The cottage door opened to reveal an elderly woman with white hair and thick glasses. She was of medium height and compact, dressed in a blue apron over a grey dress, with a triangle headscarf pinned carefully in place.

‘You’re the inspecteur?’ she said, and motioned him inside.

‘That’s me.’ He was no longer surprised at the way information was circulating in this place. There was no telephone wire to the cottage, so he put it down to some secret sort of underground network known only to the locals. Or maybe they had a team of fleet-footed kids doing the rounds, letting everyone in on the latest news as it happened.

The cottage kitchen was clean, simply furnished and like walking into a museum. But it was homely and neat, a small oasis of tranquillity hung with the smells of cooking and soap. Fading photos of a large man in cavalry uniform sitting astride a huge white charger were dotted around the room, and Rocco recognised the atmosphere of widowhood.

Mme Denis went to a sideboard and pulled open a drawer, extracting a small bundle of keys. She dropped them on the heavy table, then went to a stove and picked up a coffee percolator.

‘I brewed this fresh for you,’ she said. ‘Big man like you needs a stimulant to keep going. My husband was a big man.’

Rocco didn’t really want more coffee. But he sensed a ritual about to unfold and that he was a central part of it. A refusal might offend.

She produced two heavy, brown cups and filled them with coffee, then took an aluminium jug of milk and a cardboard box of sugar cubes, and slid them across the table, motioning him to sit. She had strong hands, Rocco noted. It explained the orderly garden.

‘The house next door,’ she said, sitting down with a sigh, ‘is available. It’s clean and dry, although you’ll have to put up with the fouines in the attic.’ Lucas must have looked blank, because she said, ‘Fruit rats. They’re everywhere in these parts. You don’t get them where you come from?’

He shook his head. Paris had plenty of rats, both two- and four-legged. But not the fruit variety.

‘They’re harmless,’ Mme Denis assured him. ‘They make a bit of noise in the attic at night, scrabbling around up there, but as long as you don’t leave food out, you should be fine.’

He drank his coffee, which was as strong as boat varnish, but good. He added sugar cubes and milk. Then he began the negotiation for the rent. If he stayed at the local bar-tabac, where the regional HQ in Amiens could get hold of him easily by telephone, they would pay his board. Opting to get his own place meant he would have to pick up the bill himself.

He decided that if all he had to worry about was a few fruit rats, he could put up with the expense. A telephone, though, was a must. He mentioned it to Madame Denis.

She pursed her lips. ‘There aren’t many in the village, although they put up the wires. The mayor, of course – he’s got one. And the garde champêtre.’ She smiled. ‘Be warned, though: you’ll get a lot of visitors if you have one of those put in.’

‘But I’m a policeman – a flic.’

‘Doesn’t matter. When people want to call friends and family, you’d be amazed how forgiving they can be. What about your laundry?’

‘No problem. I used to be in the army. I’ll manage.’ It wasn’t something he had given much thought to.

She cast a critical eye over his clothes, which consisted of a long, dark coat, dark cotton shirt and charcoal trousers – the latter Swedish imports and expensive – and his shoes, which were from London. Good-quality clothing was one of Rocco’s few luxuries. ‘Those fine fabrics won’t last long out here, not if you pound them to death in a sink. There’s a laundry service calls by twice a week. Leave it in a bag with Francine at the co-op and they’ll pick it up and return it in two days, sometimes three. You’ll need to plan what you wear.’

When he had finished his coffee, she led him out of the house and along the lane to the house next door. Rocco was pleasantly surprised: it was a large, villa-style property set back off the road behind a railed, overgrown garden. Outhouses and a garage stood off to one side, and the rear plot disappeared into the distance, sprouting a vast wilderness of unknown species.

‘Are you a gardener?’ she asked him, handing him the keys.

‘No idea,’ he said frankly, staring at the expanse of rampant territory waiting to be tamed. ‘I had some tulips in a window box once.’

She looked unimpressed. ‘Flowers. What happened?’

‘They died.’

She made a phuitt sound. ‘In that case, you’ll need the services of Arnaud.’

‘Is he a landscape gardener?’

She smiled indulgently at the term. ‘You’re a city boy, aren’t you? Arnaud pretty much lives at the café. He’ll do whatever needs doing. Just make sure he completes the work before you pay him, otherwise he’ll be drunk as a skunk for a month.’

She watched as he unlocked the door. It opened onto a large kitchen-cum-general room, with a small electric cooker and a separate wood fire and range with a water tank attached. There was a plain sink and drainer. The air smelt musty and dry from a lack of circulation. Another room lay at the back, leading, Mme Denis informed him, to the bedroom.

‘No running water?’ he said.

‘No. Along the main road, where they laid the pipes, but not down here. The toilet’s outside by the outhouse.’ She gave him a sideways glance. ‘There’s a pump, though. I presume you’re more familiar with pumps than flowers?’

‘Of course. Most good bars have them.’

She snorted. ‘Glad you have a sense of humour, Inspector. When it drops below freezing and you have to melt the ice first, you’ll need it. Come.’ She led him out to the side of the house, where a pump stood in the lee of a large wooden outbuilding. It had an elaborate, cast-iron handle and spout, with a metal cap on the top. A tall plastic jug stood beneath the spout. She lifted the hat. ‘You prime it with water, then jiggle the handle until it starts to pull.’

‘And when it freezes?’

‘Stack straw around the base and set fire to it. Works every time. Won’t boil the water, though.’ She lifted the corner of her mouth and chuckled at her own wit.

Rocco smiled and followed her to the front door. He remembered what Claude had said. ‘Has anyone died here recently?’

‘Not that I recall. Why – do you intend holding séances?’

He watched her as she pottered away, shaking her head. Then he stepped inside and inspected his new home. He found a scattering of dust-layered furniture, all plain and sturdy, but useable. Solid. Rodent droppings were scattered across the floor, and a bat was hanging in one corner, small and sinister. Something furry and dead lay beneath the kitchen table. The back rooms were large and airy, and apart from an ill-fitting French window in the back living room, it was pleasant and comfortable.

He went back outside and primed the pump with a slosh of rainwater from the jug; jiggled the handle which groaned like a donkey, then felt the pump stall before water began gushing out. It looked crystal clear. He tasted it. Not exactly Pouilly-Fumé, but it would do.

Still better than the café, anyway.

After a brief tidy-up, which lifted more dust than it laid, Rocco walked back to the café to collect his car. The bar was empty, so he took advantage of the quiet to check in with his former office in Clichy-Nanterre.

‘What do you want?’ Captain Michel Santer, a tough, overweight man from the Jura, sounded harassed as usual. ‘I thought you’d be on a horse by now, chasing sheep rustlers.’

‘They don’t do sheep,’ Rocco told him. ‘Cows, though, lots of them. And village idiots with a death wish. Any news for me?’ A transfer back, he thought, would be nice.

‘No. I’m too busy trying to cover for you. Since you buggered off, we’ve had two bodies turn up, as well as twelve reported burglaries, two bank raids and one minor riot caused by students demanding better facilities. It’s like there’s been a mini-crime wave in celebration of your departure. Oh, and the mayor’s wife lost her chihuahua in the Rue de Bord.’