He took my elbow, steered me to the seat in front of his desk and resumed his own chair behind it, sitting back as if relaxed, but I could feel the sharp point of his attention like a needle tip at my forehead. I had known Charles Durand since I was eight years old. He was the father of my best friend at school, though he was one of those fathers who breezed in and out, rarely around, always preoccupied with his property business and his part-ownership of the local newspaper, La Voix de la Camargue.

‘So,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you, Eloïse?’

‘I’m sure you know why I’m here.’

‘The death of the bull.’

‘The brutal butchery of the Caussade champion bull, Goliath, yes.’

He released a sigh. That is how men like Charles Durand deal with difficult women. They sigh. And when the sighing doesn’t work, they laugh. To tell you that you are wrong. But he didn’t laugh. Not yet. He gave me a serious regretful frown and shook his head without dislodging a hair.

‘I am sorry, Eloïse. Please convey my regret to your father.’

‘Monsieur le Maire, we want more than regret.’

In the silence that followed, we both counted to ten.

‘It is in the hands of the police,’ he pointed out.

‘No one knows this town like you do, monsieur,’ I said quietly. ‘You have eyes and ears on every street corner.’

‘What is it you want?’

‘I need your help.’

‘I agreed to see you today because your family is going through a bad time at the moment, as we all know. Your father is a respected member of our community and I wish to offer him my sympathy.’

‘Why tell me? Why not tell him?’

The mayor flashed me an elegant shrug. ‘Aristide Caussade and I have not always seen eye to eye.’ He reached for a cigarette from the silver casket on the desk and offered me one. I shook my head. He lit his own, and I wondered why he’d felt the need to gain himself some time. ‘The loss of land to the United States Air Force, the violent death of your bull, the sad state of your brother, your own injury – these must have hit your father hard. I am pleased to see you have returned home to pull your weight in the family.’

‘Pull my weight?’

‘Yes. Instead of deserting them.’

He had no right. No right to say that. I felt a flush of anger rise to my cheeks. Even if it was true, it was not his business to voice such a comment.

‘Now, Eloïse,’ he said soothingly, ‘tell me what it is you want.’