Sophie eyed Rocco for a moment, then shrugged and took a sip of the wine. ‘That’s better. Thanks. What were we talking about?’

‘I need to know who Nathalie mixed with,’ he replied curtly, aware of time ticking away. ‘Not her “town” pals; not her beauty stylist or favourite pastry chef, or who cut her toenails. But who might have taken her away to a weekend party in the country with a bunch of strangers so she could end up dead. Like that.’

She frowned at his abrupt tone. ‘Is this her father’s thing?’ she queried defiantly. ‘Trying to make out it was something it wasn’t?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Well, it was a silly accident, wasn’t it? Nathalie got pissed and fell into some water. Or is the great Bayer-Berbier saying it’s something else? Are you under his orders? He’s got a lot of influence with the cops, everybody knows that.’ She took a slug of wine and glared at him, then looked away in contempt.

Rocco felt like slapping her. Could young people really be so arrogant in the face of death? He hadn’t seen any news reports, so had no way of knowing what Sophie might have read or heard about Nathalie’s demise. Whatever it was, Berbier père had probably put out a carefully sanitised version of events, avoiding any mention of drugs or violence. As if in their world, being merely drunk and dead was so much better than any other kind.

‘Actually,’ he said softly, projecting the words so that there was no possible misunderstanding, no way she could continue to treat the matter so coolly, ‘Nathalie was murdered.’

He waited for the realisation to sink in; for the ‘M’ word to be analysed and understood in whatever narrow, selective thesaurus her world permitted. When it finally hit home, it was signalled by a large tear rolling down her cheek.

‘That was unkind,’ she whispered. And suddenly the defiant, arrogant light was gone, leaving behind a young woman facing up to the harsh reality of loss.

He nodded. ‘You’re right, it was. I’m sorry. But I need you to know what happened because I’m trying to find out who was responsible for your friend’s death. And I only have …’ he looked dramatically at his watch ‘… twenty minutes of your valuable time left.’ It was rough but he was suddenly tired of having to tiptoe through the tank traps of convention and etiquette.

‘How would I know who could do that?’ she protested, her voice suddenly shrill as if finally tapping into a source of anger. ‘God, I didn’t know she’d been … you know. She loved life, for Christ’s sake. She was fun to be with, and how anyone could hurt her I don’t know! I don’t know any of that shit!’

Rocco allowed her to vent. He was aware of heads turning their way, and saw the bar manager approaching like a large missile, twisting impressive shoulders and hips skilfully between the tables and chairs. Rocco waited until he was almost upon them, then whipped out his badge and waved him away without a word. The man turned and went back to the bar.

Rocco leant across the table, giving her one last chance to help. ‘Listen, I want you to start talking about who your friend knew, who else I can talk to. Because I really want to find out who killed her. For instance, who or what is Tomas Brouté?’

It meant something, he could see that. It was evident in her face, in the way her eyes flickered at his mention of the name.

Yet she shrugged and glanced at her watch as if it meant nothing. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I’ve never heard of him.’ She leant forward to pick up her bag, unwilling to look at him.

‘OK.’

She seemed surprised. ‘I can go?’

He shook his head. ‘No. In fact,’ he stood up and planted himself squarely in her way, bending and putting his face within inches of hers, ‘if you don’t help me right now, I’ll stop you getting on the plane. I’ll also inform the American immigration authorities that you are an undesirable, and that you’re helping with my enquiries into the brutal murder of a young girl. Do you have any idea how long it will be before you might be allowed into the States after that? Try years – ten if you’re lucky, more likely fifteen. The Yanks have strangely harsh views about importing potential foreign criminals, believe it or not.’

Sophie’s mouth fell open with a gasp. ‘You can’t do that! My father works for the Finance Ministry—’

‘No shit. You try pissing higher than me again and I’ll get a couple of uniformed cops in here to haul you out in cuffs. It won’t be pretty and I doubt Daddy will be impressed with you dragging his name through the news.’

She sank down slowly back onto her seat, her stunned expression betraying the realisation that Rocco wasn’t playing.

‘What do you want to know? I don’t know what I can tell you.’

Rocco sat and pushed the wine glass towards her. She took a sip, her face ashen.

‘Tomas Brouté,’ he repeated. ‘You recognised the name.’

‘No.’ She shuddered. ‘Yes. At least, I’ve never met him. He’s just a name Nathalie mentioned a couple of times … someone on the phone.’

‘What was the connection between them?’

‘Brouté arranges things for people. He’s a middleman.’

Rocco felt his gut tighten. ‘Things? What kind of things?’

‘Events. Parties. Weekends.’ Sophie looked sick. ‘He was a creep. She hated him.’

‘She said that?’

‘She didn’t need to. I saw her face whenever she was talking to him.’

‘What sort of parties?’

‘Drinking, talk – music, mostly, stuff like that.’

‘And when it wasn’t mostly stuff like that?’

She shook her head. ‘Can’t you guess? You’re a cop.’ She ducked her head and looked as if she were about to throw up.

‘Did you go to them – the non-talk ones?’

‘No! Never, I promise. It all sounded so … sordid. Nathalie was promised money if she went along and helped things go with a swing. She thought it sounded fun. I thought it would be full of rich old men looking for young girls to screw.’

‘What made you think that?’

‘Because I knew another girl who went to one and she said it was exactly like that.’ She waved a hand. ‘And please don’t ask me who that was – she died of pneumonia in a clinic in Grasse two weeks ago.’

Rocco let it drop: if he had to pursue that one, it would be easy enough to do so later.

‘You said Nathalie was promised money. Why would she need it – her father’s rich?’

‘Her father’s a pig. So are his friends.’

In the background an announcement called for flights to New York. Sophie didn’t react.

‘Did you know Nathalie was pregnant?’

Her big eyes settled on him. She nodded. ‘She started puking in the mornings; it was pretty obvious. When I asked her she didn’t deny it. She was terrified it would become public.’

‘Did she tell you who the father was?’

Another tear rolled down her cheek, and she brushed at it angrily. ‘She said she didn’t know. She didn’t have a regular boyfriend – not like that.’

So, more than one possibility. Rocco wasn’t surprised. ‘No boyfriend you knew of, you mean?’

‘No. We were close enough by then. If she got pregnant, it wasn’t a boy.’ The way she said ‘boy’ implied innocence, civility – a whole world away from any other kind. She finished her drink and pushed the glass away. ‘She talked about getting rid of it, but she wouldn’t have dared tell her father and didn’t have any of her own money.’

An abortion. That would take a lot of money, doing it properly. Before and after the event. But was she desperate enough to go to these parties to earn cash for a stay in a clinic? Maybe so. Suddenly he began to see a possible motive for a young woman’s murder. If she had approached the child’s father – at least, the possible father – for help, the man might have seen a scandal coming and reacted with fatal consequences. It made sense and wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.

‘How many of these parties did she attend?’