The Coldest Case, Martin Walker [famous ebook reader txt] 📗

in a voice that silenced the other conversations around the table and reminded Bruno that Gilles still wrote for Paris Match from time to time. ‘Is this to do with that Cold War conference in Washington you attended?’

Jack laid down his knife and fork, looked up at the ceiling and said, almost with a groan, ‘Now we have the media involved.’

‘About time, too!’ said Jacqueline, tapping the table for emphasis. ‘I think I should write an op-ed for Le Monde about it.’ She looked around the table almost fiercely before going on. ‘The Americans have been sitting on a vast trove of Stasi documents, listing all the East German agents around the world, and they’ve shared the German sections with the Germans and the British sections with the British. But France is still deemed too untrustworthy for the CIA to let us know how badly we may have been penetrated by East German intelligence.’

‘I see your point but it’s all a long time ago,’ said the Mayor.

‘In historical terms, and in terms of official careers, it is uncomfortably short,’ Jacqueline replied. ‘Imagine young French students, recruited when they were in their twenties at Sciences-Po or some other springboard into government. They would now be in their fifties, in senior positions with another decade or so in office. Imagine the damage they could do.’

‘But the Stasi has been extinct for thirty years,’ said Fabiola. ‘Who would these officials be working for now?’

‘The Stasi shared everything with the KGB,’ Jacqueline replied, more calmly this time. ‘Moscow would be in a position to force those people to work for them. And so would the Americans, so long as we in France don’t have the documentation to expose them.’

‘Sounds like a hell of a good story,’ said Gilles. ‘And I see why you might want to run this in Le Monde but you’d get a far bigger audience if we ran this in Paris Match.’

As silence fell, Bruno filled everyone’s glasses with the bottle from David Fourtout, modestly titled Le Vin. He asked the Baron what he thought of it, hoping that the conversation would drift off into new directions. Florence, who was sitting like Miranda at the end of the table closest to their children, came in with a question.

‘Why don’t the Americans trust France?’

Jacqueline looked at Crimson, Bruno looked at the Mayor, Pamela looked at Gilles and finally the Baron spoke.

‘As a life-long Gaullist, I always appreciated his insistence on an independent foreign policy that put French interests first,’ he said. ‘De Gaulle did so during World War Two, and after it, and this sometimes rubbed up our British and American friends the wrong way. Bruno, what’s that story about Lyndon Johnson’s reaction when he was told that de Gaulle was pulling out of NATO and insisted that all American troops leave French soil?’

‘Johnson told his Secretary of State Dean Rusk to ask de Gaulle if that included the Americans in the Normandy cemeteries who died to liberate France.’ Bruno paused a moment and looked around the table. ‘Much as I admire de Gaulle, I have to say I feel a little ashamed each time I think of that question.’

6

Bruno awoke just before six when his cockerel announced the new day, and since he’d drifted off to sleep thinking of Balzac’s pups, he jumped out of bed to check his emails. Just before the news headlines sent automatically from Sud Ouest and the radio news from France Inter in his inbox, there was mail from Claire Mornier at the kennels, timed at three in the morning.

Félicitations à Papa Balzac. Nine beautiful pups born well; five little Dianes de Poitiers and four Balzacs.

Bruno laughed, jumped up, then bent down to caress his dog and tell him what a wonderful father he’d be and with so many offspring to his name. He swigged some orange juice from the fridge, donned his tracksuit and running shoes and led Balzac out onto the familiar trail through the woods. The birds were far too happy with their new day to interrupt their singing for a lonely runner, and the harmonious range of their various songs reinforced Bruno’s sudden conviction that the world was full of little miracles and that he couldn’t wait to see its latest gift.

Twenty minutes later, back at home, he turned on the radio and emailed Claire to thank her for the news, and ask whether it would be convenient for him to come and see the puppies at around eleven. He jumped into the shower, shaved, put a fresh egg on to boil and made coffee before he dressed in his summer uniform. Back in the kitchen, he refilled Balzac’s water bowl, sliced the remains of yesterday’s baguette and put the pieces into the toaster. Then he went outside to feed his chickens, collect six fresh eggs and replenish their water.

His egg, coffee and toasted baguette ready, he shared the latter with Balzac and began to plan his day. He could be at his desk in St Denis before seven thirty, deal with the mail and paperwork, and escort the mothers and toddlers across the road to the maternelle school just before eight. He’d have plenty of time to patrol the town and show his face at the Mairie before leaving for the kennels at around ten, first dropping off Balzac at the riding school. He found a used carton for the six fresh eggs and grabbed a jar of his home-made pâté. He also took a sack of his own recipe dog biscuits, all this intended as gifts for Claire. He set off for town in his ancient Land Rover: it wouldn’t be right to use his official police van for a personal trip to the kennels.

During the short drive into town he thought about the Mayor and how to offer him one of Balzac’s pups without making him feel he should pay for what Bruno intended as a gift. Best to be as straightforward as possible, he thought.