The unanimous verdict burst from the three men as they reached the safety of the courtyard below:

‘Arsehole!’

‘Qu’il est con!’

‘Fuckpot!’

Without further exchange or consultation, they quickly made their way out on to the breezy quayside where George came to a standstill, content to stare at the river traffic, enjoying its bustling ordinariness. He listened to the shouts, the hoots, the throbbing of the engines; he narrowed watering eyes against the brilliance of the spring sunshine dancing on the water. He waved and shouted something teasing at a small terrier standing guard on a passing barge. It barked its defiance. George wuffed back and laughed like a boy in delight. An escaper from one of the circles of hell, Joe judged. A night in clink with Fourier for company would make anyone light-headed.

With something like good humour restored, Joe began to lay out a programme for the rest of the morning. He was interrupted by Sir George. ‘The hotel can wait,’ he declared. ‘Now we’re free of this dreadful place, I want some breakfast! Some of that soup wouldn’t come amiss. Where did you get it?’

Joe eyed his dishevelled state and was doubtful; George was looking even less appetizing in the bright light of morning. He could have strolled over to join the dozen or so tramps just waking under the bridge a few yards away and they’d have shuffled over to make room for a brother. But at least, the worst of the bloodstains were hidden under a dirty old wartime trench coat two sizes too small.

Bonnefoye was more confident. ‘Excellent idea! Looking as you do, we won’t take you to a respectable café. Au Père Tranquille – that’s where we’ll go. Back to the Halles, Joe. It’s a workmen’s café – they’ll just assume Sir George is a tourist who’s fallen foul of some local ruffians. Or an American artist slumming. Wait here by the gate – I’ll flag down a taxi.’

After his second bowl of soup with a glass of cognac on the side, a whole baguette and a pot or two of coffee, George’s colour was returning and his one good eye had acquired a sparkle.

‘I’m curious! Are you going to tell us, Joe,’ Bonnefoye asked, ‘what precisely you said to the Chief Inspector that made him change his mind? Rather a volte-face, wasn’t it? I could have sworn he was all set to have another go at harrying Sir George. Perhaps closing his other eye?’

‘No, no! You’re mistaken, young man,’ said George. ‘I tripped and banged my head against a corner of the desk. But – you’re right – I have a feeling I was about to execute the same tricky manoeuvre on the other side. What did you say, Joe, to turn him through a hundred and eighty degrees?’

Joe stared into his coffee cup. ‘I merely suggested that if Fourier had it in mind to apply the thumbscrews, he might like to know that Sir George had been for years a soldier in the British forces, battling the bloodthirsty Afridi to say nothing of Waziri tribesmen in the wilderness west of Peshawar. I enquired whether he was aware that George had at one time been captured by the enemy and subjected to torture of an inventive viciousness of which only the Wazirs are capable. Rescued in the nick of time, more dead than alive after three days in their hands, but having divulged no information to his captors. Not a word. Name, rank and number and that’s it. Surely Fourier, during his physical inspection of his prisoner, had remarked the scars on his back, the dislocation of the left shoulder, the badly repaired break to the ulna . . .? I think he decided at that point that any action he was planning against such a leathery old campaigner was a bit limp in comparison.’

‘Good Lord!’ said Bonnefoye faintly, inspecting Sir George with fresh and wondering eyes.

‘Joe! Come now!’ George reprimanded. ‘Ulna? Wasn’t aware I had one . . . Are you quite certain that’s not one of Napoleon’s victories?’ He turned confidingly to Bonnefoye. ‘It wouldn’t do to believe everything this man tells you,’ he advised with a kindly smile for the young Inspector. ‘He enjoys a good story! Keen reader of the Boy’s Own Paper, don’t you know!’

‘Oh, I see!’ Bonnefoye was embarrassed to have been caught out so easily. ‘Well, for a moment, Commander, you had me fooled too! But then, I was always a sucker for tales of derring-do.’ Bonnefoye looked from one to the other, suddenly wary and mistrustful of these two Englishmen who seemed to share the same lazily arrogant style, the same ability to look you in the eye and lie.

He flicked a speculative glance at Joe. Surely he was aware? Could he possibly have been taken in by that performance in the interview room?

‘And now – back to your hotel, George,’ said Joe. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Hotel Bristol. Rue du Faubourg St Honoré. D’you know it?’

‘Ah, yes. Handy for the British Embassy. Well, a bath and a change of clothes and about twelve hours’ sleep are all on the menu. And when you wake up, there’ll be a policeman by your bedside waiting to take down your statement. Leaving out the invention and prevarication, this time. No more lying! Nothing less than your uncensored revelations will do. And the policeman will be me.’

Chapter Eight

As they approached the hotel, George became increasingly agitated. In his hatless, beaten-up state he had been receiving some questioning looks from the smartly turned-out inhabitants. One lady had even crossed the road to avoid encountering him.

‘I say, you chaps,’ he said fifty yards short of the Bristol, ‘better for everyone if I don’t cross the foyer looking like this. I’d be an embarrassment to the management as well as to myself. There’s a side alleyway they use for deliveries to the kitchens. I’ll use that. I know my way about. I’ll nip up in the service lift. See you in my room. That’s 205.’

He would listen to no argument and slipped away without a further word.

Joe and Bonnefoye pressed on to the Bristol and requested the key. Bonnefoye produced his badge and asked the maître d’hôtel to summon a doctor and send him up with the utmost discretion.

Once over the threshold of his own room, George rallied and tried again to dismiss his attendants. ‘No need to wait on me, you chaps. No need at all. I can manage. I’ll see the medic if he appears, for form’s sake, but – really – no need of him. Let’s keep the fuss to a minimum, shall we?’

‘No khitmutgars here,’ said Joe cheerfully, pushing past him into the room. ‘Not even a valet. You’ll have to make do with us. Jean-Philippe – run a bath, will you, while I hunt out his pyjamas and dressing gown. Is this what you’re using, George? This extravagantly oriental number? Good Lord! Now, just sit down will you, old chap . . . you’re teetering again . . . and you can start peeling off that disgusting vest.’

Bonnefoye returned from the bathroom lightly scented with lavender to catch sight of Sir George in his underpants, slipping a purple silk dressing gown around his shoulders. He stood still and exchanged a startled look with Joe. When George had disappeared into the bathroom he hissed: ‘Sandilands! That mess on his back! Scars? Weals? What in hell was it?’

Joe was recovering from his own astonishment at the brief glimpse he had caught. ‘Good Lord! It seems I wasn’t exaggerating. I was just retelling an old story that does the rounds in India. I had no idea it was accurate.’

‘Tough old bird,’ murmured Bonnefoye. ‘Fourier had no idea what he’d run into.’ And then: ‘He never would have signed a confession, would he?’

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘But that doesn’t mean he has nothing to confess. There’s something wrong with all this. He’s hardly begun to explain what he’s involved in. I think he’s been lying to the Chief Inspector but, if he has, there’ll be a damned good reason for it. Fourier couldn’t beat the truth out of him and we, my friend, must use other methods. As soon as we’ve got him settled I’m going back to the morgue to take a look at the man at the bottom of all this – our mystery man, Somerton. No – no need to come with me – I’ll report back. You should go back to your duties, Jean-Philippe – I’ve taken up too much of your time already.’