I ran, swift and soft-footed. Always in deep shadow, brushing past ancient walls and dark doorways. If he was taking this route, most likely he was heading over to the Place du Forum, where two hotels were to be found. The Place de la République lay empty, a large slice of darkness dominated by the elaborate town hall at one end and by a Roman obelisk at its centre, like a needle in its heart, but no American car. I felt a stab of panic. Had I lost him?

In my car I’d have been too conspicuous in these narrow rat-runs, but on foot I was part of the fabric of the night. I stopped and listened. I could hear the heavy note of its engine rumbling off the wall somewhere ahead of me, so I took a breath and raced across the stone steps of the Church of SaintTrophime. Ducking down the next alleyway, I doubted if he’d have any paintwork left if he came through here.

I entered the Place du Forum, blood pumping in my ears. The Forum is the heart of the town, just as it was in Roman times and in the days when Vincent Van Gogh set up his easel here. A couple of bars were still open, their soft light spilling into the pretty square and turning the green paint on a car purple. It was the Chevy. Manoeuvring with delicacy around the bronze statue of Frédéric Mistral, our Nobel Prize winner, I expected the driver to park and enter the Hôtel du Forum at the southern end of the square. I leaned against the mottled trunk of one of the plane trees to obscure my outline, catching my breath and smacking at the wretched mosquitoes drawn to the sweat on my skin.

But the Chevy had no intention of stopping. As it slipped away out the other side of the square, I realised I was going to need a bigger breath. I started to run.

*

I followed the sound of the engine like a dog through the maze of streets between the Forum and the river. The streetlamps were poor here, the smell of the Rhône more invasive and the mist thicker as it lapped at my ankles and muted sounds, so that the engine seemed to whisper.

I was moving at a steady pace along one of the wider streets that ran downhill towards the river when suddenly the brake lights popped on. I dodged into a nearby doorway. I watched the Chevrolet slowly pull to a halt maybe ten or twelve houses further down and park on a patch of dirt where once another house must have stood. The engine uttered a growl and then stopped.