I removed my shoes and edged my way on silent feet through the rooms. The place felt different. Less serene, more jumpy. Or was that me? The image of Léon in his dark police uniform and with a legal warrant in his pocket searching each room slid into my mind and loosened my breathing. I didn’t expect to find Gilles Bertin here this morning but I was willing to wait. And wait. But first I checked the downstairs rooms and the kitchen. No hint of him in the living room or dining room, but the kitchen bore his imprint.

A cup of coffee sat half-drunk on the table alongside the flaky remains of a croissant and a small glass dish of apricot jam. A jacket hung on the chair. The window at the back looked out on to a miniature courtyard with a slatted bench and a limp climbing rose. No sunlight, just the dirty lid of the grey sky. On the table lay an open newspaper and a pair of heavy-rimmed spectacles. The yard was empty.

I stepped back against the wall just inside the kitchen door and stood there immobile, my ears straining to catch the faintest scratch or whisper. After a further two minutes I shifted to the bottom of the stairs. Out in the open, I moved quickly, racing on tiptoe to the upper floor. I stopped, listened. With fingers cold as ice on the gun grip I edged to the first door and stepped inside.

No one. Nothing. An empty bedroom with no wardrobe to hide in. Musty and unused.

Yet I was convinced Gilles Bertin was here. Somewhere. Unless he’d left in such a hurry he’d had to abandon his coffee and spectacles. He didn’t strike me as a man that careless, so I made my way silently across the landing towards what I remembered to be the main bedroom. The door was part-open. With my foot I pushed it further, gun out in front of me.

I saw him at once, Gilles Bertin himself, and I resisted the urge to back away. Smart dark suit trousers, Ronald Colman moustache, hair slicked down. The distinctive shaded cleft in his chin. Stupidly it occurred to me that it must be hard to shave in there. Not that he’d be shaving anymore. Gilles Bertin was sprawled flat on his back and the front of his white shirt had been decorated with a scarlet sunburst.

Something shut down in my head. First Mickey. Now Bertin. My legs wanted to rush me to his side, but I clung on to my sense of caution and I entered slowly. Eyes and gun barrel darting over every corner of the room. Skin prickling. Finger itching to pull the trigger.