Approaching the square, she spotted Lucia and Tomas up ahead. Tomas had a newspaper tucked under his arm and Lucia carried a canvas bag which had seen better days. They were talking intently. At the sight, a nasty feeling settled in her stomach.

Walking several metres behind them was a man in a grey suit who, she cottoned on, was tailing them. Of medium height and so stocky that his jacket was threatening to give at the seams, he was having a job keeping up with his prey.

Laure found the idea rather thrilling – as if she had been caught up in a novel. Then she felt ashamed. This was no game. Quickening her pace, she overtook him and, on drawing level with Tomas and Lucia, she said in an undertone, ‘You’re being followed.’

‘Without a doubt,’ said Tomas, smiling at her. So saying, he stuck two fingers in the air. Lucia grabbed at his arm and hissed at him. Pointing at Laure, she switched to English: ‘Go away. You make Tomas do stupid things and draw attention to us.’

‘No, I don’t.’ Laure defended herself. ‘He does that himself.’

Lucia flushed. Without saying anything further, she pushed through the crowd ahead of her and disappeared. Laure watched her and turned to Tomas. ‘Am I causing you trouble? Perhaps I should go.’

A shade of impatience crossed his face. ‘That doesn’t mean you should go.’ He drew her into the shelter of a doorway. The goon walked past. There were sweat stains under the armpits of the grey suit and his face was bright red.

In a wonderfully tender gesture, Tomas swept his fingers over Laure’s cheek. ‘Things are changing, here, Laure. Will you be a witness to what’s going on?’ Unsure of what he intended, she nodded all the same. ‘Lucia is frightened, and she has reason to be. Her family have suffered. Her parents were once top civil servants. Now, they wash dishes.’

‘Like the waiter?’

‘Like the waiter.’

‘I understand.’

‘You probably don’t,’ he said. ‘But let’s go.’

At the marionette theatre, preparations for the evening performance were going ahead. Laure went through the now familiar routines.

Check floors and benches for litter.

Check lights were operational.

Check water was available for those overcome by heat. (A man fainted during the previous performance.)

Check rudimentary first-aid kit which consisted of a packet of aspirin and a few sticking plasters (God help those who had a heart attack or cut an artery) was stowed in the correct place.

Backstage, Milos was repairing one of Spejbl’s strings. He was looking battered. His nose required retouching and his trousers had seen better days.

Laure watched Milos at work, his balding head gleaming with the heat.

‘Spejbl finds life difficult, doesn’t he? He’s slipped. It’s rather sad.’

‘Don’t talk about me like that’, said the puppet.