By the time I hung up, the coffee that Maxime had made was ice cold. I got up to make another cup. Once Maxime was sure the girls were occupied, he joined me by the coffee machine.

“You still haven’t told me why Debruyne wanted you to come to the police station.”

“He wanted me to identify something linked to the death of my father.”

“Don’t be so damned coy. Identify what, exactly?”

“Last Wednesday night, there was a high wind off the coast. The tide brought in a lot of seaweed and other junk. The day before yesterday, a public-health team was sent down to clean up the beach.”

Staring vaguely at his daughters, he took a sip of coffee.

“On Salis Beach, one of them found a canvas bag washed up by the tide. You’ll never guess what was inside.”

I shook my head.

“My father’s watches, the whole collection.”

I tried to take in the magnitude of this revelation.

The Macedonians had had nothing to do with the death of Francis. There had been no burglary. Whoever had murdered Francis had been clever enough to use the wave of home invasions to cover up the crime; he’d taken the collection of watches to make it look like a burglary and then tossed them into the sea to get rid of the evidence in case there was a search.

I shot Maxime a look and both of us turned back to the girls. I felt a cold shiver course through me. Whoever was tracking us was a cunning, determined enemy, not—as I had assumed—a blackmailer or someone trying to frighten us.

We were dealing with a murderer.

A killer prepared to stop at nothing in his quest for revenge.

Different
from Other Boys

I put the top down on my mother’s convertible, and, surrounded by the azure sky and the lush scrubland, I drove inland. The view was pastoral, the weather was calm—the complete opposite of how I felt.

I was terrified, yes, but excited too, almost elated. Though I dared not admit it even to myself, for the first time in twenty-five years I had a flicker of hope: I was utterly convinced that Vinca was alive, that I would track her down, and that, once I did so, my life would again have meaning and gaiety, and the guilt I had been dragging around for years would finally fade away.

Not only would I discover the truth about the Vinca Rockwell affair; I would emerge from my investigation revitalized, maybe even happy. I really believed that I would free Vinca from the mysterious prison where she languished, and she in turn would free me from the pain and suffering of my lost decades.