Or was this charming American just demonstrating old Southern courtesy? I couldn’t tell. The ground under my feet was shifting and cracking like Marianne’s glass when she fired it wrong. Strangely, I had a sudden desire to have Léon Roussel at my side, inspecting the path and inspecting Major Dirke’s face. He would know a lie when he heard one. His policeman’s ear was fine-tuned to deceit.

‘Two of the horses in our stables had to be shot,’ I told him, but as the words came out of my mouth, I knew he would not understand what a horse means to a Camarguais.

‘I’m sorry. My brother and I were raised on a ranch with mustangs, so I know how bad you must be feeling. I’ve exchanged horses for B-50s, but I miss them.’

‘My own horse was . . .’

The dull drone of an aircraft’s engines reverberated out of the night sky. I glanced up and as it came closer I saw the ghostly silhouette of a twin-engined plane. Its landing lights blinded me for a second before it skimmed down low and landed smoothly. This heavy-bodied shape was one I was already becoming familiar with, because they crisscrossed the skies throughout the day. The noise it made was a low-pitched growl rather than the high scream of the jetengined fighters.

‘That’s our workhorse,’ Major Dirke commented. ‘A Douglas C-47 Skytrain. It’s our transport aircraft and ferries in supplies for . . .’

His sentence lay unfinished. A car had pulled up alongside us out of the night, its headlights carving yellow craters in the shadows. It was one of the big American showy saloons with white roof and green body, flashing what looked like gleaming chrome teeth across the front. A Chevy. Even their cars made us feel small. Its door opened and the driver emerged wearing a dark suit.

I knew him like I knew the smell of a hospital ward.

It was Gilles Bertin.

*

It is important to know your limits. Shaking hands with Gilles Bertin, the man involved in the violent attempt to murder my brother, was beyond my limit. It was that simple.

I did not even attempt it.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ I said when he offered his hand in greeting. Same cold eyes. Same thin moustache. Same way of looking as if he intended to shape the world. ‘My fingers were burned in a fire yesterday.’ I hid my hand at my side.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’