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away, and all the regrets seemed to weigh so much more heavily.
    He let his eyes wander over the jumble of roofs below until they came to rest on the twin roofs of the cathedral. They were perfectly round, like a woman’s breasts, and topped by short, moulded lightning rods like two erect nipples. He thought of all the women he had known, those he had loved, those he had failed, those who had frustrated him to distraction. He shook his head and allowed himself a tiny smile of sad regret. It was all behind him now. The game was almost over. All that remained was to wait for the referee’s whistle at the end of extra time.
    ***
    He weaved through the empty tables on the
terrasse
outside the Lampara restaurant and pushed open the door to the stairwell beyond. He climbed the steps with heavy legs and hoped that Sophie would not be there.
    He called her name when he opened the door, and was relieved to be answered by silence. In the
séjour
he threw open the French windows and let in the cold air from the square below. The trees had shed most of their leaves, and lay thick and still brittle with frost among the cars in the car park. It wasn’t until he turned back into the room than he noticed the red light winking on his DECT phone. Someone had called and left a message. He was tempted to ignore it. After all, whatever it was, it would no longer have any importance for him. But even as he shuffled idly through the papers on his desk, it kept on blinking in his peripheral vision, until he couldn’t stand it any longer. He lifted the phone, pressed the replay button, and put the receiver to his ear. It was with something like shock that he heard Kirsty’s voice.
    ‘Dad…? Where are you? You’re never there. Please, you’ve got to come to Strasbourg. I don’t know what to do. Someone’s trying to kill me.’
    He replayed it twice before hanging up. If ever he needed a reason to live, he had just found one.

Chapter Seven
    Commissaire Hélène Taillard enjoyed the distinction of being only the sixth woman in the history of the République to be appointed Director of Public Security to one of the country’s one hundred
départements
. She had been promoted from the rank of
inspecteur
to the title of
commissaire
in the Département du Lot three years earlier, inheriting a large, comfortable office in the
caserne
of the Police Nationale in the Place Bessières at the north end of Cahors.
    Following a call from the crime scene early that afternoon, her driver had taken her downtown to the west end of the long Rue Victor Hugo, which transected the town east to west at the southern end of the loop. Now, as she stepped out of the car, she tugged at her blue uniform jacket where it had ridden up over her ample bosom. She was an attractive woman, still in her forties, but if her male colleagues had thought that her female touch might be a soft one, they had quickly learned their mistake. Hélène Taillard was a good cop, as tough as any man who had filled her shoes, and maybe tougher. She was fiercely loyal to those who were loyal to her, but God help you if you crossed her. She had separated from her husband when it became clear to them both that her career was more important than her marriage.
    There were several police vehicles in the street outside the house, lights flashing. Two white, unmarked vans belonging to the forensic
police scientifique
were drawn up on the sidewalk opposite. Blue-and-white striped crime scene tape fluttered in the icy breeze that blew in off the slate-grey waters of the river.
    The house had been subdivided into two apartments, one on the ground floor, one on the upper floor. The victim had been found upstairs. Commissaire Taillard climbed the internal staircase to a poorly lit landing where a number of her officers were gathered outside the apartment. They spoke in hushed voices and watched keenly for the
commissaire’s
reaction. Murder in Cahors was a rare event.
    Inspecteur David Truquet shook her