Or maybe both.

He’d only asked for my help once before now, and that was when he’d thought he’d lost his son.

‘So what happens now? Is everything on hold?’

‘An audit is called for.’ He paused to give his next sentence the weight he believed it deserved. ‘I will take care of it personally.’

I brought out the invitation to the opening of the distribution depot and unfolded it. ‘And have you ever had dealings with Adler Gesellschaft? I’m guessing it’s a German company. I found this invite in Frank’s desk.’

‘Of course. Monsieur Timis is the majority shareholder. And it is not German. It is Swiss. The head office is in St Gallen. But the depot …’ he pointed at the address on the card ‘… is local.’

Majority shareholder. Acquisition. Italian shipping. Swiss construction. I knew Frank had been trying to go legit; I hadn’t realized how serious he was about it.

‘Are there complications there too?’

His brow furrowed. ‘Not as far as I know. Why do you ask?’

My eyes locked on his. ‘Because one of their monster lorries forced me off the road immediately before Frank was killed.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Very.’ I paused. ‘And you’ve just told me their head office in Switzerland is on his ex-wife’s very smart new doorstep. That’s already two coincidences too many.’

‘Nettuno was his particular concern.’

‘Maybe he was looking in the wrong direction.’

He shrugged. ‘I have no way of telling.’

‘Maybe you should be taking a long, hard look at Adler too.’

His expression said he was happy for me to do my job but not for me to tell him how to do his.

I decided it was time for us to be new best friends again. ‘Thank you for the half-million euros.’

‘You are welcome, Monsieur. As you know, it is the sum you agreed for looking after his son. The balance will be paid into your account when you have discovered who is responsible for Monsieur Timis’s death, and why, and then …’

He left me to fill in the blanks.

‘The balance?’

‘The other half-million.’ He allowed himself the smallest of smiles. I couldn’t blame him. This was Albertville, for fuck’s sake, not Zürich. Frank must have trusted him a lot.

I asked if I could call if anything else came up.

He extracted a wafer-thin leather wallet from somewhere among the greyness and handed me his business card. ‘My private cell phone.’

‘How private?’

‘Very.’ His eyes glinted. Fair one.

I didn’t make a habit of collecting people’s business cards, but I tucked this one away. Laffont clearly had access to a whole lot of shit that I might need to tap into once the due diligence kicked in.

‘Monsieur Timis was most … insistent that I should help you. In any way possible.’

‘Excellent.’ I leant in towards him. ‘Perhaps you can kick off by taking care of his son. I don’t like leaving him on his own. It makes us both vulnerable. And I can move faster and be less visible if I go solo.’

He tried as hard as he could to disguise it, but I knew I’d caught him off balance. He looked like he’d had a red-hot poker shoved up his arse. He raised his eyebrows and gave a small cough into his delicately bunched fist while he sorted himself out. ‘Alas, that will not be possible … Madame Laffont, she is not in the best of health …’

I imagined that Madame Laffont was as fit as a butcher’s dog, and couldn’t be bothered to get off her sunbed.

‘I’m sure you and Madame Laffont would find Stefan very … rewarding.’ It was my turn to give him the kind of smile that wasn’t more than skin deep. ‘And what better way to honour his father’s faith in you?’

He glanced at his Patek Philippe wristwatch. ‘My apologies, Monsieur. Sadly, I have another meeting scheduled for … five minutes ago.’

As we got to our feet and shook, I told him I needed one other thing. Could he make sure the digital record of my visit was wiped?

He responded with another dip of the head. ‘You dislike being photographed, Monsieur?’

Being photographed had once been fucking close to fatal for me, and put Anna and our son severely in harm’s way too. But he didn’t need to know that.

I gave him some meaningful eye to eye. ‘Dislike doesn’t even begin to cover it, Monsieur Laffont.’

On the way out I remembered that I’d left the +1 specs on his desk. Fuck it. He could keep them.

18

I’d left the Polo near the town hall.

I read the number on Laffont’s card three times on the way back to it, waited five minutes, then checked I’d got it right. This time the magic worked. But I copied it into the Moleskine once I was back behind the wheel. I’d test myself again later.

Then I went in search of a cyber café. I wanted to get the latest on the investigation into the body on the mountain. And to find out as much as I could about the lay-out of the Adler set-up. I quartered the town for half an hour without finding one, so decided to head straight for the address on the invite.

I needed to find the driver who had slammed his foot on the brake right in front of me and sent the X-Trail off-road. Then I needed to take him somewhere quiet and grip him. I’d invite him to refresh his memory of yesterday afternoon’s events, and refresh mine too. He’d suddenly realize he wanted to share some information with me – starting with the name and contact details of Mr Lover Man or the fucker who’d put him up to it. It wouldn’t necessarily mean we’d be completely sorted, but it would be a good place to start.

I got back on the main for a couple of Ks and retraced the route I’d taken last night. I shot past the Buffalo Grill and exited a few minutes later, crossing the river not too far from the jumble of earth-moving equipment on its bank.

I scanned the area, trying to look like a local with a purpose rather than a tourist who’d lost his way. I passed a budget furniture centre, a mega wine store and a cement factory.

The Adler depot was on the edge of the development. Three pleated-tin warehouses the size of aircraft hangars surrounded by solid metal railings topped with spikes. I joined a line of wagons parked at the edge of the road that led to its main entrance and switched off my engine.

Ahead of me, forklifts buzzed in and out of three sets of huge sliding doors, loading artics with RSJs, prefab roofing sections and stripy steel poles. Lads in white safety helmets and yellow hi-vis jackets with reflecting stripes waved their arms around and shouted useful stuff and piss-takes across the loading bays.

High-voltage cables hung from pylons that paralleled the fence on the right-hand side of the yard, en route to a relay station. The forklifts and flatbed-mounted cranes kept well clear of them, keen to avoid being on the receiving end of a bolt from the world’s biggest Taser.

I watched the flatbeds come and go, checking in and out with a couple of guys in the gatehouse who sat in front of a computer monitor and operated the barrier. I guess, deep down, I was hoping that one of their registration plates might suddenly leap out at me, triggering a clearer memory of the pre-crash sequence on the mountain.

Dream on.

I waited an hour, though it was blindingly obvious I was wasting my time. Every flatbed had ADLER on its rear panel and the eagle logo on its mudguards. There was nothing to help me tell the fuckers apart.

I decided to come back later. Each unit in a delivery fleet was tracked by GPS these days, partly so Mission Control could keep the customer satisfied, partly to save fuel, and partly to stop the lads behind the wheel taking the piss or driving like idiots.

They no longer needed to stick signs on the back of their vehicles asking other road-users to ring in and deliver a hug or a bollocking: the telematics told them everything they needed to know about every millimetre of every journey. If I could break into the gatehouse and access that computer, I’d be able to ID the driver from yesterday’s route.