‘Everything has the air peaceful. The sun, it is shining; the sea, it is beautifully blue. But you forget, mon ami, that evil always dwells among us. And this particular individual, this cold-hearted creature, this assassin, he was especially cunning. He crept into the library after the others had gone to bed and waited behind the door till the maid had cleared the table and Monsieur Bowles returned. Et puis – he stabbed him in the back with a dagger, in cold blood! He hid the dagger inside a jacket he had left in the room earlier, and departed. Because he knew he’d be back in the morning; after all, he’d be the first to be called to the scene! Doctor – or should I use your real title, you unhappy, bitter orphan, who swore revenge while still young? – you killed Mr Bowles, you framed Mr Parker, you pretended to everyone you were a doctor. But you could not pull the wool over my eyes!’

Every Sunday, we – Dad, Mum and me – sat down to watch our favourite Belgian detective on television. Really, the programme was too scary for children, but we had fewer rules than at my friends’ houses, because as a child, Dad had lived abroad, and for Mum, the only rule had been: don’t get lost in the forest.

It was the only programme all three of us liked. Dad liked the scenery, because England was the country where he and Auntie Annu had lived as children. Mum wanted to guess who the murderer was, and she guessed wrongly on purpose, coming up with totally wild plots. I liked the final scene, when everything became clear.

In the show, the detective doesn’t run or shoot. But he still wins. He remembers the tiniest details, which pass others by. He can spread them out in his mind to form a picture, and he can combine and shift them into different positions. Finally, he fills in all the gaps. That’s how he knows the identity of the murderer at the end.

The final scene was always the same. ‘Bon, it is time to reveal the truth. Let us go, Hastings,’ he said, throwing a serious glance at his friend. And every time Hastings appeared as puzzled as the last time.

Mum cried out, ‘Parker! It’s Parker!’

Dad and I shushed her.

The guests were all summoned into a single room, usually the library or the living room. There was always a suitable number of them. Not too many, because then they wouldn’t have all fitted into one room at the same time and the final scene would have been spoiled. Not too few, because then it would have been too easy to guess who the murderer was.