She looked from the car to the gouges, and the jet-black skid marks. The static scene animated itself in her mind. She pictured sunrise, and Alex in his car in an early dawn, and the sudden impact as the blue JCB hit. The brakes, the tyres, the car hurled across the road. Blanchard walked back to his car and leaned against it, crossing his booted feet at the ankle. He took out his phone again and lit a cigarette. Sun and shadow moved across the flat land, dotted with houses and, in the distance, the dark green foothills of the Jura. She could hear the brief exchanges of the men, snatches on the breeze, as they loaded the crumpled Renault.

‘What was he doing, out here?’ she whispered to Griff again.

‘He must have been up to something,’ he said.

‘Up to what?’ She imagined Alex driving from the main road at night, and stopping there. ‘Why?’

There was a clunk. The Renault stopped in place above the trailer. Abruptly, Griff left her side and ducked under the tape. He strode towards the car.

‘Hey!’ shouted Blanchard. ‘Monsieur!’ He shoved his phone into his pocket and started to run after him.

‘Dad?’ called Bea.

Blanchard ducked under the tape too, and she followed. Griff broke into a run. The three of them ran, their shoes kicking up small storms of dust.

‘Hey, stop!’ called Blanchard.

Ahead, the traffic police waved their arms.

‘Stop!’ they shouted, waving, like people herding an animal, hi-viz armbands glinting in the sun.

‘Monsieur! Stop!’

Blanchard overtook and barred Griff’s way, pulling off his sidecap, out of breath. And holding his arms wide. Griff, thwarted, strained like a dog on a lead.

‘What’s he doing?’ Blanchard shouted angrily to Bea.