He and Claude arrived at the edge of the field behind Mme Denis’s house and hunkered down, watching for signs of movement. Everything seemed normal but Claude was shaking his head, visibly unsettled. It turned out to be for the same reasons Rocco had noted earlier.

‘No bird noises,’ he whispered. ‘The orchards and hedges are usually full of them, taking the last of the fruit before winter. Something’s disturbed them.’

They gave it another ten minutes, then Claude beckoned Rocco to follow him, moving carefully along the hedge until they arrived at the orchard. From here, the house would be between them and the thicket where Mme Denis had spotted the watcher, and if they were careful, they could get inside without being seen. As they got ready to move through the fence into Rocco’s garden, Claude froze, holding out a warning hand.

Rocco stopped, peering past the other man’s shoulder, and felt his gut lurch.

Mme Denis was lying on the ground by his front door.

She was still bundled in her heavy coat but looked frail, a stick figure without the vitality she always displayed. Nearby was an upturned wooden garden trug, the contents spread across the gravel.

Rocco swore silently. She’d been bringing him vegetables from her underground store. Probably trying to show that everything was ordinary, that life went on, acting out a friendly visit to put off whoever was watching the house.

Now she had paid dearly for her courage.

‘I can’t wait here,’ he said, drawing his gun. ‘She could be badly hurt.’

Claude nodded and drew his own automatic. ‘I’m with you. What do you want to do?’

‘I’ll go get her, you watch my back. If anyone shows up who shouldn’t, shoot them. Ready?’

‘Of course.’

Rocco stood up and checked the ground ahead. Once through the fence, he’d be moving through long grass and over uneven ground. But he couldn’t afford to waste time. If Mme Denis was hurt, lying on the ground in this cold would soon finish her off. He had to get her inside in the warmth.

He took off, jinking between the worst of the grassy clumps and avoiding the treacherous hollows, one eye on the house. If anyone stepped out right now, he was going to shoot first and worry about who it was later. A friend wouldn’t have left the old woman lying out front.

He reached the prone figure of his neighbour without getting shot and hunkered down beside her, relying on Claude to cover him. He bent and touched her face.

She was warm and breathing.

He motioned for Claude to come in and cover him, and scooped up the old lady in his arms and walked towards the house, gun pointing at the door. It wouldn’t be an ideal shooting position, but better than being unprepared.

Claude arrived on the run, breathing heavily, and kicked at the door, flinging it back with a bang. He charged inside, spinning to check the room, then beckoned Rocco in after him.

Rocco didn’t stop, but took Mme Denis through to his bedroom where Nicole had slept and placed her gently on the bed.

‘We need to raise her body temperature,’ he said, noting the gentle rise and fall of the old lady’s chest. Her face was unhealthily pale, with a large bruise showing on one cheek, but she looked otherwise unhurt. Her eyelids fluttered as she began to come to.

‘Tisane,’ said Claude. ‘I noticed a clump of leaves outside on the ground. I’ll heat some water.’

Ten minutes later, with Mme Denis wrapped in blankets and trying to sit up, Claude held out a large breakfast mug of greenish liquid and encouraged the old lady to drink.

She took a sip and immediately pulled a face. ‘Mother of God, who made this vile muck?’ she demanded.

‘I did!’ said Claude, and looked wounded. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘You boiled the leaves, that’s what’s wrong.’ She took the cup in her hands and sipped some more, then shook her head. ‘Cabbage water. I can’t believe it – a so-called countryman and garde champêtre who can’t make a simple tisane!’ But she gave Rocco a faint smile and rolled her eyes. ‘Good job I’m tough, isn’t it?’

Rocco shook his head, relieved that she was taking it so pragmatically. ‘Tough’ didn’t come close. Many people half her age would have been out for the count. He pointed at the bruise on her face. ‘You gave us a fright. What happened?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ she replied. ‘I was bringing you some vegetables and had just bent down to put them on the front step when I heard a noise and someone hit me from the side. I don’t recall anything else.’

‘Did you see anything?’

‘No. Just a shadow to one side. I didn’t see a face, if that’s what you mean.’ She grimaced and looked sour. ‘Cowardly, attacking an old woman. What is this world coming to? Let me see him and he’ll be sorry he ever came near me.’

Just then, the telephone began ringing in the kitchen. Rocco turned to answer it, wondering who could be calling at this time.

He stopped dead.

A man in a hunter’s jacket and boots was standing in the doorway. He was heavily built and pointing a pistol at them. He had a smile on his face, showing even, white teeth and the sallow tan of someone from the Mediterranean region, and looked accustomed to handling his weapon.

‘Leave it,’ he said, eyes flicking between Rocco and Claude. He pointed the gun barrel at Mme Denis. ‘Put your weapons on the floor. Right now. Or I’ll shoot this aggressive old bitch in the head.’

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

In the main office at Amiens police station, Detective Desmoulins frowned and put down the telephone he’d been using. ‘No answer. Rocco must have left already.’ He stifled a yawn. He’d been rousted out of bed after the night duty officer had discovered the emergency calls list missing, and evidence that drawers in the records office had been accessed during the night. He hadn’t wanted to call the senior officers in case he was mistaken, so opted for Desmoulins, a friend.

‘They were fine when I came on at eight last night,’ he had explained over the telephone. ‘I had to amend a couple of files of officers who’ve moved house. And I know nobody else would have used them.’

‘But someone has. You’re sure nobody else was in?’ Desmoulins didn’t doubt the officer’s word but needed to be certain before taking it up a level. The place was, by its very function, often full of criminals, but for security reasons they would not have access to anything sensitive such as the files containing home addresses and telephone numbers of serving officers.

‘Absolutely. And I know the emergency calls list was there last night because I amended that, too.’ He breathed heavily in exasperation. ‘Why would anyone do that?’

Desmoulins was already out of bed and getting dressed as he spoke. ‘Who was in last night? Anyone wandering around who shouldn’t have been? Was a door left open at the back?’

‘No. I was in and out all the time. I like to move around to stop myself falling asleep. Most of the time in the late evening it’s just patrol officers using desks and phones – you know how it is. But they wouldn’t need to look at that kind of stuff.’ He paused, mouth open.

‘What? Who else?’

‘Nobody. The cleaner, I mean, but he’s always on late.’ He swore softly. ‘Christ, surely not.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘Yes.’

‘Get him in,’ said Desmoulins without hesitation. ‘Send a car and two to pick him up. Tell them to search his place and don’t let him get rid of anything. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

Now Commissaire Massin and Captain Canet were also in and standing together by the door, eyeing a man sitting slumped in a chair on the other side of Desmoulins’ desk, a uniformed officer standing guard nearby. It was still too early for the civilian support workers and patrol teams to be in, but soon this office would be buzzing with activity.