As she sipped the wine, enjoying its smooth warmth, she thought about what she was going to say to Dr Zayan tomorrow. Wondered how he was going to react when he learned that she didn’t have a virus after all.

The following morning Kate ordered a taxi to St Couraque, a small village fifty kilometres north of Bordeaux, as it had no train station and that was the only way she could see to get there. It cost eighty-five euros, which made her wince – she could ill afford it. The car picked her up at eleven from her hotel and wound its way through the city, crossing the river with St Michel cathedral behind her, the sun on the water lighting her way ahead. Once they’d left the main road, the car looped through the countryside that had made the region so famous. Rows upon rows of neat ordered vines marked dark-green grids across the landscape. Occasionally, they would pass a grand chateau standing sentry over the burgeoning crops below. It was serenely beautiful, a landscape that had inspired artists for decades.

As they came into St Couraque, with its cobbled square, the church bells were striking noon and the dozen or so shops were bringing in their goods from the front, ready to close for lunch. Kate paid the driver and he drove off, the engine noise fading fast. The last of the shutters went down and then it was quiet. She saw a few people turning into side streets, presumably to their homes, then noticed she was the only person left in the square. Feeling disconcerted, she looked around for Rue Albert, which she knew was one of the roads leading off the square, and headed down it.

A very neat, very clean front door with a buzzer, and a gold nameplate with the name Dr Bernhard Zayan embossed across it, told her she’d reached the right place. Kate pressed the buzzer and the door clicked open. Inside, a middle-aged receptionist with her hair in a bun looked up.

‘Bonjour. You must be Madame Thomas.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Kate. It had been necessary to concoct a fake name, so Dr Zayan didn’t automatically dismiss her.

‘The doctor is free now,’ said the receptionist and indicated another door to the side of her desk.

Kate knocked tentatively.

‘You can just go in,’ the receptionist instructed.

She opened the door. Dr Zayan sat at a large modern desk, a computer in front of him, books lining the pale-olive painted walls. A small box of children’s toys stood in the corner and, projecting out from behind a blue curtain, Kate could make out the end of an examination table.

He looked up and rolled his wheeled chair back from the desk. ‘Take a seat.’

She did, noticing a photo of a vibrant brunette hugging two small boys Blu-tacked to the wall in front of him. His wife and children, she thought.

‘So, I understand you are here on holiday?’ he said with a thick accent.