If she was going to be Mrs. Pierre Massot, finally, she’d better start mending her fences. Tom wouldn’t be so hard. He was soft inside, not like his dad. And Sophie, she was in love with Hugh Montfort now. She’d be glad if Judy solved the problem of the returning husband, no?

Judy smiled, she was halfway to convincing herself that everything was going to be all right. Now if she could only get the fuck home!

This was crazy. She stuck her head out of her window to see what the problem was. Rush hour was over, it shouldn’t be like this. There must have been some kind of accident. Yeah—she could just make out flashing lights, a couple of miles ahead of her, near rue Salopette . . .

Judy turned on her radio. They were playing a cheesy Vanessa Paradis tune from the nineties. She flipped the dial, looking for a news station.

“. . . our top story at this hour, the gruesome murder in rue Salopette of a business executive . . . police have cordoned off a two-block area and traffic is backed up as far as the Seine . . .”

Judy’s stomach contracted. Rue Salopette . . . that was where Gregoire’s townhouse was . . . it couldn’t be . . .

“. . . formal identification yet to be released but sources are telling Radio Cinq that this is Gregoire Lazard, chief executive of scandal-hit French jewellers, House Massot. . . . Analysts report that this is turning into a situation similar to the Gucci family murders . . . no word yet on whether there is a connection between this slaying and the bitter takeover battle being fought in the press between Thomas Massot and the new parent company, Mayberry . . .”

She switched the radio off. It took a second, because Judy’s fingers were shaking.

An hour ago she had been faxing all the information the company had on Gregoire Lazard to her own house.

To Pierre.

He couldn’t have. Could he? He was weak, skinny. . . .

Kill him. Because of what he’d done to Sophie? Was that the reason?

Was Pierre capable of killing? And had Judy helped him?

She was suddenly very cold. Trembling, she pulled the car to the side of the street and parked. Let them tow it. She didn’t give a damn. She had to see if Pierre was still in the apartment. There could be no waiting in traffic, not right now. . . .

She clambered out of the front seat, turned north, and started to run.

“Hello?” she shouted, as she pushed the front door open. Dear God! There was nobody here! “Hello?”

The sound of a latch; Judy spun around to see her bathroom door swing open, and Pierre emerge from it, a towel wrapped round his waist.

His body was covered in scars. She winced.

“Judy, be quiet,” he admonished. “I don’t want people to know I have returned.”

She closed the door. He didn’t seem to be disturbed.