The air smelt gamey, buzzing with a swirl of fat, lazy flies. Rocco had passed two farms on his way down here, both with large manure heaps inside enclosed yards and crawling with chickens, so he was hardly surprised by the insect life. It wasn’t unpleasant, though, and certainly better than the noxious air in the cafe where he’d forced down the half-baguette and bowl of hot chocolate which passed for breakfast, topped off with toxic tobacco fumes from the patrons at the bar.

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.