Of course, there is one way I can think of… but it’s risky.

Risky, but worth it.

I google Le Voltage, press the phone number into my dial pad and listen as it rings.

‘Bonjour, Le Voltage,’ comes a sweet, young voice.

‘Bonjour,’ I start then switch to English. ‘Please could I speak to Agnès Bisset?’

A moment of pause.

‘I’m sorry,’ says the voice. ‘Madame Bisset won’t be back until tomorrow. Can I take a message?’

‘No,’ I say, ‘it’s okay. I’ll call back then.’

And as I hang up, I think, Perfect.

Chapitre Dix-huit

Chapitre dix-huit

Rue Bonaparte looks different in the afternoon light: more ordinary somehow without the amber glow of streetlights; its stark grey pavements the same colour as the sky. Like all the magic of the Parisian night was wrung out with the dawn. I move past the little alleyway to my left, where I smoked with Noah. I glance down it and can almost see our ghosts there, laughing, smoking in the dark before all this happened. A flicker of warmth as I remember him reaching for my necklace. And then a chill as I remember what he might have done to Sabine. Why I’m here.

The door to Le Voltage is right in front of me now. I glance to the window: the poster for Noah’s exhibition is gone.

I take a deep breath and step inside, reminding myself of the plan.

The gallery is empty. But it smells familiar now: like an old, dusty mansion that has just had its floors polished. Noah’s paintings are still hanging on one wall, among a series of others I haven’t seen before: a black-and-white Paris at night scene; a portrait of a young girl in rags sitting on the edge of a bed; a large, brightly coloured pop-art parakeet.

There is a jug of water with cucumbers swimming in it sitting on the right hand side of a big dark wood desk. In front of it sit two crystal-cut glasses, both upside down to signal that they’ve not been used yet. On the other side of the desk is a little wooden business card holder full of bright white cards. They read: Lors Carron, Gallery Assistant, Le Voltage. I reach forward and take a couple, dropping them into my bag.

I’ll need those.

‘Hello?’ I say into the void.

A door at the back of the room opens, a mousy-haired girl emerges and locks it behind her. ‘Bonjour.’ She smiles at me, heading to the big desk with the water.

‘Hi,’ I say.

‘Welcome to Le Voltage,’ she says, switching to English and opening the top drawer. She drops a small plastic fob into it and my eyes trace her profile as she locks it. I recognise her. She was here the other night at Noah’s exhibition, handing out champagne. She must have answered my call when I rang.