Romy’s mother blinked several times and stared at him as though she didn’t understand. She barely glanced at the fake ID. Then she managed to croak, ‘What do you want? The police were already here earlier. Can’t you see we’re grieving? My only child died today.’

Ben wasn’t being insincere as he repeated his deepest apologies for the intrusion. ‘I just need a couple of minutes of your time, Madame Juneau. Is Monsieur Juneau here?’

‘He’s in bed. My husband is not a well man. This will be the end of him, I’m sure. You can come in, as long as it’s quick.’

‘I promise.’

She unlatched the chain and Ben, feeling like he was drowning puppies in a sack, stepped inside the hallway. The wallpaper was flowery, like the furniture inside the chintzy living room into which she showed him. The air was so thick with unspeakable grief that he could smell it. He could also smell the booze. Madame Juneau was halfway through a large gin and tonic. Not her first of the day, judging by the unsteadiness in her gait. He couldn’t blame her. If something like this had happened to his son Jude, he’d have been on the floor by now, surrounded by empty bottles.

Madame Juneau was gamely holding it together, though. She offered him tea, which he courteously declined, and perched on the edge of the flowery armchair opposite his. ‘How can I help you, Inspector, ah—?’

‘Dardenne. I’m in charge of the investigation. Please accept my sincerest condolences, and my promise to you that I will do everything in my power to catch this man and bring him to justice.’ Ben wasn’t lying about that part.

She sniffed, wiped an eye and nodded sadly. ‘Thank you. But I’m a little confused. I thought that Detective Boucher was in charge. Valérie. Such a nice lady. Said I could call her any time, day or night. Are you working with her?’

‘I am,’ Ben said solemnly, mightily glad to have learned that Detective Boucher was a she, or else he might have put his foot in it. ‘She sent me here to fill in a few details.’

‘Whatever I can do to help. Although I don’t know what I can tell you that I haven’t already told the others. It’s obvious who did this. I always said to Romy that no good could come of hanging around with filthy Arabs.’

Lovely. There was nothing like emotional distress to bring out the best in people. Ben wondered what filthy Arabs in particular she was referring to. He measured his words and asked, ‘Are you saying you can identify the perpetrator?’