Bonnet slid the sunglasses onto his face, nodded to me, and turned to the wheel. I’d kept the big Mercedes in gear and eased down on the gas to accelerate slowly up to the road. Behind me, the cruiser continued forward in its arc, making a perfect u-turn. I turned right on the road, towards Brumaire, in my rear view I caught Bonnet’s Peugeot 308 turning the other way, towards the bridge.

Chapter Twenty-One

I parked in front of Brumaire. Got out and stretched. I tucked the sharpened screwdriver bundle into the waistband at the small of my back. My hand ached a little from punching the kid in the mouth. I’d hit his front tooth and had the mark to prove it. A little red dent in the knuckle. The cliff loomed above the house. Its limestone face, white and chalky and picturesque. Madame Vaugeois was out on the terrace. She inhaled deeply. “Tom. What a beautiful day!”

“Bertha’s a wonderful car.” I handed her the keys.

“And the motorbike?”

“They agreed to go elsewhere, ma’am. They were very polite and reasonable. I’m willing to bet that they’ll leave you in peace for a while.”

She was agog, mouth open. “Really?”

I nodded and smiled. She reached up and put a hand on my shoulder and then pecked me on the cheek and then the other cheek. “Thank you for helping me today, and for helping Father Bousquet and Miriam. You’re a welcome guest.”

“My pleasure, ma’am.”

“Any plans for today?”

The weather was excellent. It was late afternoon and the sun was still up and shining. I’d eventually go and check out Le Foxy Kebab, but it was too nice out to be overly ambitious. “Honestly, I don’t have any plans. I’ll just let things happen.”

Vaugeois liked that. “Like a free man, Tom?”

“Just like that, ma’am.”

I went for a swim in the river. Simone showed me the way. She also gave me a pair of Gille’s shorts and a towel. I followed a path from the back of the garden, winding downhill towards the river. The woods were dotted with stone ruins, walls, and ancient farm structures. The light cut through the trees at an oblique, late afternoon angle. At the end of it was a shady cove of fine grained sand.

The water was clean and cold, and perfect.

After the swim I lay down on the towel. Let the residual sun warm me and dry my skin. I thought of my mother swimming there, many decades before. Not with Simone Vaugeois, but maybe with Gilles. It was strange to think of Mom and Gilles as cousins, as children.

The footpath wound away from the bottom of the river valley and back up towards the rolling hills above.