We went down the steps to Avenue Rachel. It’s dark down there, with the bridge overhead and the heavy clouds pressing down. Jean-Loup had said there’d be more snow here, and he was right – every tomb had its white beret – though it was wet and pocked with holes, and you could tell it wouldn’t last. But Rosette loves snow; she kept picking bits up between her fingers and laughing silently when it disappeared.

And then I saw him waiting for us. I wasn’t even really surprised. Sitting very still next to Dalida’s tomb, a carved figure all in grey, with only the pale plume of his breath to show that he was alive at all.

‘Roux!’ I said.

He grinned at me.

‘What do you think you’re doing here?’

‘Well, thanks for the welcome.’ He smiled at Rosette and pulled out something from his pocket. ‘Happy birthday, Rosette,’ he said.

It was a whistle, made from a single piece of wood and polished to a silky shine.

Rosette took it and put it in her mouth.

‘Not that way. This way.’ He demonstrated, blowing into the opening. It made a high squeeee sound, much louder than you’d have expected, and Rosette’s face opened in a big, happy smile. ‘She likes it,’ said Roux. He looked at Jean-Loup. ‘And you must be the photographer.’

‘Where have you been all this time?’ I said. ‘People have been looking for you.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s why I checked out.’ He picked up Rosette and tickled her. She put out a hand to touch his hair.

‘Be serious, Roux.’ I frowned at him. ‘The police were here, and everything. They’re saying you forged a cheque. I told them it was a mistake, that you’d never do a thing like that—’

Maybe it was the light, or something, but I couldn’t make out his reaction to that. The December light, with the street-lamps on early, and that splatter of snow against the stone making everything else look darker still. Anyway, I just couldn’t see. His colours were burning very low, and I couldn’t tell if he was scared, or angry, or even surprised.

‘Is that what Vianne thinks?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Her faith in me is awesome, isn’t it?’ He shook his head ruefully, but I could see he was grinning. ‘Still, I hear the wedding’s off. Can’t say I’m heartbroken about that.’

‘You should have been a spy,’ I said. ‘How d’you find all that out so fast?’

He shrugged. ‘People talk. I listen,’ he said.

‘So where are you staying now?’ I asked.

Not the hostel, I knew that already. But he looked, if anything, even worse than last time we’d met; pale and unshaven and very tired. And now I’d found him here again—