His mind drifted back to the hospital in the snow, to the sudden flood of light from the downstairs window which had trapped him like a rabbit in the headlights of a car. He had seen the child looking down at him, seen the recognition in her eyes. Even then, after the light had gone, it had not crossed his mind to draw back. Neither had he fought against the irresistible pull of the currents that drew him towards the vortex. He had moved around the house, forcing a window and climbing into the pitch darkness of the kitchen. It must have been then that he had heard the first whispers of guilt. Something in the warmth of the place, the stale smell of cooking, a scrap of blue ribbon lying on a work surface by the door. Something reminiscent of his childhood.

In the hallway, night lights glowed faintly along the ceiling and his heart leapt at the sight of a figure watching him from the far end. It took several seconds before he realized he was looking at his own reflection. A mirror on the far wall. He had stood staring at the mean and furtive figure that was himself, unable to move, unable to draw his eyes away from it. And for just a moment he thought he saw his mother’s face staring back at him out of the darkness. He had never seen the resemblance before. It was uncanny.

The spell had been broken by the sound of footsteps coming from somewhere in the house, falling softly like blows upon his conscience. Was it fear that had made him turn on his heels and run? Back through the kitchen, out again into the cold night, the window left swinging behind him.

In the darkness he had stumbled through the snow in despair. And as he came around the house he saw her. A shadow in the night running down the steps, a coat clutched tightly, a woollen hat pulled down around her head. She had glanced in his direction, but hadn’t seen him, and had run away across the terrace. She slipped and fell. He heard her sobs as she picked herself up and ran on, out of sight down the driveway. He might have followed. It would have been easy then. But he had not.

A gendarme came into the café, a black cape across his shoulders, and Kale tensed. The policeman cast an eye around the tables. Was it only in Kale’s imagination that his eyes had rested longer on him? He stared back out of sullen, hateful eyes and the policeman turned away to buy a pack of cigarettes. He exchanged a few words with the grey-haired woman and left without a backward glance.