche and the infants’ school, taught it to fish and to cook, to know the woods and the ways of dogs and horses. Why had she never even given him the chance to make that suggestion? Did not a father have rights over the future, over the life and death of his child? Isabelle understood this; it was why she herself had admitted that what she had done was unforgivable.
    No, he understood that Isabelle must have thought this through. She would be aware of the physical changes that would come as the pregnancy progressed. And she would understand the impact on her psyche as the hormonal shifts brought forth the maternal instincts that would wrench at her whole being when it came to part with her child. Even if she gave the child to Bruno and returned to Paris or to Holland to resume her career, there would have been the guilt as her child grew up without her. She must have looked ahead to desperate Christmases and birthdays, brief reunions and heart-rending farewells, and decided against that course. Unlike him, she was trapped by the iron laws of biology.
    He was suddenly aware that tears were running down his face and onto Balzac and that a man had come out of the
gîte
ahead and was staring curiously at him. He put on his cap andclimbed out of the vehicle so that the tourist could see his uniform, and waved.
    ‘
Tout va bien?
’ he called. ‘All OK?’
    The Dutchman nodded and waved back. Bruno returned to his seat, noticed that the engine was still running, turned his car and drove away, heading automatically to St Denis but not sure if he was in any mood to go home and spend the evening alone.
    He was saved by a phone call. He glanced at the screen and saw it was Florence calling, so he pulled in to the side of the road to answer.
    ‘Bruno, I’m with Monsieur Crimson and he wants to invite us both to dinner if you are free. I have a babysitter. Here, he wants to talk to you.’
    ‘Bruno,’ came the familiar cheery voice. ‘I just got a call from the Vieux Logis, they have a cancellation and can do me a table for three in an hour. Can you join us? I want the three of us to put our heads together over an idea I’ve had.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you and I’ll see you there in an hour,’ Bruno said. ‘I just need to go home and change and look after the dog then I’ll head straight for Trémolat.’
    ‘Bring your puppy. The waiters will love spoiling him. See you there.’
    *
    They sat in the garden, beneath the plane trees whose leaves seemed almost to be growing as Bruno watched, surging with the energy of a Périgord springtime that was about to burst into summer. Whether indoors in winter or outside as the warmth came, it was the restaurant that Bruno would choose if it were to be the last meal of his life. He could only affordto dine here rarely, but always ordered the same
menu du marché
; whatever the chef had managed to acquire that day and assemble into a wonderfully balanced meal.
    There were always little
amuse-bouches
to begin, baby pizzas the size of eggcups or a morsel of
boudin noir
stuffed into a fig or something equally inventive. Then the meal took its usual course, a
crème brûlée
of foie gras or a chilled soup, and then some confection of fish, sometimes a ceviche of raw fish cooked in the acid of some exotic fruit rather than the usual lime juice. The meat could be rabbit or a small noix of lamb, veal or venison, whatever the chef had to hand, but always with perfectly cooked vegetables. That was the difference between his own efforts and the meal of a professional chef, Bruno thought, the blending and balance of dishes and the arrival of each component at just the right moment.
    This evening’s pleasure was enhanced by the sight of Florence, seated between himself and Crimson, in a simply cut linen dress of pale blue which brought out the colour in her grey eyes. Her hair, which had been lifeless and dry when he had first met her at the truffle market in Ste Alvère, now shone with life and had been shaped to bring out her fine bones and slim neck. She looked around the gardens and eyed the ordered shapes of the topiary, the obelisks and spheres, with cool interest rather than open curiosity, as if she were accustomed to dine at a place such as this.
    ‘This dinner seems small thanks for your efforts in recovering my rugs and paintings, Bruno, and for your remarkable skills with a computer,