The commune hid behind two enormous metal gates with the words ‘Private Property’ written on them in red paint. They sat in the car looking at the mountain of steel between them and the woman who now called herself Marianne. There was no intercom system. Even though they couldn’t see what lay behind the gates, the line of tall trees that seemed to go on for a mile behind them indicated that knocking was not an option. They waited. Twenty minutes later the gates opened and they began to drive through.

A man with a shaved head and a white beard jumped out of the car the gates had opened for. ‘Can’t you read? You’re not invited here.’

Fred rolled down the window. ‘We’re looking for Carina Murphy or Marianne.’

‘Marianne has made it clear she doesn’t want visitors.’

‘I didn’t ask what she wanted.’ Fred showed his badge.

After much discussion they were taken to a small but pretty log cabin. Carina was sitting on the deck wearing her signature black and wrapped up in an expensive oversized cardigan. Her hair was as grey as her eyes but, rather than ageing her, made her even more beautiful and dramatic. She stood when she saw them and smiled enigmatically. Maybe she is the Queen of Sheba after all.

‘Hello, Maisie. How lovely to see you.’ She put out her hand to shake.

Caught off guard, Maisie took it. Balls, I shouldn’t have done that. She’s a horrible person.

‘And you must be Detective Brennan.’ She pointed to seats on the deck, signalling that they weren’t welcome inside her tiny home. She offered them tea but they declined. She sat facing them, curling her legs beneath her. ‘So, what can I do for you?’

‘Well, that’s a stupid question,’ Maisie said. ‘You know what you can do for me – well, not for me, for your own son.’

‘And what’s that?’ Carina said.

‘You can help us find him.’

‘Nonsense! And even if it weren’t nonsense, did it ever occur to you that he doesn’t want to be found?’

‘He’s sixteen years old, Carina.’

‘It’s Marianne, and age is just a number, Maisie.’

‘That’s rubbish and you know it.’

‘My neighbour Vincent.’ She pointed behind Maisie, who turned to see another log cabin nestled among some trees in the near distance. ‘He’s eighty-five years old, fit as a flea, works all day, never misses evening prayer and he knows how to enjoy himself. On the other hand my seventeen-year-old son died of a massive heart attack in the middle of a field. When I say that age is just a number, I mean it.’