Serriac was the kind of town that threw a net over you the moment you set foot on its dusty main street. An invisible net, but still a net. A net of watchful eyes. Don’t expect to escape it, because you won’t. You can’t. So when I climbed out of my car, I paused, stared boldly at the windows along the tree-lined thoroughfare and smiled back at them. It is the same as when you face a bull. Show fear and you will be trampled.

Serriac was a pretty town. Tubs of geraniums and zinnias splashed scarlet and buttery yellow over the ancient stone buildings, with their wrought-iron balconies and roofs the colour of freckles in the sun. Cafés and bars spilled on to the pavements, where old men in caps sat and smoked with yellow fingers. Off behind the single main road, narrow streets darted and dived in unexpected directions to confuse the unwary.

Above it all soared the imposing bell tower of L’Église Saint-Joseph. It was a church built in the Romanesque style so beloved by medieval France, with sturdy pillars, massive rounded arches and barrel vaults. It was a church you didn’t argue with. I knew. I’d tried.

Ahead of me lay the Hôtel de Ville. The town hall. It looked old and lazy with a pockmarked façade, dozing in the morning sunshine, eyes half shuttered. I wasn’t fooled.

*

‘I wish to speak to Monsieur le Maire, please.’

‘The mayor is occupied at the moment.’

The middle-aged secretary behind the desk tapped the end of her pen on the form she was filling out and raised her gaze to me at a snail’s pace that was designed to irritate. I was half inclined to lean across the desk and snatch her pen away to ensure her full attention, but I had no need. The moment she caught sight of my face, I had her full attention. I saw the pity flow into her pretty blue eyes and turn her cheeks a dusky pink, but I was used to it. Pity and I were old friends these days.

‘When will Mayor Durand be free?’

She dragged her gaze off my face and made a fuss of consulting the large maroon leather diary on her side of the desk. ‘In forty-five minutes,’ she announced precisely, looking up at the ornate clock on the wall. It had no scars. Its face was unblemished.

‘I’ll wait. My name is Eloïse Caussade.’