‘There must be a reason, though.’ Claude was gently insistent, like a friendly dog with a bone, teasing out the goodness.

‘Why?’

‘There’s a reason for everything.’

‘Ah. You’re a philosopher as well as a psychic.’

‘No. Just that I know how the official mind works.’

‘Lucky you. When you’ve got a minute, perhaps you can fill me in.’ He nodded. ‘Thanks for the tip about the house.’

CHAPTER THREE

Rouen, Haute-Normandie

Ishmael Poudric rubbed his eyes and glanced along the hallway towards the front of his house. Someone was at the door. Lowering the large pendulum eyeglass which old age and too many hours spent poring over photographs had rendered necessary, he checked the clock on the wall of his study. Nine o’clock. Who could be calling at this hour? Time was no longer a medium he allowed to control his life the way it once had, but at his age it was a commodity too valuable to waste. A glance at the window confirmed that darkness had fallen without him noticing.

The knock was repeated. It sounded urgent. Maybe his son, Etienne … a problem with the business. No. He would have called first.

He stood up with a grimace, bones protesting, and eased away from a desk cluttered with the results of years of his work: the negatives, slippery and undisciplined, like small children; the cardboard mounts for slides; the photo prints in black and white, some aged and fading, others bright and new.

He opened the front door and was surprised to find a woman smiling at him. She was dressed smartly and conventionally enough, even if, to Poudric, she looked a little plainer than any woman should do. Pallid, almost, as if illness or circumstance had drained all the colour from her skin. She appeared to be in her middle years, although he had long ceased to be any kind of judge when it came to the ages of women.

‘Can I help you?’ he queried politely. After a lifetime of service behind a camera and a shop counter, it was a difficult habit to break.

The woman held out a cutting from a magazine. He recognised it immediately. It was from a history journal about the building of an archive for a university library, by one Ishmael Poudric, photographer, once of Poitiers in Aquitaine, now retired to Saint-Martin just outside Rouen.

‘I read about you,’ the woman said. ‘You’re building a photo library about the Resistance movement.’

‘That’s correct, madam – but it’s very late …’

‘I know – and I apologise for the discourtesy,’ the woman said hurriedly. ‘My name is Agnès. Agnès Carre. I’m a student of Modern History, and was wondering if you could help me?’ She delved into a pocket and produced a slim envelope. ‘I will pay you for your time.’

‘To do what?’ Poudric was surprised. There were not many offers of money these days, now he had given up his photography business – well, other than favours for a few friends now and then. And this project he was working on was out of love, not financial gain. With younger photographers out there, armed with the latest technology and new ideas, his skills as a snapper were fast becoming outmoded.

‘I’m looking for some photos for a thesis I’m writing.’ Agnès smiled tiredly and brushed back a stray hair. ‘Can I come in and explain?’

Ten minutes later, his curiosity satisfied and the envelope containing the money lying invitingly on his desk, Poudric was delving through a long photo file box, flicking aside index cards and humming, a habit he had never quite managed to lose. His visitor was sitting quietly, nursing a cup of tea he had prepared for her.

‘Ah.’ He stopped and lifted out a print and its negative, both encased in a thin protective sleeve. ‘I think this is the one.’ He turned from his desk and showed her the print.

She took it carefully, holding it between her fingers, the way he had, and tilted it to the light. The snap showed a group of people, all dressed in rough, working-style clothing. Six men and one woman. They were huddled around a fire in the open, expressions sombre, most of them facing the camera. The men were armed with rifles, some with bandoliers of ammunition across their chests. The woman sat at one end of the group, a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. The man next to her had a hand on her knee. With its dark tones and grim connotations, the scene pulsed with atmosphere.

‘I took that,’ Poudric explained, remembering the occasion with unusual clarity, ‘one evening near Poitiers. I had worked hard to gain the confidence of this group and persuaded them to sit for posterity.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘This particular group was communist in its affiliations, but they were brave people, all fighting for what they thought was right. To be frank, it was risky having this done – for them far more than me – but when one is faced with history in the making, you take whatever opportunity comes along. And there were damn few weddings or celebrations requiring my expertise at the time.’ He chuckled dryly at the memory.

Agnès nodded, not taking her eyes off the photo, as if mesmerised. ‘Do you have others of this group?’

‘There are some, but I would need time to find them. The collection is not in order yet.’

‘In that case, this one will do.’

‘I will have to copy it – it’s the only one I have. I’ll need an address to send it to.’

‘I would rather take it now.’

‘Now? But it’s late … I can send it first thing tom—’

‘That won’t be possible.’ Agnès seemed suddenly agitated. She leant over and picked up the envelope. ‘I’m travelling tomorrow and need it immediately.’ She opened the envelope and counted out some notes. ‘I’m sure you still have your equipment?’

Poudric hesitated for a moment. Then need overcame tiredness. He had a powerful sense that this woman, whatever her claims, was no student of History, and had an ulterior motive for acquiring this photo. The energy coming from her was almost palpable. But who was he to judge? He folded the notes into his shirt pocket and stood up. ‘You will have to give me time to set it up and for the print to dry. Would you care for more tea while you wait?’

The woman sat back, her face calm again. ‘No. Thank you. I’ve been waiting long enough. A few more minutes won’t matter.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Rocco? An uncultured ruffian. He needs locking up.

J de Montrichy – deputy mayor’s office, Clichy-Nanterre district

Rocco knocked on the rear door of the cottage Claude had directed him to the previous day. It was on the outskirts of the village, along a narrow lane leading out into an open expanse of rolling pastureland. A sign pointed to the next village, Danvillers, five kilometres away, along a surface which looked little used and was dotted with cowpats drying in the early morning sun.

The house was small and sturdy, surrounded by flower and vegetable beds with barely a spare centimetre of unused space. The earth had been tilled to a fine grain, the borders straight as a city block and without a weed in sight. A large chicken run stood at the end of a long garden, but the inhabitants appeared to have free roam of the place, with one old hen nestled contentedly by the back door in a small dust bowl of her own making.

The air smelt gamey, buzzing with a swirl of fat, lazy flies. Rocco had passed two farms on his way down here, both with large manure heaps inside enclosed yards and crawling with chickens, so he was hardly surprised by the insect life. It wasn’t unpleasant, though, and certainly better than the noxious air in the café where he’d forced down the half-baguette and bowl of hot chocolate which passed for breakfast, topped off with toxic tobacco fumes from the patrons at the bar.