The usual noises. Unusual circumstances.

Rocco lay back on a bed and breathed deeply while a nurse applied a dressing to his ribs with cool hands. He wanted to sleep, but knew that was delayed shock. Sleep was a luxury for later.

‘You were lucky,’ the nurse commented cheerfully. ‘It took off a chunk of flesh and nicked a couple of ribs. A bit to the side and we’d have been laying you out downstairs alongside the others.’

He grunted but said nothing. He hadn’t realised he’d been shot, mistaking the pain in his side for having collided with something solid. His mother had been right after all: no pain, no sense.

Berbier’s driver hadn’t been so lucky; he had talked long enough, but died just as help arrived. With two of his friends also dead and the man Rocco had shot at missing in the marais, it had been a costly exercise for whoever had sent them.

Maybe the fourth man would surface one day, Rocco mused, a nasty surprise for some unlucky fisherman sitting quietly by the lakeside.

There was no sign of Didier, although one of the cops who was a hunter had found traces of blood on the far edge of the wood. It didn’t prove Didier had been seriously wounded but it might be enough to slow him down and come to someone’s attention. Rocco wasn’t going to hold his breath on that one.

He had called out a warning when help had arrived, knowing he could easily end up the innocent casualty of a trigger-happy cop if he wasn’t careful. He waited for them to come to him, feeling their way carefully over the ground, checking for more traps and lethal ordnance. It had taken twenty minutes, and he’d used the time to rest and lay still, studying the canopy overhead and thinking about what the driver, named André, had told him. He’d felt unaccountably tired, as if he’d run a marathon, and had closed his eyes for a moment.

Sensing movement after what seemed a long time later, he’d looked round to find Captain Canet staring down at him.

‘You did all this?’ Canet looked aghast at the carnage all around. ‘It’s a war zone!’

‘Sweet Jesus.’ It was René Desmoulins, peering over the officer’s shoulder and holding his pistol in a meaty fist. He looked disappointed. ‘You couldn’t find it in you to wait for us, then?’

As soon as he was able to convince them to let him go, Rocco drove back to Poissons to find Claude, who told him that Francine was in Amiens hospital.

‘She’s in a mess – suffering from shock,’ he said, eyeing Rocco’s ruined clothing and bloodied face. ‘When we got across the bridge into the village, I asked her what had happened but she became hysterical. I couldn’t get a word out of her. Luckily Thierry’s wife used to be a midwife, so she was able to calm her down with something. Thierry took her off to Amiens. You must have just missed her. You OK? You look like shit.’ The words came out in a gabble, propelled by a mix of shock and relief.

Rocco nodded. ‘Thanks for the encouragement.’ He felt as if he’d been trampled by an elephant, but at least he was still on his feet.

‘Sounds like you might have some questions to answer,’ said Claude, when Rocco filled him in on what had happened. ‘The big képis don’t like unexplained massacres, especially when the press gets to hear about it. It makes them nervous, having to explain why some hotshot investigator from Paris blows up half the countryside. It’s bad for the tourist industry.’

‘I didn’t know there was one.’ Rocco was busy thinking about Francine and her incarceration. She must have surprised Didier at the lodge while delivering the groceries, and he’d panicked and locked her away where she wouldn’t be found. At least he hadn’t buried her in one of the marshes or dumped her inside her car in the lake.

Claude shook his head and sniffed. ‘That’s the problem with newcomers – they always bring their shit with them.’

Rocco drove home, where he washed and changed into fresh clothes. News about the source of the explosions, which had been heard all over the village, had filtered through the community, and Mme Denis fussed around, scooping up Rocco’s coat, shirt and trousers and pronouncing the first two salvageable, but the trousers beyond all help.

He waited for her to brush the coat into a semblance of something civilised, then asked Claude to take him back to Amiens.

Claude looked doubtful. ‘Are you up to it? It’s late. Where are we going?’

‘I want to interview Francine.’

‘Interview? After what she’s been through?’

Rocco tossed him the keys. ‘Don’t ask.’

It was already dark by the time they arrived at the hospital. The press had received a briefing from Massin about the explosions in Poissons, and although it was deliberately short on detail, it contained enough salient facts for them to put out an early story the following day. Unfortunately, it hadn’t kept them away for long, and they were already back clamouring at the entrance for late developments and the identities of the dead gunmen.

As the two policemen walked through the shadows across the car park, Rocco drew Claude to a stop before they reached the door. Something was niggling at his mind like a bad itch.

‘You said earlier about newcomers bringing trouble with them.’

Claude looked abashed. ‘Sure. It was just a crack. I didn’t mean anything personal.’

‘I know that. But who were you thinking of, apart from me?’

Claude puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, now you mention it, I suppose … Didier. Mostly.’

‘He’s been here – what, three years, you said?’

‘About that.’

‘Who else?’

‘Let me see … there’s Alain Dutronc down at the far end of the village, near my place … he arrived here about six months ago. He’s a quiet drunk, about eighty-five years old and doesn’t get out much. Then Mme Denis – she’s been here a few years. A bit of a gossip, but she’s OK.’

‘She’s not local?’ He remembered her saying something about having lived in Poissons long enough to know there were always surprises. At the time, he’d taken it as a statement about a lifetime’s knowledge of the village, or at least many years. With hindsight, it now took on a slightly different meaning.

‘She turned up several years ago,’ Claude confirmed, ‘with her husband. Not sure where from. He died and she stayed on. Someone said she lost her family in the war. I don’t know much about her, to be honest.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t push people to tell me their life histories.’

Rocco mulled it over, remembering how he’d felt sure someone had been inside the house and moved the photograph of Didier Marthe and the Resistance group. There was also the curtain caught in the window, which he was sure hadn’t been like that when he’d left. Was Mme Denis more than a friendly neighbour? Had she used a spare key to see what he was doing here and how far he’d got with his investigation? But if so, she wouldn’t have needed to open the window to get in, even if she were able to.

‘And Francine, of course. But you know about her.’

Claude’s voice interrupted his thoughts. Francine Thorin. Young, pretty, interesting. A widow. Friendly.

‘Tell me again.’

‘She arrived about two years ago.’ Claude shrugged. ‘That’s all I know. She doesn’t talk much but she’s sociable enough, fits into the community. I mean … she’s not exactly a good-time girl, you know what I mean?’

‘No secret life, then.’

‘If there is, that’s what she’s kept it – secret. But I don’t believe that.’

‘You didn’t know she was a widow,’ Rocco pointed out.

‘No.’ Claude frowned. ‘I didn’t.’ His frown deepened. ‘Look, where is this going? She’s had a rough time, with the kidnapping thing.’

Rocco ignored him. Two years ago. He felt something about that time frame tugging at his memory. Was it significant?

‘What else happened in Poissons two years ago?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Apart from Francine arriving.’