‘American.’

‘Jewish?’

‘What the hell has that got to do with it?’

‘Forgive me. Your family name… I only ask in case there may be a racist motive.’

‘No, not Jewish.’

‘And Madame Hoffmann?’

‘I’m English.’

‘And you’ve lived in Switzerland for how long, Dr Hoffmann?’

‘Fourteen years.’ Weariness once again almost overtook him. ‘I came out here in the nineties to work for CERN, on the Large Hadron Collider. I was there for about six years.’

‘And now?’

‘I run a company.’

‘Called?’

‘Hoffmann Investment Technologies.’

‘And what does it make?’

‘What does it make? It makes money. It’s a hedge fund.’

‘Very good. “It makes money.” How long have you been here?’

‘Like I said – fourteen years.’

‘No, I meant here – here, in this house?’

‘Oh…’ He looked at Gabrielle, defeated.

She said, ‘Only a month.’

‘One month? Did you change the entry codes when you took over?’

‘Of course.’

‘And who apart from the two of you knows the combination for the burglar alarm and so forth?’

Gabrielle said, ‘Our housekeeper. The maid. The gardener.’

‘And none of them lives in?’

‘No.’

‘Does anyone at your office know the codes, Dr Hoffmann?’

‘My assistant.’ Hoffmann frowned. How sluggishly his brain moved: like a computer with a virus. ‘Oh, and our security consultant – he checked everything before we bought the place.’

‘Can you remember his name?’

‘Genoud.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Maurice Genoud.’

Leclerc looked up. ‘There was a Maurice Genoud on the Geneva police force. I seem to remember he went into the private security business. Well, well.’ A thoughtful expression crossed Leclerc’s hangdog face. He resumed his note-taking. ‘Obviously all the combinations will need to be changed immediately. I suggest that you don’t reveal the new codes to any of your employees until I’ve had a chance to interview them.’