For a moment, Alice stood staring at the empty space in the street, half-minded to follow him. Then she reconsidered. The truth was, he’d scared her. She looked down at the letter in her hand as if it was a bomb about to go off, then took a deep breath and slid her finger under the flap. Inside the envelope was a single sheet of cheap writing paper with appelez scrawled across it in childish capitals. Below that was a telephone number: 02 68 72 31 26.

Alice frowned. It wasn’t local. The code for the Ariege was 05.

She turned it over in case there was something on the other side, but it was blank. She was about to throw the note in the bin, then thought better of it. Might as well keep it for now. Putting it in her pocket, she dumped the envelope on top of the ice-cream wrappers, then went back in, feeling mystified.

Alice didn’t notice the man step out from the doorway of the cafe opposite. By the time he reached into the bin to retrieve the envelope, she was already back in her room.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Yves Biau finally stopped running. He bent over, hands on his knees, to get his breath back.

High above him, the great Chateau of Foix towered over the town as it had done for more than a thousand years. It was the symbol of the independence of the region, the only significant fortress never to be taken in the crusade against the Languedoc. A refuge for the Cathars and freedom fighters driven from the cities and plains.

Biau knew he was being followed. They-whoever they were-had made no attempt to hide. His hand went to his gun beneath his jacket. At least he’d done what Shelagh asked him. Now, if he could get over the border into Andorra before they realized he’d gone, he might be all right. Biau understood now that it was too late to halt the events he’d helped set in motion. He’d done everything they told him, but she kept coming back. Whatever he did would never be enough.

The package had gone by the last post to his grandmother. She would know what to do with it. It was the only thing he could think of to make up for what he’d done.

Biau looked up and down the street. No one.

He stepped out and started to walk, heading home by a circuitous, illogical route, in case they were waiting for him there. Coming from this direction, he’d have a chance of spotting them before they saw him.

As he crossed through the covered market, his subconscious mind registered the silver Mercedes in the Place Saint-Volusien, but he paid little attention. He didn’t hear the soft cough of the engine ticking over, nor the shift of gears as the car started to glide forward, rumbling softly over the cobbled stones of the medieval old town.

As Biau stepped off the pavement to cross the road, the car accelerated violently, catapulting forward like a plane on a runway. He spun round, shock frozen on his face. A dull thud and his legs were taken out from under him as his suddenly weightless body was thrown into and over the windscreen. Biau seemed to float for a fraction of a second before being hurled violently against one of the cast-iron stanchions that supported the sloped roof of the covered market.

He hung there, suspended in midair, like a child in a centrifuge at a fairground. Then gravity claimed him and he dropped straight to the ground, leaving a trail of red blood on the black metal pillar.

The Mercedes did not stop.

The noise brought people in the local bars out on to the streets. A couple of women looked out from windows overlooking the square. The owner of the Cafe PMU took one look and ran back inside to call the police. A woman started screaming and was quickly hushed as a crowd formed around the body.

At first, Alice took no notice of the noise. But as the wailing of the sirens grew closer, she moved to her hotel window like everyone else and looked out.

It’s nothing to do with you.

There was no reason to get involved. And yet, for some reason she couldn’t account for, Alice found herself leaving her room and heading for the square.

There was a police car blocking the small road that led from the corner of the square, its lights flashing silently. Just the other side, a group of people had formed a semicircle around something or someone lying on the ground.

“You’re not safe anywhere,” an American woman was muttering to her husband, “not even in Europe.”

Alice’s sense of foreboding got stronger the closer she got. She couldn’t bear the thought of what she might see, but somehow couldn’t stop herself. A second police car emerged from a side street and screeched to a halt beside the first. Faces turned, the thicket of arms and legs and bodies thinning just long enough for Alice to see the body on the ground. A pale suit, black hair; sunglasses with brown lenses and gold arms, lying close by.

It can’t be him.

Alice pushed her way through, shoving people out of the way until she reached the front. The boy was lying motionless on the ground. Her hand went automatically to the paper in her pocket. This can’t be a coincidence.

Struck dumb with shock, Alice blundered back. A car door slammed. She jumped and spun round, in time to see Inspector Noubel levering himself out of the driver’s seat. She shrank back into the mass of people. Don’t let him see you. Instinct sent her across the square, away from Noubel, her head down.

As soon as she rounded the corner, she broke into a run.

“S’il vous plait,” shouted Noubel, clearing a path through the onlookers. “Police. S’il vous plait.”

Yves Biau was spreadeagled on the unforgiving ground, his arms flung out at right angles. One leg was doubled under him, clearly broken, a white ankle bone protruding from his trousers. The other leg lay unnaturally flat, flopped sideways. One of his tan loafers had come off.

Noubel crouched down and tried to find a pulse. The boy was still breathing, in short, shallow gasps, but his skin was clammy to the touch and his eyes were closed. In the distance, Noubel heard the welcome wail of an ambulance.

“S’il vous plait,” he shouted again, hauling himself to his feet. “Poussez-vous.” Stand back.

Two more police cars arrived. Word had gone out over the radio that an officer was down, so there were more police than bystanders. They cordoned off the street and separated witnesses from onlookers. They were efficient and methodical, but the tension showed in their faces.

“It wasn’t an accident, Inspector,” said the American woman. “The car drove right at him, real fast. He didn’t stand a chance.”

Noubel looked at her intently. “You saw the incident, Madame?”

“Sure I did.”

“Did you see what type of car it was? The make?”

She shook her head. “Silver, that’s as much I can say.” She turned to her husband.

“Mercedes,” he said immediately. “Didn’t get a good look myself. Only turned around when I heard the noise.”

“Registration number?”

“I think the last number was eleven. It happened too quick.”

“The street was quite empty, Officer,” the wife repeated, as if she feared he wasn’t taking her seriously.

“Did you see how many people were in the car?”

“One for sure in the front. Couldn’t say if there were folks in the rear.”

Noubel handed her over to an officer to take down her details, then walked round to the back of the ambulance where Biau was being lifted in on a stretcher. His neck and head were supported by a brace, but a steady stream of blood was flowing from beneath the bandage wrapped around the wound, staining his shirt red.

His skin was unnaturally white, the color of wax. There was a tube taped to the corner of his mouth and a mobile drip attached to his hand.

“Il pourra’s”en tirer?“ ‘Will he make it?

The paramedic pulled a face. “If I were you,” he said, slamming the doors shut, “I’d be calling the next of kin.”