“You’d be pretty fucked up, and you could end up in a coma, especially if you took them with alcohol. But, like I said, it all depends on the dose. Back in the nineties, the lab producing it also made a two-milligram tablet—fifteen of those and some Jim Beam might finish you off.”

Back to square one.

Another question popped into my head.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a doctor in Cannes called Frédéric Rubens?”

“Ha! You mean Dr. Mabuse? Everyone knew him, and not for the right reasons.”

“Mabuse was his nickname?”

“One of many.” Jérôme sniggered. “Freddy the freak, Freddy Krueger, Candy Man…he didn’t just supply; he was a junkie himself. He was involved in all sorts of illegal stuff—dealing, practicing medicine without a license, selling prescriptions…”

“I assume he lost his license?”

“Oh yes, but not soon enough, in my opinion.”

“Do you know if he still lives around here?”

“With all the shit he was taking, he was never likely to make it to old age. No, Rubens died back when I was a med student. So this next novel, is it a medical thriller?”

2.

It was getting dark as I pulled up outside the school. The security guard had left the barrier open and was simply checking names against a guest list. I wasn’t on any list, but having seen me a couple of hours earlier, he waved me through and told me to park my car down by the lake.

In the gathering darkness, the campus looked magnificent, more unified and cohesive than it did in daylight. Swept clean by the mistral, the sky was cloudless and stippled with stars. Seen from the parking lot, tea lights, flaming torches, and strings of Christmas lights created a magical atmosphere as they led guests to the celebrations. There were a number of different events for different classes. The prom in the gym welcomed those students who had graduated between 1990 and 1995.

Stepping into the vast hall, I felt a sudden queasiness. It looked dangerously close to a Worst Outfits of the 1990s costume party. Forty-somethings had raided their wardrobes for their old Converse high-tops, ripped 501s, Schott bomber jackets, and lumberjack shirts. Most of the athletes were wearing baggy pants, Tacchini tracksuits, and Chevignon jackets.

I spotted Maxime, wearing a Chicago Bulls jersey. People were flocking around him as though he’d already been elected. The name Macron was on everyone’s lips.

When Maxime saw me, he made a little gesture: Ten minutes? I nodded and, while I waited, melted into the crowd. I made my way across the gym to the bar. The whole place was festooned with paper chains and vintage posters. I felt no more uncomfortable than I had this morning. No bad vibes. Of course, I knew that my brain was doing everything in its power to reject Vinca’s death.

“What can I get you, monsieur?”