She had slept badly, and her face was pale, the skin drawn tightly across her cheeks. The morning had come like a relief, the sheet damp and twisted around her. The hours of darkness had tormented her with all the questions, all the doubts. But she knew she had made a mistake. Even as she had left the apartment in the Rue de Commerce with the silent tears on her cheeks she had known it.

But it had taken a headline on the front page of one of the Rome dailies to make her turn back. Back to the man she should never have left. The job, the money, the security meant nothing now.

The paper had been lying on her table at breakfast at the Hotel Vittoria in the Piazza Mastai where she had booked in only the night before. For a moment the headline had meant nothing to her. Then she realized. GIRL (11) GUNNED DOWN AT BRUSSELS AIRPORT. And in smaller type, GUNMAN SHOT DEAD BY SECURITY POLICE.

*

Du Maurier felt the heat of the sun through the glass. Its warmth seemed such a deceit when outside it was still bitterly cold. He was down to his shirtsleeves, and he screwed up his eyes against the sunlight that streamed in the window of his office and fell across his desk.

In front of him lay Lapointe’s statement, typed and signed. The boys in the commercial branch had already begun going through the suitcase full of Manila folders. He had put in his request to start extradition proceedings to bring Jansen back from the Bahamas. That might prove difficult. At least the examining magistrate, Judge Markelbach, was sympathetic for once. But a man like Jansen would be difficult to convict, especially with friends in high places. And doubtless the old woman would have a few strings she could pull. How much, he wondered again, did she really know about it all? How much control had she really exercised over her son, over Lapointe? She was something of an enigma.

The phone rang and he snatched the receiver, anxious for some distraction. ‘There is a young lady here to see you, Inspector. A Mademoiselle Sally Robertson.’

‘Send her in.’ He leaned back in his chair to light a cigarette and wait for the knock on his door. When it came he said, ‘Entrez.’

She came in, pale and hesitant, the cold winter air still clinging to her clothes. Du Maurier stood up and indicated the seat at the other side of his desk. ‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle. I am happy to see you again. Please take a seat.’ Sally sat gingerly on the chair opposite and saw the weariness etched into the face of the old policeman. He said, ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I . . .’ she began self-consciously. ‘I only heard this morning about Tania.’ She hesitated. ‘I’ve just come from Rome. Is she, will she . . .?’