“I’d rather you stayed …” Camille said, “assuming you can spare the time, obviously.” In general, collaboration between the national police force and the local police of the gendarmerie can be a little fractious, but Camille has a lot of time for regional officers. He feels he has a lot in common with them. They tend to be opinionated, pugnacious, the sort who never give up on a lead, even a cold one. The local officer is clearly flattered by Camille’s suggestion – he’s a chief sergeant, but Camille refers to him as “chef” because he knows the form; the officer feels respected and he’s right. He’s forty years old and has a pencil-thin moustache, like a nineteenth-century musketeer. There’s a lot about him that’s old-fashioned – a self-conscious elegance, a stiff formality, but Camille quickly recognises that the man is really intelligent. He has a high regard for his position. His shoes are polished mirrors. The weather is grey, maritime. Faignoy-lès-Reims, population 800, two streets, a square with a vast war memorial; the place is as gloomy as a wet Sunday in paradise.
