‘How do you know that? You don’t!’ He made to step into the water.

Rocco stopped him. ‘Actually, I do,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve seen enough cars go in the Seine to know. And it’s been down there too long. No car is that waterproof, believe me.’ He gave Claude a look full of sympathy. ‘I’ll go to a phone and get a recovery team out here … drag it out to make sure.’

It was mid-afternoon before a police recovery unit complete with a diver had arrived and were winching the Panhard with agonising slowness out of the lake onto the bank. By that time both Rocco and Claude had had to restrain each other from going in the lake to investigate the contents of the car themselves. As it ground out of the water and reeds, a stream of near-black water sluiced out of the battered doors and windows, bringing with it a choking stench of mud, stagnant water and rotted vegetation topped off by a cloud of heavy blue smoke from the motor winch on the recovery truck.

The roof and door pillars of the car had caved in under the pressure of being hauled out, but the shell was still intact. The driver’s door had been left open, according to the diver, but he had found no trace of a body on the outside.

‘Could she have fallen out?’ said Rocco.

The diver shook his head and spat expertly into the water. ‘There’s no current down there; she wouldn’t have drifted anywhere.’

Even before the last of the water had drained away, Rocco and Claude were bending close by the car, disregarding the filth pouring over their shoes and staring at the interior with a shared feeling of dread.

It was empty.

‘Thank God,’ Claude whispered, and made a rapid sign of the cross. One or two of the police team echoed the gesture, while the others looked almost disappointed. Claude glanced at Rocco. ‘What now?’

‘We find her, wherever she is,’ Rocco said darkly. He stepped away from the vehicle, squelching through the muddy detritus and nodding his thanks to the team leader. ‘And when we find her, Didier’s going to wish he’d never set eyes on this place.’

It was a short walk through the trees to the Blue Pool, and Rocco led the way, his long stride soon leaving Claude behind. They were followed all the way by the stink of mud and the sound of the recovery team packing up their gear. It was probably a waste of time, Rocco decided, as they arrived at the edge of the sparkling clear water. But he had to be sure. He had seen too many examples of the blindingly obvious being ignored, only to find that it was obvious for a very good reason.

But the pool reflected silently back at them, cool and clear and empty.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

‘Why are we still here?’ said Claude. The last of the recovery unit had left, along with the few onlookers from the village. It had plunged the marais back into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the occasional plop of fish jumping and the clatter of wings as a bird took flight through the trees. It would take some time for the wildlife to regain its normal composure after the crackling roar of the winch and the babble of voices. But it was just a matter of waiting, as Rocco knew only too well.

‘She’s still here, that’s why. Francine.’ Saying her name sounded odd, even intimate. Rocco had changed into his new boots, squeezing the muddy water from his socks and putting them back on. It was uncomfortable but bearable. Then he’d checked his pistol, slipping out the magazine and working the mechanism two or three times before replacing it with a satisfying click. He had also pocketed two spare clips from the boot of his car, instinct telling him that if he had to use the weapon today, it would not be at close quarters, nor would it be convenient to pop back and seek replacement ammunition.

Claude watched with worried eyes, then checked his own weapon.

They sat in the car with the doors open, waiting and watching. Gradually, like an audience at a concert growing increasingly comfortable with their surroundings, the birds began to find their voices again. A pair of crows appeared, hovering for a few moments in harsh disagreement before touching down in the treetops; a flight of pigeons clattered to a rough landing lower down, ungainly and noisy; smaller birds appeared, too, their singing faint at first, until they grew confident that Rocco and Claude were not going to erupt from the car and ruin their newly regained tranquillity.

A flight of mosquitoes found Claude’s side of the car and buzzed around his head, and he swiped at them in vague irritation.

‘They don’t bother you,’ he said, glancing at Rocco. ‘Why’s that?’

Rocco shrugged. He’d lived with mosquitoes as big as seagulls once, but they’d always left him alone. Others had not been so lucky, and he’d assumed it was down to bodily chemistry. ‘They know bad karma when they see it.’

‘Karma? What’s that?’

‘For them, mostly a rolled-up newspaper.’

‘I hope she’s OK,’ said Claude at one point, shifting in his seat. ‘Francine, I mean. She’s a nice woman.’ He glanced at Rocco. ‘But you know that.’

Rocco nodded. ‘Nice enough.’ He wondered where she was, and prayed that not giving way to irrational panic and running through the marais like a madman had been the right decision to adopt. Time would tell. ‘She told me about her husband being killed in a factory accident.’

Claude raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? I didn’t know she’d been married.’ He pursed his lower lips. ‘How did I miss that?’

‘About eighteen months ago, she said.’

Claude turned and stared at him. ‘No way.’

‘Why no way?’

‘She’s lived here for over two years, that’s why – and alone. You must have misheard her.’ He turned away with a meaningful chuckle. ‘Not that I blame you. She’s a fine-looking woman. I mean, enough to turn any man’s head to mush.’

After sitting in silence for a few more minutes, Rocco got out of the car. Something about what Claude had said was disturbing him, but he couldn’t work out what it was. It wasn’t necessarily the conflict in the detail – that could be easily explained away: people got dates and times wrong for all manner of reasons, grief being a major one. But there was something else tugging at his subconscious, a related thought, and he couldn’t pin it down. Maybe some action might dislodge it.

‘I want to see inside the other lodge.’

‘Why? You think she might be in there?’ Claude joined him, easing cramped limbs.

‘Maybe.’ He hadn’t forgotten that they had found the back door open the first time he had come down here. It didn’t necessarily mean Francine would be there, but it was another obvious place to check. It was easier than sitting around doing nothing.

Claude nodded. ‘I’ll get the axe.’

‘No.’ Rocco stopped him. ‘We’ll check it out quietly first.’ He locked the car, then led the way past the first lodge, skirting the lake and stopping every now and then to listen. The birds had ceased their activity only momentarily, then, reassured that neither man was about to start blasting holes in the trees, took it up again.

‘You do a lot of that,’ said Claude at one point, as Rocco stared upwards, ears cocked for any unusual sounds, sifting through the normal and looking for the out of place. ‘For a city man.’

‘Do what?’

‘Sniffing the air, listening to the trees. I could hire you out in the shooting season – we’d make a fortune.’

Rocco continued walking. He was aware that his habit of tuning in to his surroundings, a hangover from his army days, seemed odd to other people. It had been the same among his colleagues in Paris. Entering buildings, walking silently along darkened alleyways or listening for the slightest indication of something out of place, he’d been more gun dog than human, alert for anything that did not fit. The habit had saved his life on two occasions and he wasn’t about to give it up as a cranky idea just yet.