He was cool. I had to give him that. Anyone else would have believed him. I could see how this corrupt man so easily manoeuvred himself into the role of mayor, but his coolness drove me to strike harder, to light a fire under him.

The rain started to fall more heavily.

‘Monsieur Durand, you are a traitor and the punishment for treason in this country is execution by guillotine.’

This time he raised the secateurs to within a hand’s breadth of my scar. I felt my gut lurch but I didn’t drop my gaze from his.

‘Get off my land,’ he said in no more than a whisper.

‘I photographed them all,’ I told him, matching my tone to his. ‘Each one of them. All those documents in your secret drawer.’

This time I had him. His pupils narrowed to pinpoints and he glanced again for a split second over to the house. Was his wife there? Or Marianne at a window? Watching us in the rain.

‘You have no proof they were mine,’ he said.

‘I took pictures of them next to your desk diary, your name embossed on it in full view. So don’t let’s play games, monsieur.’

‘In which case you must have brought the documents into my office yourself to incriminate me. Illegal entry as well. No one is going to believe you, not even your tame policeman. They’ll take my word over yours.’

He was right. Of course he was right.

‘Are you prepared to risk it?’ I asked. ‘To have the stink of a scandal before your next election? Do you want to take that chance? We both know the truth – that you are a lying treacherous bastard.’

‘Merde, you’re even more trouble than your brother.’

‘I know you are gathering top-secret information and selling it at a high price to Russia. That is treason. That’s why the Soviets are building their own nuclear bombs far faster than expected. They’re using stolen American technology passed on by people like you.’

‘Don’t lecture me, girl.’ He uttered a short sharp laugh like the bark of a dog. ‘I am not a Communist. I am not a capitalist. I am an opportunist. I support both, so that whether it’s the Russkies or the Yanks who win this Cold War eventually, I will come out on top.’ He smiled a thin smile. ‘Whereas you will be thrown in prison by both sides.’

The rain was soaking us now, blurring our outlines. I had no wish to talk with a man who had sold his soul for American dollars.

‘A name,’ I demanded. ‘Give me a name.’

‘What name?’

‘The name of your source of information at Dumoulin Air Base, the person passing you documents.’

‘Or what?’