David interrupted:

‘Three murders?’

‘Yes. Of course…’ Sarria’s frown darkened. ‘You…did not know?’

‘I was fifteen. No one told me anything. Know what?’

‘The autopsy. Your mother was five months pregnant with a daughter…when she died.’

The table was silent. David’s soul churned with emotion. All his life he’d been an only child. Yearning for a sibling. And when he’d been orphaned, that loneliness, that hunger for a brother or a sister, had only intensified. And now this. He’d almost had a sister.

His anguished memories wove themselves, out of desperation, into a speculative reverie. Was this why Mum and Dad had gone on their strange holiday to France? Some desire to explore their roots? Following the revelation of her long-awaited second pregnancy?

Sarria spoke.

‘I am very sorry, Monsieur Martinez. You can see I am here to help you. I knew your face as soon as I saw you a moment ago. Just like your father. In the car when we found him.’ He looked briefly towards the sea, then returned his gaze to David. ‘I would very much like to put Miguel Garovillo in a French prison cell, for the rest of his life. But before I tell you any more. I need to know your story.’

He shifted his little coffee cup to the side, and leaned his uniformed elbows on the table. ‘Désolé. You may not wish to trust me. I am sure you do not trust me. But I remember what it was like, discovering your mother and father. Believe me, that kind of memory, it does not fade. So my advice is tell me everything, now, and tell me quickly.’ He paused, heavily. ‘Because, let us face the truth: what other choice do you have?’

David gave Amy a long and significant look, her fingers interlinked with his across the table. She said:

‘We have to. We have to be honest.’

She was, of course, correct. Their choices were narrowing down to nothing. So David nodded and drew a breath, and he told the policeman – everything – the whole story. The link to the British, French and Canadian murders. The journalist in England. The Cagot doors. The whole surreal roadtrip, crimsoned with blood every inch of the way.

By the end of this monologue, Sarria had taken off his kepi and laid it on the white paper tablecloth. His eyes had remained fixed on David the whole time.

‘So…As I thought. Les églises…La Societé.’ He was almost talking to himself – staring above their heads, searching for an answer in the sky over Biarritz.

Then he snapped from his thoughts and explained.

‘It is the churches. It is not just the mobile phones, how he traced you. Monsieur Martinez. It is the churches. As the priest at Navvarenx implied.’

Amy spoke. ‘What does that mean?’

‘After I was taken off the Martinez murders, after the case was closed…I did some of my own…investigating. I looked into the background of those who had been stopping me. See if I could find this connection with GAL. Of course there was no such connect. Mais -’ He paused, then continued: ‘But there was a link with the church. Specifically, the Society of Pius the Tenth.’

Amy’s face showed surprise.

‘I’ve heard of them. Yes. And – and – and José was linked to them. He had that crucifix blessed by Pope Pius. Yes -’ She clutched at David’s arm. ‘The priest, at Navvarenx.’

David recalled. ‘He mentioned a Society. Said he had been asked to warn them…or someone…about us. And there were portraits of that pope in some of the churches.’ David struggled with the idea, he was at a loss. ‘But who are they?’

Sarria elaborated.

‘A large splinter group from the Catholic church, with strong support in the South of France. And in the Basque Country. Very traditionale. They were founded by Archbishop Lefebvre. They have links to the Front Nationale, to hard right-wing politics. Some of their bishops have denied the Holocaust. They have sympathizers across the state. They are…’ He frowned. ‘They are also active abroad. In Bavaria and Quebec, South America. In Poland they have political friends, the League of Polish Families. And the hard right in Austria. It is guessed there are eight hundred thousand members. Their own priests, their own seminaries, their own churches.’

Amy said: ‘You are sure they are linked?’

‘Quite sure. Everywhere I looked I found, mademoiselle, connections to the Society. Un réseau, une conspiration! My superior officer was a confirmed sympathizer. Very right wing.’

David gazed at the policeman, still deeply confused.

‘But why would they be involved in this?’

The officer nodded, uncertainly.

‘It seems to me the Catholic church wants to…suppress some knowledge. Which dates back to the war. Maybe to Gurs. Your parents were accidentally revealing the same…mystery. Perhaps by mistake. Accidentellement.’

‘You say the Society is involved, but now you say the whole Catholic church?’

A shrug. ‘This is my…hunch, is that the right word? My hunch. I have researched the Society ever since the first killings in Gurs. Some years ago the Society of Pius the Tenth was…excommunié…by Pope John Paul for rejecting the Second Vatican Council. And for their extreme views. But recently there have been signs that the Pope will take the Society back…into the warmth of Catholic communion. Peace overtures have been noted.’ Sarria was faintly smiling. ‘But I am thinking the church has asked the Society to do something, in return for healing the schism.’

‘Close down this mystery. The mystery of Gurs. Once and for all?’

He sighed.

‘Yes. Who better than the Society? They already know the whole story because their roots go back to Vichy, and l’occupation. When this began. Right-wing French priests were chaplains at Gurs. They tortured Cagots, and Jews, despite themselves.’

The picture, at least half of it, was now revealed to David. He gazed through the dark potted firs, at the blue Bay of Biscay. He talked to himself, quietly:

‘Everywhere we went…we went into churches. Navvarenx, Savin, Luz. Eloise’s house was opposite a church. She went into the church at Campan…’

‘Exactement. The Society has maybe asked for help in their search for you…from the wider church. Priests and nuns and ecclesiastical officials, are maybe identifying you as you move from place to place. Let us say the average priest does not even know why he has been asked to do this. But he will do it because he is obedient. Loyalty means much, in this part of the world.’

Amy spoke up: ‘And then the information would be passed to the Society? And then to Miguel?’

‘Et voila‘. But what else do we know? I do not have to explain one thing, do I? Miguel’s motivation.’ The policeman sipped his coffee, and flicked a glance towards the sea, then returned his attention to the table.

‘Garovillo fils must have been brought up a Basque radical. Violently proud of his Basque heritage. And then – then one day, he discovers from his father that he is not Basque, but a Cagot, a despised Cagot. Miguel Garovillo would have been shattered, destroyed. And then he must have resolved.’ Sarria frowned. ‘Resolved that he would do anything to keep this secret hidden, kill anyone who threatened to reveal the humiliating truth about his father – and about Miguel himself. Along the way his wishes happily coincided with the wishes of the Society. Maybe they recruited him at that point, maybe the two Garovillo men were already members. So it all folded into place.’

David spoke up. ‘And on top of that his ETA status helped him. Right? He would have the guns and the bombs and the expertise. To kill.’

‘Vraiment. And one day, Miguel found out that your parents were in France, researching the Cagots, and staying near Gurs. Asking questions at the Brasserie d’Hagetmau. That would have scared Miguel, alerted him to danger. The Wolf took action. Alors.’

The frail laughter of a child carried on the coastal breeze. A brief glimpse of personal emotion, of sincere sadness, crossed Sarria’s face. He added: