She said, “Happened almost six months ago. In fact it was the reason the BRI assholes showed up in the first place. Then the Houdin thing, and now they’ve become a regular feature. Anyway, Gilles Vaugeois, massive trauma to the head. Couple of weeks in a coma. I’m not sure that he’s eating solid food now.”

I remembered the dessert portion Maria had reserved for him. “I think he can eat.”

“He must have severe cognitive impairments, given the injuries.”

“Vaugeois said he was hit on the head.”

“Weapon was a screwdriver. I believe penetration of the skull. Depressed skull fracture followed by intracerebral haematoma in the right frontal lobe with an overlying skull vault fracture.”

That was a precise description for a young municipal police officer. I said, “How do you know that?”

“I’m preparing the exam to join the BRI. I’ve done theoretical forensics. You get used to the terminology. I’m interested in the autopsy reports. It’s rare that we get an autopsy in Alencourt and I’m friends with the medical examiner.”

“You’ll become an asshole.”

“Better than an idiot.”

I said, “Can you break it down for an idiot?”

She smiled. “Someone stabbed Gilles Vaugeois with a screwdriver. Left it in his head. The tip of the screwdriver went into his brain. Your old cousin almost certainly has permanent functional deficits.”

“They got leads?”

She shook her head. “No prints on the weapon. No good physical evidence at the crime scene. Just a screwdriver in the poor old guy’s head. Unprovoked attack.”

I said, “Wallet stolen?”

Nazari said, “He was out for a walk. It happened a few hundred yards from his house. Wasn’t carrying anything.”

“Guy gets a screwdriver in the head six months ago, and a local big shot gets chopped up by an axe murderer a few weeks ago. Now the dead Afghan asylum seeker. Charming little town you’ve got here.”

She wanted to respond, maybe defend her town, but a group of teenagers swarmed around us noisily on their way to a train. We didn’t even try to talk until they had passed. She said, “I guess you should get a ticket now.”

We had drifted close to the ticket office, stood there awkwardly for a while. She was a fine-looking woman and smart and competent. And she seemed to like me, which was a bonus. There was definitely a sense of something unfinished. I didn’t want whatever that was to get old and rotten, like some bad aftertaste. Apparently neither did Nazari because she looked at me with those clear hazel and green eyes and said, ”Goodbye, Tom Keeler,” and walked cleanly away. I watched her go across the station. Kept looking at her until she passed through a set of doors at the other side.