In the middle of the yard, incongruous amid the junk, a long, low car shone blackly, all curves. Alex knew it was old, but it gleamed as though it had just rolled out of a showroom. A Citroën DS, 1961 model. Spoiling the brochure image, a fat, one-eyed white cat lay sprawled on the hood, showing off its belly while squinting disdainfully at them. Part of one ear had been bitten away.

“The Goddess,” Alex said. “Harry’s car.” Seeing it without its owner gave him a chill.

“Well, yes and no,” his grandfather said. He scratched the cat gently behind its mangled ear. “Bonjour, Simone. To be precise, this is Harry’s new car. Or will be, once we get him back and give it to him. Be a nice surprise for him. Albert here, eh, sourced it for me. He’s just been souping it up to Harry’s rather particular specifications. Harry’s old car’s over there.” He gestured idly with his cane at the shape beneath the tarpaulin. “He crashed it in Germany, when they got him. I had it hauled back. Albert can cannibalize it for spare parts. If there are any useable parts left.”

Alex approached the blue shroud and lifted a corner. A scruffy ginger tabby appeared by his side and leapt softly up, curious to see. Alex winced at the smashed remains beneath. He had always been told his father had died in a car accident. Beyond knowing it supposedly happened in Germany—as, it seemed, had Harry’s wreck—the details had been left vague. Now he knew why. But looking at the torn and twisted metal still sent something echoing through him.

“Harry was in there? When it happened?”

“Hmmm? Oh. Yes. He was being chased. Then he got stopped. And then they got him.”

The cat jumped down and padded away, unimpressed. Alex let the sheet fall back. “Where is he now?”

“Still in Germany. The south.” After a moment his grandfather added darkly, “The Black Forest.”

Albert reappeared, carrying a half-empty bottle of red wine and two glasses. He gave one glass to the old man, then pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth and spat it toward a small, oily mound of thick springs on the ground. Splitting the last of the wine between the two glasses, he raised his own in a toasting motion, then stopped, lifting a finger.

“Ah.” From his cardigan, he produced a scratched tin and proffered it to Alex, who frowned as he read the greasy label: SINGER SEWING MACHINE OIL.

“Oh,” Albert muttered, taking it back. “Pardon.” After a moment’s more searching, he pulled from another pocket a small bottle of fizzy orange, handing it to Alex with a nod.

“Bon.” He raised his glass again. “Salut.”

“For friends not here,” Alex’s grandfather said. Taking a sip, he paused, closed his eyes, then beamed. “Oh, well done, Albert. The ’82, is it?”