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Seduced by Louis’ elegance, she allows them to use her lodge as an incident room. Just one look at the commandant’s height, and the ageing concierge feels a twinge of compassion. The man’s handicap is like an abandoned animal; it touches her. She covers her mouth with her fist –
my God, my God, my God
. The very sight moves her to pity, her legs give way, she feels faint,
makes you sick just to think of it
. She glances surreptitiously at the commandant, screwing up her eyes, as though he has an open wound and she can feel his pain.
    In a stage whisper, she asks Louis:
    “You want me to get a little chair for your boss there?”
    It’s as though Camille is suddenly shrinking, as though something has to be done.
    “No, thanks,” Louis the Dutiful says, closing his eyes. “We’ll be fine as we are, but thank you so much, madame.”
    Louis flashes her a dazzling smile. So she brews up a big pot of coffee for everyone.
    She adds a spoonful of mocha to Camille’s cup.
    The teams all hard at work, Camille sips his coffee under the compassionate eye of the concierge. Louis is thinking. That’s his thing: Louis is an intellectual; he thinks all the time. Tries to understand.
    “Money … ?” he ventures carefully.
    “Sex …” Camille says, “madness …”
    They could reel off the whole litany of human passions: the urge to destroy, to possess, to rebel, to dominate. They have seen a lot in their time, these men. Now here they are standing in this concierge’s lodge … Standing idle.
    *
    They’ve combed the area, brought down the neighbours, checked witness statements, hearsay, various opinions, they’ve rung doorbells on the strength of hunches which proved to be unfounded: it’s taken most of the night.
    And so far: nothing. The kidnapped woman obviously doesn’t live in the area, or at least not in the immediate vicinity of the kidnapping. No-one seems to know her around here. They have three descriptions of women who might fit the bill: women who are away on holiday, on business …
    Camille doesn’t like the sound of any of this.

3
    She is woken by the cold. And the bruises, because it was a long journey and being tied up, she couldn’t stop herself from rolling around and slamming into the sides of the van. Then, when the van eventually came to a halt, the man opened the door, bundled her into a sort of white plastic tarp, tied it, then slung her over his shoulder. It’s terrifying being reduced to a piece of cargo and terrifying too to realise you’re at the mercy of a man who can sling you over his shoulder. It’s not hard to imagine what he might be capable of.
    He took out her gag, but he took no care putting her on the ground or dragging the tarpaulin down the stone stairs. Her ribs banged against every step and it was impossible to protect her head. Alex screamed, but the man just kept moving. When she hit the back of her head a second time, she passed out.
    Impossible to know how long ago that was.
    Now, there’s no sound, but she feels an acute cold in her shoulders, in her arms. Her feet are frozen. The packing tape is wound so tight it’s cutting off her circulation. She opens her eyes. Or tries to open them, since her left eye is stuck shut. And she can’t open her mouth. A thick strip of duct tape. She doesn’t remember that. Must have happened while she was unconscious.
    Alex is lying on the ground on her side, arms tied behind herback, feet lashed together. The hip bearing all her weight is painful. She regains consciousness slowly, like a coma patient; her whole body aches as though she’s been in a car crash. She tries to work out where she is, rocks her hips and manages to turn over onto her back. Her shoulders hurt. Her left eye finally comes unstuck, but it registers nothing. I’m blind in one eye, Alex thinks, panicked. But after a few seconds, the half-open eye sends a blurred image that seems to come from a planet light years away.
    She sniffles, empties her