They took the kids to one of their local cafes and ate an early meal, which mainly consisted of feeding the children the most expensive cheese toast in Paris. De Payns knew that when they got home, the boys would want bowls of cereal anyway. When Ana snuck onto the footpath for a cigarette, de Payns broke the news that he had to work over the weekend. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t do this unless I had to.’

Romy handled her disappointment better than most, resting her chin on her hands and looking at him with those green eyes that saw more of him than anyone else. ‘Patrick’s playing striker. He’ll be sad that you’re not there to see it.’

‘Really?’ he replied. ‘That’s fantastic. I wish I could be there.’

‘I’ll film it.’

De Payns felt deflated. Some of the privations of his occupation could be offset against the greater good, but he would never retrieve the moments lost with his boys. He changed the subject. ‘What’s this about my flying?’

‘Oh, nothing. Ana wondered what you do to stay in shape, and I had to point out that you’d served—you know, in combat.’

He didn’t say anything. He smiled and reminded himself that the DGS had no flags on this woman or her husband. He had to relax, let his family life be a family life.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER

FORTY-FIVE

De Payns arrived early for his boating date and walked to the west of the Grand Large, where the launches and yachts were moored. This artificial lake had access to the North Sea via the Nimy Canal. He stopped beside the marina, where boat owners were crawling over their vessels, readying themselves for a Saturday on the water, perhaps the last blast of summer. He took out his Sébastien Duboscq phone and called Raven.

‘Hi, I’m here early,’ he said, adopting a cheery tone. ‘Wow, this place is fantastic. Which one are we on?’

She told him it was Marianne, a big motor launch on the most northerly arm of the marina.

‘I’ll see you in thirty minutes,’ she said, sounding excited. ‘I’m just picking up our picnic.’

De Payns walked north and found Marianne. It was a forty-foot gin palace near the end of the marina arm; the only other boat owner was busy with a vessel closer to shore. He clambered onto the wooden duckboard and reached over the transom, unhitching the gate. He padded across the afterdeck, noting there was dew on it from the overnight chill. No footstep marks. He made a cursory tour of the boat, looking in the windows for signs of someone waiting in there, but saw nothing. He took a seat in a recliner on the afterdeck.