He told Santer about his move to a house on the outskirts of the village, and that he would collect messages from the cafe until he got a phone fitted.

‘What’s wrong with the cafe?’ Santer demanded. ‘Christ, I’d love to be billeted in a cafe for a few weeks: drinks on tap, bar billiards to play every evening and out from under my wife’s reach? You don’t know when you’re lucky, you big ape!’

‘Yes, and everyone listening to every word I say,’ countered Rocco. ‘They already know more about me than I do. I want to keep some distance.’

‘Fair enough. Be a misery guts. Oh, a bit of advice: touch base with the local garde champetre as soon as you can. It’s a minor courtesy but worth doing. He’ll be your best source of information, in case you need it.’

‘What exactly does a garde champetre do? I’ve never met one.’

‘He’s a rural cop. Bit like the rangers in the USA, only without the bears — and he probably rides a bicycle. But keep him happy and he’ll look after you. And just remember that he’s all that keeps the peasants from marching on this city with pitchforks and tar barrels and wheeling out Madame Guillotine.’

‘Jesus, there’s a thought.’

Rocco cut the call and got through to the PTT service centre. He explained to three people in turn that he needed a telephone fitted urgently, and each time he was told to wait before being passed on. ‘It’s for official police business,’ he explained to the bored-sounding clerk who finally agreed to take some notes. He gave the man his new address.

‘There’s a cop in Poissons-les-Marais?’ The clerk sounded sceptical. ‘Mother of God. I was born near there. What have they done — decided to join the twentieth century?’