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 champetre.’ 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.