‘Now,’ he said, ‘tell me. Broken nose?’

I nodded. Carefully.

‘I’m sorry.’ He pulled a face. ‘Concussion?’

‘Better now.’

I had stripped the bandaging off my face and I thought I didn’t look too bad. Clearly I was wrong. My forehead was bruised from one side to the other, with a wide scrape of skin removed, nose swollen, cheekbones puffy, eyes blackened. I still wore a small dressing on my nose to keep it straight. Compared to the Paris crash, this was nothing.

‘And you?’ I asked.

‘Just a few holes in my back.’

‘Just?’

‘That’s it. Now let’s talk about what went on there yesterday.’ Even in bed he had his policeman’s face on. ‘There was more news that I wanted to tell you, not just about the bull’s horns we found at the burned cottage.’

‘What?’

‘It’s about Gilles Bertin.’

‘You’ve found him?’

‘No. But I found something of interest.’

I wrapped his fingers tight in mine. A snake of fear shifted position inside me. ‘Tell me.’

‘I finally got my hands on a search warrant. On suspicion of criminal activities.’

‘To search what place?’

‘Guess.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Gilles Bertin’s house. You’ve searched it?’

‘Bullseye.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

LÉON ROUSSEL

Her face.

Hadn’t it been through enough? Léon wanted to take it in his hands and kiss each rip and bruise and break. There was black blood in her nostrils, panda rings around her eyes. Yet she seemed indifferent to it and unselfconscious when a passing patient stared openly.

Her fingers touched his lips, as if to pull the words from behind them. ‘Tell me,’ she said again.

He described the search of Gilles Bertin’s house in Arles, just the way he’d written it up in his report. The house was rented, so he’d looked up the owner on the town’s register and acquired a key from her. On Friday the premises were empty, so he and his two officers proceeded to search every cupboard and drawer, as well as all possible places of concealment.

‘I did that too,’ she whispered.

‘What? How did you get in?’

She gave him a hint of a smile. ‘I have hidden skills. I didn’t tell you because I knew it was illegal and I didn’t dig up anything that helped us.’ She paused, cupped his chin in her hand and gave it a sharp shake. ‘Did you?’

He imagined her finding the photographs of herself hidden behind the bedhead and the sickness that must have welled up in her when she shuffled through them.

‘Yes, I think we did.’

‘You found the photographs? Of me.’

He nodded and a dull flush seeped up her neck.

‘And the aircraft ones as well?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What else?’

‘Guns and a rifle.’

Her eyes widened and her scabbed eyebrows shot up. ‘Where? I searched but didn’t find them.’