Overnight the weather had changed. Heavy bruised clouds had swept in on a stiff wind and threatened rain, but at least it meant the sight and sound of the aircraft patrols would be less intrusive. A sudden downpour would empty the streets and ease the oppressive heat. Léon was acutely aware of the ever-growing mountain of paperwork on his desk, crying out for attention.

But that wasn’t the reason he was in such a hurry to get back there.

*

She strolled into Léon’s office mid-morning and placed a small reed-basket of fresh eggs on top of his desk. She glanced round the obsessively neat room, then eyed the forms he was filling out and said, ‘You’re busy.’

‘Lovely-looking eggs, Eloïse. How kind of you.’

‘They are a thank you for last night,’ she said with a smile.

He noticed that a smile emphasised her scar. The skin around it puckered up and he felt the taut shiny line of it when he greeted her with a kiss on both cheeks. He liked the fact she didn’t seem to care. He also liked that she was in a simple cotton frock today, none of her Parisian chic about it, and wore her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was scrubbed clean of make-up. All he needed now was to see her astride her horse, racing through the marshes, water-spray flying in rainbows around her. Then he’d be happy.

‘Léon.’

He concentrated on the piece of paper she was handing him. ‘Please sit down,’ he said.

They sat either side of the desk and studied the bold printed words on the page.

YOU WANT ME TO KILL YOU?

LIKE GOLIATH. ALONE. IN THE DARK.

GO BACK TO PARIS. NOW.

He sat very still, then tipped his chair on to its back legs. A bad habit of his when rattled.

‘Well, first, this is not the work of a professional, so I think we can rule out our MGB Intelligence friend from last night.’

She gave him a sideways look. ‘Are you sure?’

‘No. Not certain. But it smells of amateur work to me. A professional criminal would not have picked up a pen to scrawl such a note. The ink and the handwriting style are far too traceable. A professional would use a typewriter or preferably words and letters cut from newspapers.’

He nudged it further away from him, barely having touched more than a corner of the offending article.

‘I’ll bet you one of my nice new eggs that the paper is dripping with fingerprints.’

‘Oh.’ She stared down at her own fingertips.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll take your fingerprints while you’re here and eliminate them.’

She nodded. ‘So who do you suspect?’

‘An angry local. Scared witless by the arrival of nuclear weapons on your father’s land.’

‘Just as dangerous though.’

‘I doubt it. A toothless threat, I suspect.’