‘I saw you through the window,’ Martin Seurat replied with a grin, and they both laughed. Then he gave her a big kiss. He’d changed out of his work clothes, and was wearing a dark blue Lacoste polo shirt and cotton trousers. With its regular features and dark deep-set eyes his face was at once handsome and a little forbidding – until he smiled, and his eyes lit up.

Martin was in the DGSE, MI6’s French counterpart. Liz had met him on the same Northern Irish investigation that had led to her association with Isabelle. It had turned out that her quarry was a former colleague of Martin’s in the DGSE, a man called Milraud, who had become an arms dealer. As the operation had proceeded the immediate mutual attraction had strengthened between Martin and Liz, and after the operation had ended they had gone off together to a small hotel in the Provençal hills, where in the early Mediterranean spring they had unwound in each other’s company.

Now, a year on, what Liz had thought of at first as a fling had turned into… what exactly? She didn’t know or care to analyse it too deeply. She was just happy with it as it was, and their arrangement certainly fitted in well with her current job. Martin’s flat had become her temporary home when, as quite often happened, work took her to Paris.

On her first visit to this flat, Liz had been taken by surprise. She had been expecting a smart bachelor pad in a central district of Paris, somewhere very different from the comfortable apartment in a handsome house in the 20th arrondissement, which was where he actually lived. She knew him better now. The quiet, wide square shaded by plane trees, the friendly neighbours, the local shops where they seemed to have known M. Martin for years, all fitted his personality much better than the minimalist apartment she had imagined.

This evening they had a simple supper in the little alcove off his kitchen, while they caught up with each other’s news. It had been almost a month since they’d last seen each other apart from the brief meeting at the press conference. Martin’s daughter, who lived with his ex-wife two hundred kilometres away, was taking the Baccalauréat this year and applying to the Sorbonne. He was pleased at the prospect of soon being in the same city as his daughter.