In truth, Ben wasn’t happy about what he had to do next. He’d mulled it over long and hard before coming to the reluctant decision that he had no choice. By mid-afternoon he was driving across the city to the commune of Fontenay-sous-Bois in the suburbs to the east. The ‘bois’, or woods, in the name referred to the nearby Bois de Vincennes, which was the two-thousand-acre park and former hunting grounds of the kings of France. But Ben wasn’t interested in taking a scenic tour of the famous botanical gardens or the Château de Vincennes. His purpose was grimmer and darker, and he was feeling like shit about it before he even got there.

Romy Juneau’s parents lived in a modest middle-class home in a pleasant, tranquil street that felt like a million miles from any of the disturbances that had been affecting the city of late. All except one. Several hours would have gone by since the police had informed them of their daughter’s death. Their grief would be raw and Ben felt he had no business intruding on them at a time like this. He drove past the house twice, hating himself, and very nearly turned back, before he finally willed himself to park outside their front gate.

The police had probably spent some time with the family that morning, but were gone now and the coast was clear. Ben straightened his tie in the rear-view mirror, anything to delay the moment. With a sigh he stepped out of the car and forced himself to push open the creaky garden gate, walk up the flower-lined path to the house and ring the doorbell. Facing a vicious and determined enemy with a gun in your hand was nothing next to this.

The house was small but well cared for, with ivy growing around the front door and wooden shutters on the windows. He stood on the doorstep for nearly two long, uncomfortable minutes before he heard sounds of movement from inside, and the front door slowly opened a few inches wide on its security chain. The face that peered out at him through the gap was one he’d seen before, in the birthday photo on Romy’s phone. Madame Juneau hadn’t looked especially great in the picture, but now she looked like death. She was in her late fifties but at this moment could have passed for fifteen years older. Her face was gaunt and streaked with tears, her dyed blond hair was a mess and her eyes were puffy and red from crying.

Ben opened his wallet to show the police ID. ‘Madame Juneau? I’m Inspector Jacques Dardenne from the Prefecture of Police. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but may I have a moment, please?’