I hardly slept at all last night. Seeing Roux in the cemetery made me wonder if Zozie was right, and that he didn’t want to see us at all. But then, why keep working for Thierry? Does he know, or doesn’t he? I went over and over it and still it wouldn’t make sense to me. And so today I made up my mind and went to find him at Rue de la Croix.

I arrived at the house at about half past three, feeling all wound-up and shivery inside. I’d skipped the last lesson of school – it was a study period, and if anyone mentions it, I’ll just say I was in the library. Jean-Loup would have known if he’d been there, but Jean-Loup was ill again today, and with the sign of One Monkey drawn on my hand, I slipped away without anyone noticing.

I took the bus to Place de Clichy and walked from there to Rue de la Croix, a broad, quiet street overlooking the cemetery, with big old stucco houses like a row of wedding cakes all along one side, and a high brick wall on the other.

Thierry’s apartment is on the top floor. He actually owns the whole building: two whole floors and a basement flat. It’s the biggest apartment I’ve ever seen, though Thierry doesn’t think it’s big at all, and complains about the size of the rooms.

When I got there the place looked empty. There was scaffolding on one side of the building, and cellophane sheets over the doors. There was a man in a hard hat sitting outside, having a smoke, but I could tell it wasn’t Roux.

I went in. I took the stairs. From the first landing I could hear machine sounds and smell the sweet and somehow horsy scent of freshly cut wood. Now I could hear voices, too: well, one voice – Thierry’s voice – raised above the sound of work. I went up the last few stairs, snowy with sawdust and shavings of wood. The door was shielded in cellophane, and I parted it and looked inside.

Roux was wearing a filter-mask and using the machine to sand down the bare floorboards. The smell of raw wood was everywhere. Thierry was standing above him in a grey suit and a yellow hard hat, and that look he gets when Rosette won’t use a spoon, or spits out her food at table. As I watched, Roux turned off the machine and pulled down his mask. He looked tired and not too happy.

Thierry looked at the floorboards and said: ‘Vac up the dust and get the polisher. I want you to get at least one coat of varnish down before you leave.’

‘You must be joking. I’d be here till midnight.’