‘What’s up?’

‘You went to speak to Gondrand the other day, right? About a car you’d seen – a Peugeot?’

‘What about it?’ Nicole’s 403. It seemed a long time ago now. Ancient history, almost.

‘Gondrand’s been hit. The car lot’s been destroyed. They reckon it was a firebomb.’

‘How bad?’

‘The old man’s dead.’

The Gondrand car lot looked like a war zone. A heavy pall of smoke hung over the area around what had once been Victor Gondrand’s pride and joy, and the smell of burning rubber choked the atmosphere from a good kilometre away. As Rocco climbed out of his car he saw smouldering pennants hanging from their support wires and heard the tortured groan of overheated metal and the crackle of burning plastic echoing in the bitter morning air. Firemen in shiny helmets and heavy boots were dousing the smouldering remains of vehicles, but the heat from the burnt hulks was considerable, made worse by occasional flashes of renewed fire as the heat found remnants of fuel and oil in the tanks and engine blocks.

A group of children watched the proceedings in silence, jumping at each pop of fuel. They were wrapped in heavy coats and zip-up suede boots, and Rocco could only assume they had been sent out to watch the excitement by their parents. Go watch the big fire, kids. Give us some peace.

Desmoulins was talking to a fireman. Rocco walked across to join them and shook hands. ‘Early start. What happened?’

The fireman rubbed a grimy cheek. ‘Looks like someone used petrol bombs – Molotov cocktails – to set it all off.’ He nodded towards the watching children. ‘One of the kids over there said he couldn’t sleep. He was drawing pictures on his bedroom window and saw some men drive up in a car. They got out with a box and lobbed burning bottles in among the cars. They were parked close together, so it wouldn’t have taken much to spread quickly. You ask me, someone didn’t want anything to survive.’

‘And Gondrand?’

Desmoulins looked grim and pointed at what was left of the office building. ‘Victor’s in there. It’s still too hot to get him out. We haven’t been able to get hold of Michel.’

Rocco thought about the time. ‘Was Victor working early or late?’

‘He was a work freak. Stayed late, started early, didn’t have much in the way of hobbies or interests. They must have known he was in there, though. The lights would’ve been on.’

Lucas looked at the children and wondered if they had seen anything else useful. In his experience, kids often had better recall than adults, images sticking in their minds but lasting only a short while before the temptation to colour the facts began to take over. He walked over and stood looking down at them.

‘Which one of you saw it happen?’ he said. There were nine of them, ranging from a five-year-old to a girl in her early teens. They all stared at Rocco with wide eyes, and one of the little girls began to whimper.

Rocco sighed and sat down on the ground before them. He’d heard it diminished the threat of a grown-up and brought you down to their level, which they could deal with more easily.

‘I did.’ It was a small boy on the extreme edge of the group. He was shrouded in a large coat with big, blue buttons, and his skinny legs were sunk into an oversized pair of brown, suede ankle boots with a zip running up the front.

Rocco nodded. ‘That’s good. What’s your name?’

‘Rémi.’

‘Rémi. That’s a good name. My father’s name was Rémi.’ It wasn’t, but Rocco was after quick results, not a comparison of family history.

The boy seemed unimpressed. He shivered in the cold and said in a rush, ‘Some men drove up in a black Peugeot and got out. They had a crate of bottles. Then one of the men lit matches and they started throwing the bottles at the cars.’ He sniffed loudly and added, ‘I won’t get into trouble telling you, will I?’

Rocco smiled. ‘No. You won’t get into trouble. You’re very good at noticing things. Can you tell me what any of the men looked like? Were they tall, short, thin, fat … stuff like that?’

‘They were Arabs,’ said the boy fiercely. Then he turned and ran across the road to a house with a green front door and disappeared inside. The door slammed shut.

Rocco looked at the rest of them. ‘Anyone else see the men like Rémi did?’

They shook their heads and looked bored.

Rocco stood up and looked round for a uniformed officer. He needed someone to speak to Rémi’s parents, and for men to canvass the houses for any other witnesses.

But first he needed to speak with Michel Gondrand.

He collected Desmoulins and got him to drive to Gondrand’s home address. It turned out to be an impressive three-storey house in a village several miles out of Amiens. The drive held a Mercedes and a trailer with a powerboat standing in front of a two-car garage. Behind the garage was a large greenhouse, and beyond that a wooden summer house with a large dovecote crowning the shingle roof. The garden was extensive and laid with flower beds and a selection of trees and bushes. Rocco couldn’t picture Michel as the gardening sort, but maybe he was doing the car dealer an injustice.

He walked up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. He tried the door. Locked tight.

He looked at Desmoulins. ‘Is Gondrand married?’ It was a family-size home, but you never could tell. Checked his watch. Still only seven-fifteen. It was early for a no-answer, especially with the car in the drive.

‘Married, yes. No kids, though.’ Desmoulins lifted an eyebrow. This didn’t look good.

They walked round the side of the house to a rear door. It was open and led into a kitchen and large utility room complete with every possible convenience. It seemed that whatever Mrs Gondrand might have lacked in a husband with little charm, she had everything else in her life.

Except life itself.

A blonde woman Rocco assumed was Mrs Michel Gondrand lay on her face in a pool of blood by the sink unit. She wore a blue dressing gown which was hitched up around slim thighs, as if she had been flung forward with some force. A blue slipper with a quilted motif hung from one foot, while its twin lay near the door to a hallway. Rocco bent and checked her pulse, but knew by the amount of blood on the floor that she was beyond help. He looked for the source of the blood and saw a hole in the back of her neck, beneath her hair. A small-calibre gunshot, but still deadly.

He stood back, reading the scene and picturing the sequence of events. The gunman had come through the back door. He’d surprised Mrs Gondrand and pushed her to the floor, then shot her once. Callous. Wasting no time.

Desmoulins went out of the door into the hallway. He was back moments later.

‘Through in the study,’ he said grimly. ‘Michel. Another head shot.’

Rocco went through and found himself in a room decorated like something out of a magazine editor’s idea of a man’s study, complete with leather chairs, a desk and lots of books. A drinks table near the door held an impressive array of bottles and crystal glasses, with a mixer flask and ice bucket.

Michel Gondrand was lying behind the desk in a foetal position, knees close to his chest and one arm curled round his head. An entry wound just behind his right ear was messy with blood and white bone matter. He was dressed in trousers and shoes and looked ready for work.

Rocco walked carefully around the room, checking out the furniture. Barring the bodies, everything looked normal, although he had no idea what normal was in this household. He pulled open the middle drawer of the desk and found an envelope full of money lying in clear view of anyone who might have been looking for cash. In addition, Gondrand still wore a Breitling watch on his wrist and some expensive-looking cufflinks.

He touched Gondrand’s neck. Cold. Death had occurred hours ago.