‘On the ledge under the window where she can get the sun.’

‘OK,’ said Nic, unflappable to the last. He glanced at his screen. ‘You have two interviews this morning. A man with a pink plastic violin and someone who refuses to give his name but swears he’s not a murderer or a terrorist. Are you willing to take the risk?’

He sounded dispirited.

She leant back on her heels to look at him. ‘You’re missing May.’ As Laure had predicted, May had returned to the US to write up her pieces. Paris was expensive, she said, and she needed to earn her crust. She had been rueful and resigned and had not lingered over the goodbyes.

Laure had refrained from asking how things were left between her and Nic. Had he netted her in? His expression suggested not.

May had left an empty space. She had been nosy, mistaken, risky and fun, and her thin arms had been strangely comforting.

The nameless man turned out to be called John Irvins, a stocky, bearded youth. After the introductions, he placed a golf ball on the desk between him and Laure.

‘Astic Company specializes in sourcing land for golf courses,’ he began, an indignant flush visible around the facial hair. ‘They bought up a swathe of land abutting our village, part of which was a bird sanctuary, and wanted to absorb the common land which had been left to the village in perpetuity. A big battle ensured.’

Laure had an idea of what was coming.

‘The council was weak and cash-strapped. The villagers lost their fight and the golf course was built. However, we managed to extract the promise, which was put in writing, that no buildings would be built on the bird sanctuary. But as soon as the contract was signed off, the lorries arrives to put up a huge clubhouse on it.’

He spread out photos of wrecked nests, wrecked habitat and, worst of all, the bodies of fledglings whose parents had been killed during the development.

Irvins was sad and clearly angry at his and others’ impotence in the matter. ‘The common people had no rights. They were crushed and exploited by rich predators. This is capitalism at its worst, its most rapacious and most mendacious and there was nothing we could do about it. I would like to donate the golf ball to the museum…’

‘Ah, capitalism,’ said Laure, picking up the golf ball.

Later, when she was writing up her notes of the meeting, she heard Nic exclaim. ‘What the—?’

Importing the almost visible wave of energy on which she customarily surfed into the room, May was poised in the doorway, holding out a tray of coffees. A trick of the light made the fair hair seem electric.

‘What are you doing here?’ If someone could frown and grin at the same time, Nic was that man.