Student loans clearly hadn’t killed off the spirit of youth. Even in the absence of students, who he assumed were either in lectures or still in bed, the building felt naturally and effortlessly optimistic. Would he choose to study French and Italian now? Ten grand a year in tuition fees, plus living expenses? Not a chance. Perhaps kids were simply braver when it came to facing life with a massive debt. Or they just didn’t care anymore. At least Sam’s degree in Medicine was a step towards a decent salary. But a Humanities degree these days?

He knew when he got to the French Department, because everything on the notice board had a tricolour on it.

He cleared his throat.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle.’

She was putting up a poster.

‘Bonjour, Monsieur!’

She turned slowly, arms held high, still holding the poster. Mid-thirties, or perhaps a little older, she wore faded brown jeans and a black T-shirt. Nothing very out of the ordinary, but if he’d seen her walking down the street he would immediately have known she was French.

Her tone was friendly, but also a touch quizzical, as if Joe’s presence was slightly amusing but she wasn’t sure exactly why. She looked him up and down in that way he’d become accustomed to in France, part flirt, part accusation, the kind of feminine once-over he hadn’t experienced a single time since returning to the British Isles.

‘Pardonnez-moi,’ he began, the best French pronunciation he could muster, ‘je suis policier. Crimes graves.’

He held up his warrant card and gave her time to read it, which she did, frowning with concentration until she was convinced that he was indeed a policier.

‘D’accord, sergent.’

‘Sergent-détective.’

‘I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant,’ she said, switching to English for no obvious reason, which he hoped was not a comment on his French. ‘There are bilingual police officers in Leeds?’

‘Yes. We’re few in number, but extremely eloquent.’

She nodded. He couldn’t quite tell whether she’d sensed his attempt at humour.

‘Are you looking for an interpreter? We sometimes…’

‘No, to be honest I’m here for a bit of help. I’m trying to trace a young woman who might be a student. I came to your department first because I wanted to see if I could still speak the lingo.’

‘I wish my students had your pronunciation!’

He felt a frisson of adolescent pride.

‘I lived in Lyon for a while, couple of years. Anyway, I’m looking for a woman, and all I have is a photo that was taken on the campus. I thought perhaps she might be a student.’

He showed her the image on his phone. She glowered at the screen, allowing her eyes to refocus as she moved her face closer to it.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I know everyone who’s studying French, and I don’t recognize her. Is she in danger?’