He folded the paper under his arm and walked into the steamy warmth of the café. The place was full of people and noise, a strong aroma of coffee and cigar smoke. It was a big barn of a place, crammed with tables and chairs, mirror tiles behind the bar, and big, scarred pillars supporting an ornately corniced ceiling almost obscured by a fog of smoke and damp. Two waiters in white jackets and black trousers darted among tables conveying endless orders of coffee and beer on brightly coloured trays.

Du Maurier was sitting at a table at the far side of the café, behind a square-panelled pillar. He raised an arm to wave Bannerman over.

‘What will you drink, Monsieur?’

Bannerman eased himself into a chair opposite. ‘Whisky.’

Du Maurier barely moved his head and one of the waiters was at his arm, a thin, dark-skinned man with a small black moustache and a permanent scowl.

‘Inspecteur?’

Du Maurier ordered a whisky and an absinthe. When the waiter had gone the policeman tugged at his nostril hair and lit a cigarette. He sat back and regarded Bannerman with sharp, watchful eyes. ‘Well?’

‘So they’re going to pull the plug on you tomorrow.’

He smiled sadly. ‘They already have. This case is consigned to history. Tomorrow is just an exercise in public relations. The dirty work is done. I have to admit, I did not expect them to move quite so quickly.’

Bannerman thought about it. ‘Then there is more to it than embarrassed politicians?’

Du Maurier seemed so relaxed he was almost liquid. ‘For them to know and you to find out.’

‘And you?’

Du Maurier leaned forward and placed his elbows carefully on the edge of the table, clasping his big-knuckled hands below his chin. ‘Not me, Monsieur Bannerman. The case is closed.’

‘Is it?’

‘Officially I can do nothing.’

‘And unofficially?’

Their waiter arrived with drinks on a tray and left the bill in a saucer. Du Maurier reached for a jug on the table. ‘Water?’ Bannerman shook his head and the Inspector poured some into his absinthe and watched it turn cloudy. He picked up his glass and took a sip. ‘The case,’ he repeated very deliberately, ‘is closed.’ He took a mouthful, then, of his absinthe and studied Bannerman thoughtfully. ‘What do you need to know?’

Bannerman took his first sip of whisky and kept the glass close to his mouth. ‘Michel Lapointe and René Jansen.’