The drug was seeping into his veins, cold, pleasant, anaesthetisingthe pain.Hazy. Will drifted in and out of consciousness. He felt the car picking up speed. He started to feel queasy as his head rolled from side to side as they took the corners. He thought of Alice. More than anything, he wanted to see her. Tell her he had tried his best. That he had not let her down.

He was hallucinating now. He could picture the swirling, murky green waters of the river Eure flooding into his mouth and nose and lungs. Will tried to keep Alice’s face in his mind, her serious brown eyes, her smile. If he could keep her image with him, then perhaps he would be all right.

But the fear of drowning, of dying in this foreign place that meant nothing to him, was more powerful. Will slipped away into the darkness.

In Carcassonne, Paul Authie stood on his balcony looking out over the river Aude, a cup of black coffee in his hand. He had used O’Donnell as bait to get to Francois-Baptiste de l’Oradore, but instinctively he rejected the idea of a dummy book for her to hand over. The boy would spot it was a fake. Besides, he did want him to see the state she was in and know he’d been set up.

Authie put his cup down on the table and shot the cuffs on his crisp white shirt. The only option was to confront Francois-Baptiste himself alone – and tell him he’d bring O’Donnell and the book to Marie-Cecile at the Pic de Soularac in time for the ceremony.

He regretted he’d not retrieved the ring, although he still believed Giraud had passed it to Audric Baillard and that Baillard would come to the Pic de Soularac of his own accord. Authie had no doubt the old man was out there somewhere, watching.

Alice Tanner was more of a problem. The disc O’Donnell had mentioned gave him pause for thought, all the more so because he didn’t understand its significance. Tanner was proving surprisingly adept at keeping out of his reach. She’d got away from Domingo and Braissart in the cemetery. They’d lost the car for several hours yesterday and when they did finally pick up the signal this morning, it was only to discover the vehicle was parked at the Hertz depot at Toulouse airport.

Authie closed his thin fingers around his crucifix. By midnight it would all be over. The heretical texts, the heretics themselves, would be destroyed.

In the distance the bell of the cathedral began to call the faithful to Friday mass. Authie glanced at his watch. He would go to confession. With his sins forgiven, in a state of Grace, he would kneel at the altar and receive the Holy Communion. Then he would be ready, body and soul, to fulfill God’s purpose.

Will felt the car slow down, then turn off the road on to a farm track.

The driver took it carefully, swerving to avoid the dips and hollows. Will’s teeth rattled in his head as the car bumped, jerked, jolted up the hill.

Finally, they stopped. The engine was turned off.

He felt the car rock as both men got out, then the sound of the doors slamming like shots from a gun and the clunk of the central locking. His hands were tied behind his back not in front, which made it harder, but Will twisted his wrists, trying to loosen the straps. He made little progress. The feeling was starting to come back. There was a band of pain across his shoulders from lying awkwardly for so long.

Suddenly, the boot was opened. Will lay completely still, his heart thudding, as the catches on the plastic container were unlocked. One of them took him under the arms, the other behind the knees. He was dragged out of the boot and dropped to the ground.

Even in his drugged state, Will felt they were miles from civilisation. The sun was fierce and there was a sharpness, a freshness to the air that spoke of space and lack of human habitation. It was utterly silent, utterly still. No cars, no people. Will blinked. He tried to focus, but it was too bright. The air was too clear. The sun seemed to be burning his eyes, turning everything to white.

He felt the hypodermic stab his arm again and the familiar embrace of the drug in his veins. The men pulled him roughly to his feet and started to drag him up the hill. The ground was steep and he could hear their laboured breathing, smell the sweat coming off them as they struggled in the heat.

Will was aware of the scrunch of gravel and stone, then the wooden struts of steps cut into the slope beneath his trailing feet, then the softness grass.

As he drifted back into semi-consciousness, he realised the whistling sound in his head was the ghostly sighing of the wind.

The Commissioner of the Police Judiciaire of the Haute-Pyrenees strode into Inspector Noubel’s office in Foix and slammed the door shut behind him.

“This had better be good, Noubel.”

Thank you for coming, sir. I wouldn’t have disturbed your lunch if I thought it could wait.“

He grunted. “You’ve identified Biau’s killers?”

“Cyrille Braissart and Javier Domingo,” confirmed Noubel, waving a fax that had come through minutes earlier. Two positive IDs. One shortly before the accident in Foix on Monday night, the second immediately afterwards. The car was found abandoned on the Spanish-Andorra border yesterday.“ Noubel paused to wipe the sweat from his nose and forehead. They work for Paul Authie, sir.”

The Commissioner lowered his massive frame on to the edge of the desk.

“Im listening.”

You’ve heard the allegations against Authie? That he’s a member of the Noublesso Veritable?“ He nodded. ”I spoke to the police in Chartres this afternoon – following up the Shelagh O’Donnell link – and they confirmed they’re investigating the links between the organisation and a murder that took place earlier in the week.“

“What’s that got to do with Authie?”

“The body was recovered quickly due to an anonymous tip-off.”

“Any proof it was Authie?”

“No,” Noubel admitted, “but there is evidence he met with a journalist, who’s also disappeared. The police in Chartres think there’s a link.”

Seeing the look of scepticism on his boss’ face, Noubel rushed on.

“The excavation at the Pic de Soularac was funded by Madame de l’Oradore. Well hidden, but it’s her money behind it. Brayling, the director of the dig, is pushing the idea that O’Donnell has disappeared, having stolen artifacts from the site. But it’s not what her friends think.” He paused. “I’m sure Authie has her, either on Madame de l’Oradore’s orders or on his own account.”

The fan in his office was broken and Noubel was perspiring heavily. He could feel rings of sweat mushrooming under his arms.

“It’s very thin, Noubel.”

“Madame de l’Oradore was in Carcassonne from Tuesday to Thursday, sir. She met twice with Authie. I believe she went with him to the Pic de Soularac”

“There’s no crime in that, Noubel.”

“When I came in this morning I found this message waiting for me, sir,” he said. “That’s when I decided we’d got enough to ask for this meeting.”

Noubel hit the play button on his voicemail. Jeanne Giraud’s voice filled the room. The Commissionaire listened, his expression growing grimmer by the second.

“Who is she?” he said when Noubel had played the message a second time.

Tves Biau’s grandmother.“

“And Audric Baillard?”

“An author and friend. He accompanied her to the hospital in Foix.”

The Commissioner put his hands on his hips and dropped his head. Noubel could see he was calculating the potential damage if they went after Authie and failed.

“And you’re a hundred per cent certain you’ve got enough to link Domingo and Braissart to both Biau and Authie?”

“The descriptions fit, sir.”

“They fit half of the Ariege,” he growled.

“O’Donnell’s been missing for three days, sir.”

The Commissionaire sighed and heaved himself off the desk.