He motioned to them to come over. Godard, Naudon and Berger stamped out their cigarettes, shot serious looks at one another and approached. Their good humour had suddenly evaporated, quickly giving way back to nervousness. Naudon was wearing a weak grin, about to say something.

They were ten metres away when Bozza casually drew out a silenced.380 Beretta and dropped them in rapid succession without a word. The bodies slumped quietly to the floor. A spent case tinkled across the concrete. He looked down impassively at the dead men as he unscrewed his silencer and replaced the little pistol in its holster.

Four bodies to dispose of. This time there’d be no traces left.

The van drove away in a haze of dust and diesel smoke. The delivery driver was more than happy with the bulge in his pocket, to the tune of 1,000 Euros, that his odd hitchhikers-the short-tempered American woman and her quiet, pale and sick-looking boyfriend-had given him to go the extra kilometres out of his way as far as the tiny hamlet of Saint-Jean. He wondered what that was all about…but then again, what did he care? The drinks would be on him that night.

Roberta was still picking bits of hay out of her hair after their uncomfortable night in the barn. The farmer whose truck they’d jumped on had never noticed his passengers. After the bumpy ride through the country lanes he’d backed the truck up into the barn and then disappeared. Roberta had sneaked down and hunted around until she’d found a rough old blanket to cover Ben with. He was shivering and in a lot of pain.

She’d spent most of the night sitting watching him and worrying that she should have got him to a hospital. Two farm cats had found them and snuggled up next to her in the deep bed of hay. She’d fallen asleep sometime after three, and it seemed like only minutes had passed before the dawn cries of a rooster had woken them. They’d crept away before the farmer appeared.

It had taken hours to get to Saint-Jean, and the afternoon sun was beginning its downward curve. The village seemed deserted. ‘This place looks like it hasn’t changed much in the last few centuries,’ Roberta said, looking about her.

Ben was slumped against a dry-stone wall, head hanging. He looked pretty bad, she thought anxiously. ‘You wait here. I’ll go see if I can find someone who can help us.’

He nodded weakly. She touched his brow. It was burning, but his hands were cold. The pain from his side was making it hard for him to breathe. She stroked his face. ‘Maybe there’s a doctor in the village,’ she said.

‘Don’t want a doctor,’ he muttered. ‘Get the priest. Get Father Pascal Cambriel.’

For the first time in her life, Roberta found herself praying as she walked through the empty street. The road was bare earth, crumbly from lack of rain. The ancient houses, dirty in a way that would have looked squalid anywhere but the south of France, seemed to lean against each other for support. ‘If you’re up there at all, Lord,’ she said to herself, ‘then please let me find Father Pascal.’ She was suddenly chilled at the thought of being told he was dead, or no longer there. She quickened her step.

The church was at the far end of the village. Beside it was a little graveyard and beyond that a stone cottage. She could hear the cosy sound of hens clucking from the shelter of an outbuilding. A dusty and well-used old Renault 14 was parked outside.

A man walked out from between two houses. He looked like a labourer, his deeply lined face like leather from years of working in the harsh sun. He slowed as he caught sight of her.

‘Monsieur, excuse me,’ she called out to him. He peered at her curiously, quickened his pace and disappeared into one of the houses, slamming the door in her face. Roberta was shocked-and then it dawned on her that a tousled and grimy foreign woman with a bloodstained shirt and ripped jeans might not be a typical sight in these parts. She hurried on, thinking of Ben.

‘Madame? Je peux vous aider? said a voice. Roberta turned and saw an elderly lady, dressed all in black with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. A crucifix hung from a chain around her wrinkled neck.

‘Please, yes, I hope you can help me,’ Roberta answered in French. ‘I’m looking for the village priest.’

The old lady raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes? He is here.’

‘Is Father Pascal Cambriel still the priest of this village?’

‘Yes, he is still here,’ she said, smiling a gap-toothed smile. ‘I am Marie-Claire. I take care of his house.’

‘Will you take me to him, please? It’s important. We need help.’

Marie-Claire led her along to the cottage and they went in. ‘Father,’ she called. ‘We have a visitor.’

The cottage was a humble abode, sparsely furnished yet giving off an air of immense warmth and security. The evening fire was ready for lighting, logs piled on twigs. At a plain pine table were two simple wooden chairs, and at the other end of the room was an old couch covered with a blanket. A large ebony crucifix hung on one whitewashed wall, and there was a picture of the Pope beside an image of the Crucifixion.

There were creaky, uneven footsteps on the stairs, and the priest appeared. Now seventy, Pascal Cambriel was having a little difficulty walking and he leaned heavily on his stick. ‘What can I do for you, my child?’ he asked, casting a curious eye over Roberta’s unusual appearance. ‘Are you hurt? Has there been an accident?’

‘I’m not hurt, but I’m with a friend who’s not well,’ she said. ‘You’re Father Pascal Cambriel, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

She closed her eyes. Thank you, Lord.

‘Father, we were on our way especially to meet you when my friend was injured. He’s sick.’

‘This is serious.’ Pascal frowned.

‘I know what you’re going to say, that he should see a doctor. I can’t explain right now, but he doesn’t want one. Will you help?’

‘In any case, there is no doctor here any longer,’ Pascal told her as they bumped back down the street in his Renault. ‘Dr Bachelard passed away two years ago, and nobody has taken his place. No young people want to come to Saint-Jean. It is a dying place, I am sorry to say.’

Ben was semi-conscious when the priest’s car ground to a halt on the village outskirts. ‘My Lord, he is very sick.’ Pascal limped over to Ben’s slumped form and took him by the arm. ‘Can you hear me, my son? Mademoiselle, you will have to help me get him into the car.’

Roberta, Pascal and old Marie-Claire nursed Ben up the stairs of the cottage, into the priest’s spare bedroom. He was laid in the bed and Pascal unbuttoned his bloody shirt. He winced at the sight of the wound across Ben’s ribs. He said nothing, but he could see that it was a gunshot wound. He’d seen them before, many years ago. He felt with his fingers. The bullet had passed straight through the muscle and out the other side.

‘Marie-Claire, would you kindly fetch hot water, bandages and disinfectant? And do we still have any of that herbal preparation for cleansing wounds?’

Marie-Claire tiptoed dutifully off to attend to her task.

Pascal felt Ben’s pulse. ‘It is very fast.’

‘Will he be OK?’ Roberta was drained of all colour, her fists balled at her sides.

‘We will need some of Arabelle’s medicine.’

‘Arabelle? Is she a local healer?’

‘Arabelle is our goat. We have some antibiotics from when she suffered a hoof infection some time ago. I am afraid that is the limit of my medical prowess.’ Pascal smiled. ‘But Marie-Claire knows much about herbal remedies. Many a time has she helped me, and other members of our little community. I believe our young friend here is in good hands.’

‘Father, I’m so grateful to you for your help.’

‘It is my duty, but also my pleasure, to give service to the needy,’ Pascal replied. ‘It has been some time since this room was last used to tend to a sick man. I believe it must be five, even six years, since the last injured soul found his way to our village.’