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and white stripe that had earned him his nickname of Magpie.
    “Your reputation goes before you, Monsieur Macleod.”
    Enzo looked up to see a tall, solemn-faced gendarme regarding him with speculative interest. He wore a peaked
kepi
and a waterproof cape over his uniform, which looked a great deal dryer than Enzo felt. His arms were folded across his chest.
    “And I see you have already met Monsieur Kerjean. I think he’s afraid that someone is finally going to prove that he did it.”
    Enzo cocked an eyebrow. “And did he?” There seemed no point now in hurrying for cover.
    “That’s for him to know, and you to find out.” The gendarme extended a warm, dry hand to shake Enzo’s cold, wet one. “I’m Adjudant Richard Guéguen. Top cop around here. Big fish in a very small pool. And I’d like a word, if you can spare me a few minutes.” But it sounded more like an order than a request.
    Enzo glanced anxiously toward Coconut’s. He had no idea what time they closed. “I’ve got to pick up my rental car.”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It won’t be going anywhere without you. Besides, they’ve been told to expect you’ll be a little late.” The hint of a smile flitted across full lips.
    ***
    The gendarmerie stood in a commanding position on the hill above the customs offices overlooking the port, a yellow-painted three-story villa with a steeply pitched slate roof. Guéguen took Enzo in through a side entrance. He called into to a small general office, where three gendarmes sat idling behind desks. He didn’t want to be disturbed, he said, and led Enzo through to his own office at the rear of the house. Enzo felt eyes on his back as he followed the adjudant down the hall.
    Guéguen indicated a chair facing his desk. “Coffee?”
    “I’d love one.”
    “Two coffees in here please.” The adjudant called his order back down the hall and pointedly left the door open, apparently so that they could be overheard. He hung up his cape and cap and sat down behind his desk, then leaned forward, his forearms flat in front of him, interlocking his fingers as if in prayer. “You’re an interesting character, Monsieur Macleod.”
    “So I’ve been told.”
    “But I have to confess I’d never heard of you before I was instructed by brigade headquarters to lend you absolutely no assistance whatsoever.”
    “And why would they instruct you to do that?”
    “You mean apart from the fact that cops never like outsiders showing them how to do their job?”
    Enzo grinned. “Yes, apart from that.”
    “Well, Monsieur Macleod, you have to realise that the economy of this little island of ours is almost entirely dependent upon tourism these days. The era of the tuna fleets and the fish processing are long gone. And to be perfectly frank, murder is not a great tourist attraction.”
    “Even one that’s twenty years old?”
    “It’s the only one in living memory, Monsieur Macleod. However, the fact that it was never solved makes it a little like a wound that has never healed. And we really don’t want folk coming picking at the scabs.”
    “Even if a resolution of the case would finally heal the scar?”
    Guéguen sat back in his chair and chuckled, turning a pencil over and over again between his fingers. “And what makes you think you can succeed where no one else has?”
    “I’ve got a pretty good track record.”
    “That you have, Monsieur Macleod. I was amazed at just how much there was about you on the Internet when I looked. This would be the… fourth in Raffin’s catalogue of cold cases, yes?” He opened a folder in front of him. “And I see that before you came to France you specialised in crime scene analysis. No doubt Madame Killian will have high expectations.”
    “I never make any promises.”
    “Very wise. You know, a succession of people have come to study this case over the years, and none of them has exactly enhanced his reputation.”
    “And I’m not here to enhance mine,