Stonekiller

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Among the broken saplings in the centre of the glade, sunlight trapped the blowflies. Now they rose above the corpse which was still hidden from view, now they settled on it. And in the stillness of an early summer’s afternoon, their sound was constant.

Alarmed, St-Cyr held his breath. Nothing stirred but those damned flies. ‘Hermann, a moment,’ he breathed.

‘Be my guest,’ softly grunted the Bavarian in guttural French that was still improving. ‘She’s all yours.’

‘She?’

‘It’s just a thought. Rape and then silence, eh? That hangdog truffle hunter who reported this should have taken a closer look.’

‘Perhaps he did but was afraid to admit it.’

‘Perhaps that sow he uses to find his truffles stuck her snout into something she shouldn’t have.’

Ah merde, must Hermann? ‘In the Dordogne, as elsewhere, my friend, the fall is the time for truffles. Don’t tempt the pig before the fungus is ripe. That hunter might just have been checking the ground but not with his pig!’

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