He looked at the wreckage steadily, then Martigny beckoned to him and they went into the sitting room. Martigny quietly drew him aside and thrust a pile of press clippings and handwritten papers into his hands.

My Biography, Star had written in a small, neat hand:

They tried to tell me my mother was this hooker, and my father one of her johns. After she died, when I was around two years old, I was fostered out to this sister of hers, who was married to some GI Joe, & lived near Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I guess they didn’t like me, because they got rid of me pretty soon, and when I was around four I got dumped in the first of the homes. This version of events is one big lie. Now I know the truth, which feels real good. So let me explain: this is who I am…

Rowland felt pity: he could identify with this. Wouldn’t we all like the answer to that question, he thought; wouldn’t we all like to say with certainty—this is who I am. He sheafed through the papers, seeing the handwriting deteriorate further on as Star explained a quest that had gone murderously wrong. He switched on Gini’s tape recorder, then quickly switched it off again as he heard her voice. All the components he needed for an immediate story were here. He had learned self-discipline, and so patiently, and with no outward sign of disquiet, he retired to a corner of the room and set himself to work.

They finally allowed Gini to leave the hospital the next morning. At seven, when Pascal was sedated and sleeping, a car was provided to take her back to her hotel. Gini climbed into it meekly, then gladly sensing the driver’s indifference, persuaded him to drop her off. She was desperate to be alone, just to walk and breathe and think, so she made her way back slowly, by a circuitous route, breathing in the cool damp air, watching the eastern sky lighten, listening to the echo of her own footsteps along the still, almost deserted streets.

She walked down to the Seine and stood on the quay for a while, watching the slide of the water, watching the events of the past days, and the past night. She watched the questions she had seen in Pascal’s eyes, the questions he was too wise to voice. She watched the police ask questions, to which her patient replies felt correct but not right. She watched the consultant explain, gesturing at shadows on X rays, that this was a compound fracture, necessitating a complex operation, in which steel pins would have to be inserted in the arm, here and here and here. She watched herself, alone with the consultant now, in a small anteroom: “He must be able to use his hands,” she said to the man. “It’s his right arm that is broken. He’s a photographer. A very fine photographer. He has to be able to work quickly. He has to be deft. You do understand?”