“Why? Have you got a problem with it?” Pianelli raised a warning eyebrow.

“No, no,” I said, eager not to offend him.

“His mother thought it was a bit clichéd.”

“Who’s his mother?”

He looked at me, poker-faced. “No one you know.”

I had to laugh. As a journalist, Pianelli thought everyone’s private life was fair game except his own.

“It’s Céline Feulpin, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s her.”

I remembered her well from my last year in school. She had always been very passionate about injustice and had been on the front lines of every student protest; she was a female version of Stéphane, and, like him, she had gone on to study literature. As left-wing activists, they had fought together for the rights of students and minorities. I had bumped into Céline two or three years earlier, on a flight from New York to Geneva. She was a completely different person. She was dressed in Lady Dior and was draped over a Swiss doctor she seemed enamored with. We had chatted a little and I thought she seemed happy and fulfilled, something I was careful not to mention to Pianelli.

“I’ve got some info for you,” he said, changing the subject.

He stepped to one side, and for a moment, his face was lit up by the Christmas lights. His eyes were bloodshot, and there were dark circles under them, as though he hadn’t slept in days.

“Did you manage to get information on the financing of the school construction work?”

“Not really. I put my intern on the case, but it’s all pretty hush-hush. He’ll get in touch with you when he has something.”

He caught his son’s eye and gave him a little wave.

“However, I did manage to get a look at the final plans. It’s massive. There are some really expensive features that serve no purpose I can think of.”

“Like what?”

“Part of the project involves a huge rose garden—the Garden of Angels. Have you heard about this?”

“No.”

“It’s completely insane. The plan is to create a contemplative space that would extend from where the lavender fields are now right down to the lake.”

“What do you mean, a contemplative space?”

He shrugged.

“It’s something my intern mentioned over the phone. To be honest, I don’t get it either. But I’ve got something else for you.”

He gave me a mysterious look, dipped into his pocket, and brought out a piece of paper scrawled with handwritten notes.

“I managed to get hold of the police report about Francis Biancardini’s death. Whoever it was really did a number on the poor bastard.”

“So he was tortured?”

I saw an evil glint in his eyes.

“Oh yes, seriously. As far as I’m concerned, this backs up my theory that it was someone settling old scores.”