Eight

The second delivery made by the yellow Citroën van was to a quiet avenue on a hill to the north of the resort of Mers-les-Bains. Overlooking the English Channel, and one of three ‘sister towns’ along with close neighbours Le Tréport and Eu, Mers-les-Bains boasted a seafront façade of 19^th-century art-nouveau villas, high chalk cliffs, a long pebble beach and small casinos where wealthy Parisians could gamble their money in a pleasing atmosphere and healthy sea air.

Not that any of this interested Peretz. The casino might have proved a draw in different circumstances but, as he’d learned long ago, gambling meant running the risk of getting both legs broken if someone didn’t like the way you were winning. The stakes and pots were higher than in licensed casinos, but there was always someone who wanted a cut and had to be paid off if you valued your health. Bad bets and sore losers were a lousy combination no matter how civilised the venue.

All he was aiming to do today was get in and out again as quickly as possible, even more so once he’d seen the name of the recipient. In fact, having this letter in the mailbag alongside him had been about as comforting as sitting next to an unexploded hand grenade. Even if he had harboured ideas of spending a couple of hours in the resort before heading off, the name and title had killed them stone dead.

He found the address he wanted amid a row of newly-developed brick-and-rendered villas with sculpted gardens, stepped entrances and au sous-sol garages beneath the gardens, with double doors opening on to the road.

Peretz checked the street for observers, but saw none. Pulling an official-looking cap low over his face, he took the letter from the bag, hopped out of the van and stepped across the pavement. Slotting the letter into the mailbox atop the retaining wall, he returned quickly to the van and drove away, heading back towards the centre of town and the road east.

As he drove away from the house, a man appeared at the front window. Wrapped in a dressing gown and carrying his first cup of coffee of the day, he watched the van leave. It was too low down to see the registration plate, but he noted the familiar PTT colour and decided to finish his coffee before venturing down the steps to the mailbox. Was there anything these days that couldn’t wait? Retirement brought several benefits, one of which was that nothing was urgent any more, save for the desire to keep on living at the level of comfort his police pension had earned over many years of loyal and diligent service.

He finished his drink while deciding what to do that morning. A stroll down to the seafront would be pleasant, although with the tourist season in full swing it might be better to go sooner than later to avoid the crowds. Perhaps he’d call in to a salon de thé where they served excellent pastries.

But first he had a situation to deal with. It involved his housekeeper, Anne-Marie Guillard, with whom he’d enjoyed until recently a pleasant physical relationship without strings … or so he’d thought.

He’d ended the affair when she’d begun to involve herself just a little too much in the fine details of his life, including going through some documentation he preferred to keep away from prying eyes. She had insisted on coming round this morning to collect a few of her belongings. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He suspected that the passionate character which had first attracted him probably fuelled a less forgiving nature when roused in another way. Even so, a part of him was already regretting ending their arrangement, though he was certain he would soon find a replacement. The town was a popular retirement community with many widows and he’d sensed more than one of them sending him silent messages over the past few weeks.

As he turned to the front door, pulling his dressing gown around him, he saw another vehicle come to a stop at a house across the road. Another yellow van. He watched as the driver climbed out and delivered a selection of envelopes to one house, then walked across the road to his mailbox with a folded magazine and fed it into the slot.

Something about this double delivery stirred his gut: a sting of suspicion that had served him well throughout his career. He waited for the van to leave before walking down the steps and opening the mailbox. Inside was the magazine, a familiar monthly subscription on all things ornithological, and a plain white envelope. He flipped the envelope over.

No stamp. Just his name typed across the front: Jean-Marie Gambon, Director General, Sûreté Nationale, followed by his address.

The title seemed to mock him, but he didn’t know why. All he knew was that something about this wasn’t good news. He was no longer the director general of the national police force, which could have been a mistake easily made, but the disquiet he’d felt moments earlier was building to a pounding in his chest, causing his heart to flutter wildly.

He hurried back up the steps and into the house. Dropping the magazine onto a side table, he ripped the white envelope open and pulled out a single-page letter. There was no address or signature, simply a flow of text which made his breath stick in his throat.