‘I don’t know. He took very little, nothing –’ He stopped quickly and, as if to divert me, like the proverbial lark who leads the intruder away from her nest by feigning injury, he said, ‘Did you ever hear of the accident? Banal, not serious as it happened, but James was run down deliberately by a car. Near La Source at Saint-Basile-les-Pins. He was not hurt, nor was the bike. The car hit the iron railings of the bar terrace. All James had was a bad shock and very bad gravel burns on his hands and knees. Did you know that?’

I stood motionless looking at the poppies. From a distance, Giles’s voice again.

A huge bash in her mudguard.

‘No. No, I didn’t know that. I didn’t.’

‘Madame Prideaux. James saw her, knew the car. He called L’Hermitage and Millar sent help. It was three months after the child was born. That’s all.’

He walked away down the track, past the mossy pillar behind which, neatly parked, was a Peugeot. 604. 06 registration.

He unlocked his door, dropped the frame gently on to the back seat. ‘I really am so grateful. Tomorrow, without fail.’ As he started to get into the car I leant against the gate and called.

‘Aronovich? When you collected James that night in January?’ He began to get out slowly. ‘Where did you take him?’

He stood on the track facing me. His face expressionless.

‘I don’t follow.’

‘You do.’

‘No. Not at all.’

‘Where is James?’

‘How could I know?’

‘You were seen driving him away from L’Hermitage that night. Millar’s sister lives in the lodge. His bike is still in her shed.’

He walked slowly towards me. ‘You think it was me?’

‘Know. A Peugeot 604. Alpes Maritimes registration. Torrent-green paintwork.’ This last was invention. The car by the pillar here was green. I took the risk, the string on my bamboo stick was taut.

‘There are hundreds of Peugeots like this.’

‘Where did you take him?’

He raised his hands in supplication. I walked up to him.

‘Where did you take him?’

‘To Nice. To the port.’

The trap was sprung. The flowerpot fell.

‘And?’

‘I don’t know. He did not confide that. He took a boat, I imagine. He had arranged it all before. He was desperate, he had money, I merely helped him there. He is lost to us! Lost! Leave him.’

He turned away and strode across the ruts to his car. Over his shoulder he said, ‘Go to Nice! Why don’t you? Ask at the Port Office what boats sailed that evening and to where? Calvi, Bastía, Corsica, Tunisia … they will tell you. I don’t know.’ He got into the car, slammed his door, started the engine.