The client didn’t fit the normal profile of the gullible collector willing to pay over the odds, no questions asked. For a start, he sounded young.

Usually they were like medieval relic hunters, superstitious, susceptible, stupid, obsessed. He was none of these things. That alone should have been enough to set alarm bells ringing.

In retrospect, it seemed absurd she’d never stopped to ask herself why, if the ring and the book were indeed only of sentimental value, he was prepared to go to such trouble.

Any moral objections Shelagh had about stealing and selling on artefacts had gone years ago. She’d suffered enough at the hands of old fashioned museums and elitist academic institutions to believe they were more appropriate custodians of the treasures of antiquity than private collectors. She took the money; they got what they wanted. Everybody was happy. It wasn’t her business what happened afterwards.

Looking back, she realised she had been frightened long before the second phone call, certainly weeks before she had invited Alice to come to the Pic de Soularac. Then when Yves Biau had made contact and they had compared stories… The knot in her chest tightened.

If something happened to Alice it was her fault.

They reached the farmhouse, a medium-sized building, ringed by derelict outbuildings, a garage and a wine barn. The paint on the shutters: the front door was peeling and the empty black windows gaped. Two cars were parked out front, otherwise it was completely deserted.

All around were unbroken views of mountains and valleys. At least she was still in the Pyrenees. For some reason, that gave her hope.

The door stood open, as if they were expected. It was cool inside although, at first glance, deserted. A layer of dust covered everything. It like it had once been a hotel or auberge. There was a reception straight ahead, above which was a row of hooks, all empty, that. as if they once had held keys.

He jerked the rope to keep her moving. This close, he smelled of sweat, aftershave and stale tobacco. Shelagh caught the sound of voices; from a room to her left. The door was slightly ajar. She swivelled her eyes to try to see something and caught a glimpse of one man standing in front of the window, his back to her. Leather shoes and legs encased in light summer trousers.

She was forced up the stairs to the second floor, then along a corridor and up a confined, narrow staircase leading to an airless attic that occupied nearly the whole top floor of the house. They came to a halt in front of a door built into the eaves.

He shot the bolts and shoved her in the small of her back, sending her flying forward. She landed heavily, hitting her elbow on the ground, as he slammed the door behind him. Despite the pain, Shelagh threw herself at the door, shouting and pummelling the metal casing with her fists, but it had been specially adapted and there was metal flashing around the edges.

In the end, she gave up and turned round to inspect her new home.

There was a mattress pushed against the far wall. A blanket was folded neatly on it. Opposite the door there was a small window. Metal bars had been hammered across the inside. Shelagh walked stiffly across the room and saw she was now at the back of the house. The bars were solid and didn’t move at all when she pulled them. It was a sheer drop down anyway.

There was a small hand basin in the corner, with a bucket next to it. She relieved herself and, with difficulty, turned the taps. The pipes spluttered and coughed like a forty-a-day-smoker but, after a couple of false starts, a thin dribble of water appeared. Cupping her filthy hands, Shelagh drank until her insides hurt. Then she washed as best she could, dabbing the rope burns on her wrists and ankles, which were caked in dry blood.

A little later, he brought her something to eat. More than usual.

“Why I am here?”

He put the tray down in the middle of the room.

Why have you brought me here? Pourquoi je suis la?“

“Il te le dira.”

“Who wants to talk to me?”

He gestured at the food. “Mange.”

“You’ll have to untie me.” Then she repeated, “Who? Tell me.”

He pushed the tray forward with his foot. “Eat.”

When he’d gone, Shelagh fell upon the food. She ate every scrap, even the core and pips of the apple, then returned to the window. The first rays of the sun burst over the crest of the mountain, turning the world from grey to white.

In the distance, she heard the sound of a car, driving slowly towards the farmhouse.

Karen’s directions were good. An hour after leaving Carcassonne, Alice found herself on the outskirts of Narbonne. She followed signs to Cuxac d’Aude and Capestang along a pretty road bordered on either side by high bamboo and wild grasses leaping in the winds, sheltering fertile green fields. It was very different from the mountains of the Ariege or the garrigue of the Corbieres.

It was nearly two o’clock by the time Alice drove into Salleles d’Aude. She parked under the lime trees and parasol pines that bordered the Canal du Midi, just down from the lock gates, then wound her way through pretty streets until she arrived at the rue des Burgues.

Grace’s tiny three-storey house was on the corner and gave straight on to the street. A fairytale summer rose, its crimson blooms hanging heavily from the bough, framed the old-fashioned wooden door and large brown shutters. The lock was stiff and Alice had to jiggle the heavy brass key wind until she managed to make it turn. She gave a good hard shove a sharp kick. The door creaked open, scraping over the black and white tiles and free newspapers blocking the door from the inside.

It opened straight into a single downstairs room, the kitchen area to left and a larger living area to her right. The house felt cold and damp, the maudlin smell of a home long abandoned. The chill air crept around her bare legs like a cat. Alice tried the light switch, but the electricity had been turned off. Picking up the junk mail and circulars and it out of the way on the table, she leaned over the sink, opened the window and struggled with the ornate latch to pin back the shutters.

A jug kettle and an old-fashioned cooker with a grill-pan at eye-level were the closest her aunt had come to mod cons. The draining board was empty and the sink was clean, although a couple of sponges, rigid like dry old bones, were wedged behind the taps.

Alice crossed the room and opened the large window in the living and pushed back the heavy brown shutters. Straight away, the sun flooded in, transforming the room. Leaning out, she breathed in the scent of the roses, relaxing under the touch of the hot summer air for a moment, letting it chase her feelings of discomfort away. She felt like an intruder, poking around someone else’s life without permission.

Two high-backed wooden armchairs were set at an angle to the fireplace. The chimney surround was grey stone, with a few china ornaments arranged on the mantle, coated with dust. The blackened remains of a fire long cold sat in the grate. Alice pushed with her toe and it collapsed, sending a cloud of fine grey ash billowing over everything.

Hanging on the wall beside the fireplace was an oil painting of a stone house with a sloping, red-tiled roof, set among fields of sunflowers and vines. Alice peered at the signature scrawled across the bottom right-hand corner: BAILLARD.

A dining table, four chairs and a sideboard occupied the back of the room. Alice opened the doors and found a set of coasters and mats, decorated with pictures of French cathedrals, a pile of linen napkins and a canteen of silver cutlery, which rattled loudly as she pushed the drawer shut. The best china – serving dishes, cream jug, dessert bowls, and a gravy boat – was tucked away on the shelves underneath.