‘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.