I stepped back from the window. Whoever they were, I didn’t want any of their bullets lodged in my skull. I was angry. I’d marched in to confront André, ready to hurl my anger at my brother, but when I took a good look at him in the confines of his room, the light soured by the darkening sky as charcoal-grey clouds lowered over Mas Caussade, I felt the sharp edge of my rage grow blunt.

His skin was looking grey and had acquired the papery texture of someone who lives indoors. He’d lost weight. His cheekbones were stark in his face, but his body had gained more solid muscle, the result of hours of working at it. What else was he to do up here? A couple of booklets lay on his bed – ‘If an A-Bomb Falls: Will you know what to do?’ – with a lurid red cover image of a mushroom-cloud explosion. The second one displayed a more muted black-and-white mushroom cloud with the title ‘Survival under Atomic Attack’ and was an official US government civil defence publication.

He saw me staring.

‘I believe in being prepared,’ he commented.

‘If that’s true, why didn’t you prepare me? Why lie to me? Why keep me in the dark? Why let me take unnecessary risks that could have got me killed?’ I couldn’t keep the anger out of my words but I kept the hurt locked away. I didn’t let him see that. ‘I am your sister, yet you threw me to the wolves.’

His face remained still. Not even a frown, just a thin veil of wariness. It dawned on me that he was frightened of what I might do. Other parts of him might have changed, but not his amber eyes, they were the same. Locked on to me.

‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Tell me what has triggered this outburst.’ His manner was calm, unruffled by my accusations. ‘Is it your friend in the car outside?’

‘No.’ I didn’t sit. ‘Léon is your friend as well.’

He raised an eyebrow in dispute, but let it pass.

‘This has nothing to do with Léon,’ I insisted. ‘It has to do with sharing a drink with Maurice Piquet and finding Gilles Bertin’s dead body.’

That shook him. A flicker when his eyes blanked out, then nothing. ‘Poor Eloïse, I’m sorry. Stumbling over dead bodies is never pleasant.’

‘Did you kill him?’

‘No. Did you?’

‘No.’

Neither of us knew whether to believe the other. Léon was wrong. I was no longer the sister I’d been in Paris, ready to follow my brother blindly to the ends of the earth. I’d changed. As André looked at me now, I realised he knew it. The gap between us was far greater than the two metres of pine flooring.

‘How did you find his body?’ he asked. ‘Where was he killed?’