‘He’s been drifting around the bars and cafés of Serriac asking questions. He doesn’t realise what kind of community we have here, where everybody knows everybody. A stranger sticks in our craw like a thistle.’

‘What questions?’

‘Questions about you.’

Her head ducked down to peer inside the car. With the moon behind her it was too dark to see her expression, but he could hear her breath as harsh as one of her beloved bulls.

‘Tell me.’

‘Sit down,’ he said quietly.

She sat on the passenger seat, with her feet on the ground outside, her back to him. Through the open door, the chirring of the crickets sounded like a dentist’s drill.

‘Word spreads fast in Serriac, a town so bored it thinks watching toenails grow is entertaining. Its tom-tom drums are second to none and as police chief I make certain I am always tuned into them. Often it means I can stop trouble before it begins. That’s why I warned you to be careful if you ventured into town. Because of your father’s land-sale.’

He felt her shudder.

‘Did anything happen?’ he asked quietly.

She shook her head. He didn’t believe her.

‘When I heard that someone was making enquiries about you, I was concerned.’

Concerned. More like shit-scared she would be on the receiving end of the same treatment as Goliath.

‘So I found out a name – Gilles Bertin – and I checked it against every hotel and rental room in the area, which is how I ended up outside that house after I finished my work-shift. But I didn’t expect to see you turn up.’

‘Léon.’ Just his name. Nothing more.

He reached out and rested the palm of his hand on the curve of her back. The tremor inside her was still there.

‘Thank you, Léon.’ Abruptly she straightened her spine, swung her feet back into the car and pulled the door closed. ‘Let’s drive.’

He started the Citroën, slid into gear and they continued on the road to Serriac.

‘André told me about Gilles Bertin. He said he works for Soviet Intelligence, the MGB.’ She was calm now, factual and precise. ‘I saw him in Paris just after the crash, but I don’t think he recognises me. I was a mess back then.’

He imagined the mess. The blood. The flesh torn off her face.

‘I traced the car’s owner through its plates,’ he told her. ‘It’s registered to an address in Paris.’

‘It seemed at first that he had come to finish the job he started,’ she said. ‘But now I am not so sure.’

‘By job, you mean André?’

‘Yes.’

Cool and unemotional.

‘And now?’

‘Now, after tonight, I think he has come for me.’

‘Merde, Eloïse, why would you think that? According to you, this Bertin man from Paris doesn’t even know you.’