She cast a critical eye over his clothes, which consisted of a long, dark coat, dark cotton shirt and charcoal trousers — the latter Swedish imports and expensive — and his shoes, which were from London. Good-quality clothing was one of Rocco’s few luxuries. ‘Those fine fabrics won’t last long out here, not if you pound them to death in a sink. There’s a laundry service calls by twice a week. Leave it in a bag with Francine at the co-op and they’ll pick it up and return it in two days, sometimes three. You’ll need to plan what you wear.’

When he had finished his coffee, she led him out of the house and along the lane to the house next door. Rocco was pleasantly surprised: it was a large, villa-style property set back off the road behind a railed, overgrown garden. Outhouses and a garage stood off to one side, and the rear plot disappeared into the distance, sprouting a vast wilderness of unknown species.

‘Are you a gardener?’ she asked him, handing him the keys.

‘No idea,’ he said frankly, staring at the expanse of rampant territory waiting to be tamed. ‘I had some tulips in a window box once.’

She looked unimpressed. ‘Flowers. What happened?’

‘They died.’

She made a phuitt sound. ‘In that case, you’ll need the services of Arnaud.’

‘Is he a landscape gardener?’

She smiled indulgently at the term. ‘You’re a city boy, aren’t you? Arnaud pretty much lives at the cafe. He’ll do whatever needs doing. Just make sure he completes the work before you pay him, otherwise he’ll be drunk as a skunk for a month.’

She watched as he unlocked the door. It opened onto a large kitchen-cum-general room, with a small electric cooker and a separate wood fire and range with a water tank attached. There was a plain sink and drainer. The air smelt musty and dry from a lack of circulation. Another room lay at the back, leading, Mme Denis informed him, to the bedroom.