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confirmation that this could indeed be
his suspect, they were currently in the process of obtaining the CCTV footage from the rental company’s premises, and a manhunt was under way for the young woman.
    ‘A big place, Lyon.’
    ‘I’ve been there.’
    ‘One of the largest metropolitan areas in France,’ Branson said, helpfully.
    ‘Thanks for the geography lesson.’
    ‘You’re welcome. Here’s one for you –
The French Connection
, with Gene Hackman, remember that?’
    ‘Yes, why?’
    ‘That was partly set in Marseilles. The second largest city.’
    ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
    ‘Nothing. Just trying to use any opportunity to educate you. And it had a great ending.’
    ‘You trying to tell me something?’
    Branson was hesitant suddenly. ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ he said. ‘I forgot. Maybe not so tactful.’
    ‘You could say that,’ Grace said. ‘Unless you’re trying to give me some kind of message?’
    Branson grinned, then raised his hands submissively. ‘No message.’
    ‘I’m glad about that, because the bad guy got away.’

6
Tuesday 17 February
    After a week of hanging around, dealing with French officialdom, before Walt Klein’s body was finally released after the post-mortem, Jodie accompanied her fiancé
back to New York. She travelled up at the pointed end, sipping vintage bubbly in First Class, appearing to the cabin crew every inch a grieving lover consoling herself with alcohol. Walt travelled
in less style, in the rear cargo hold of the plane. Although to be fair, she reasoned at one point, drifting off into a pleasant doze, he had more legroom in his coffin than those poor bastards
back in economy.
    And also, to be fair, she had not scrimped on the coffin. It was a top-of-the-range hand-carved rosewood affair, with a satin taffeta border and genuine brass handles. There was no finer coffin
to be had anywhere in the Alps, the undertaker in Moûtiers had assured her. And certainly, when she saw the price, none that could possibly have been more expensive.
    That would have been fine by her late fiancé, had he been in a position to help with the decision. Walt was dismissive of bargains. ‘You buy cheap, you buy twice,’ he had told
her on more than one occasion. He’d have been proud of just how expensive this beauty had been, she thought. His final little treat to himself! She would present the bill to his lawyer, who
would reimburse her.
    The champagne she had been quaffing throughout the journey, from her constantly topped-up glass, was still in her system, maintaining her pleasantly woozy haze through the lengthy immigration
queue. Although she hoped she did not reek too much of alcohol when, questioned by the immigration officer at passport control as to the reason for her visit, she had replied, trying to look and
sound suitably grief-stricken, ‘To bury my fiancé.’
    She collected her bags and entered the arrivals hall, then instantly felt in need of another top-up of alcohol when she saw the frosty faces of Walt’s two children – Don, his tall,
serious, forty-year-old son, and Carla, his softer, warmer, thirty-five-year-old daughter, who had come to the airport more out of respect for their deceased father than any love for their
gold-digger of a potential stepmother.
    ‘Carla,’ Jodie said, throwing her arms round her. ‘Oh my God, this is so terrible. So terrible.’ She burst into tears.
    ‘Dad was an expert skier,’ Don said, drily. ‘He’s skied off-piste for years. He wouldn’t make a mistake.’
    ‘It was a white-out, in a blizzard,’ Jodie sobbed. ‘We couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces.’
    ‘Dad wouldn’t have made a mistake,’ he repeated.
    ‘We’re staying at Dad’s apartment until the funeral,’ Carla said. ‘Hope that’s OK with you?’
    ‘But as we figured you might want to be alone, to grieve for our father, and avoid all the hassle from the press, we took the precaution of booking you into a