He recognised her slight figure in the way she cocked her head like a cat listening intently. She had clambered up on top of an empty flatbed trailer and seemed to be sitting cross-legged, staring out towards the marshes. As his car approached, exposing her in its yellow beam, she jumped to her feet and looked ready to flee. But at the last moment she changed her mind and raised a hand in greeting. Léon felt a dull ache that made him want to wrap his arms around her and run for the hills. The Caussade men had always carved out a rough path for Eloïse Caussade.

When he turned off the engine, darkness came down like a blackout curtain and he reached into his glove compartment for a torch. By the time he climbed out of the car she was at his side.

‘Léon, what are you doing here?’ she asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

He flicked on his torch, directing it on to the cobbles. Her dark hair was tied back off her face and the light skidded along her scar, shiny as a cat’s eyes.

‘I came to make sure you’re okay. Today was tough on you and I was worried. I realise it’s late.’

‘You still working?’

‘I was, but I needed a drive to clear the fog from my mind.’

‘Thank you, Léon.’

He didn’t want thanks.

‘Shouldn’t you be safe indoors?’

‘I’m thinking about Mickey, the airman. Does his family know?’

‘Yes. They’ve been informed.’

She slid her arm through his, her shoulder brushing close, and led him over to the flatbed. She swung up on to it with ease, and he joined her. They sat down side by side, her knees tucked under her chin, and for some time they sat in silence, listening to the chirrups and rustles of the night, feeling the flutter of moths’ wings and a breeze fingering their skin.

‘How are you?’ he asked when their heartbeats were quiet. The torch was switched off.

She laughed softly. ‘Probably not as bad as you.’ For no more than a breath or two she dropped her cheek on his shoulder. ‘Now, Léon, tell me why you’re really here. I’m certain you’ve had a terrible time in town, clearing up the mess and keeping a polite tongue in your head for the American investigator. Fending off irate residents and interviewing angry demonstrators must have taken its toll.’

‘It’s my job, Eloïse. That’s what I’m paid to do.’