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newspaper he'd been reading, leaving the dish of empty snail shells and dirty napkin where they were. 'Go on, take a seat,' he repeated, pointing beside him where the warm shape of his buttocks, gently inflating, was still impressed in the seat's red plastic cover.
'One of Sallinger's boys on the third floor told me you'd be here,' said Jacquot. 'I was on my way back so . . .'
'It's Danny, isn't it?' said Gastal, reaching for a clean napkin and working it into his collar.
A waiter appeared, cleared away Gastal's plate. 'M'sieur?' he asked, turning to Jacquot.
Jacquot shook his head. He wouldn't be staying.
'Come on, sit yourself, have a drink.'
'If it's okay with you
Gastal shrugged. 'Sure, sure. Suit yourself,' he said, not appearing to be bothered one way or the other. He picked up the last bread roll, broke off a piece and smeared it across the top of the butter dish. 'How's your partner? I heard he's down.'
'He'll live.'
Gastal's cheek swelled with the bread. 'Rugby, wasn't it? Bastards. Football, you break a leg and you can retire. Didn't you play one time?'
Jacquot nodded, watching Gastal's jaws work the wad of bread, a buttered crumb caught in the corner of his mouth.
The waiter reappeared with a rack of lamb and a dish of pommes lyonnaise the colour of old ivory.
'So,' said Gastal, lifting the hunk of meat and sawing a cutlet off the end of the rack. 'See you back at the office, then, if I can't tempt you.' He picked up the cutlet, turned his wrist and looked at his watch. 'Say three? Thereabouts?'
'Three's fine,' replied Jacquot, and turned for the door.
'Why don't we meet on the third, eh?' Gastal called out. 'My office.'
Jacquot looked back, raised a hand to say 'understood'.
    At his table, Gastal took his first bite of the cutlet, stripping away the meat. His cheek ballooned again and he waved back with the clean, curving bone.
     

10
     
    Raissac wasn't expecting visitors. It was late afternoon and he was lying in bed watching Sylviane dress. The shutters were closed but the windows were open. He could hear traffic below, the screech of seagulls on a nearby rooftop and somewhere out across La Joliette the distant, mournful hoot of a merchantman. The sun was beginning a slow descent towards the city's pantiled roofs, the shutter blinds throwing bars of gold across the girl's body.
     
    They'd had lunch at his favourite restaurant, Le Chaudron Provencal on nearby rue Lafonde, just the two of them, its formal, faintly intimidating atmosphere the perfect test.
     
    And Carnot's latest girl had passed with flying colours.The way she peeled and delicately dunked the quails' eggs, for herself and for him, dipping their sides in the celery salt, rinsing her fingers afterwards with an almost hypnotising delicacy, the lime-scented water trickling from her fingertips.
     
    So impressive a performance that Raissac had left the choice of courses to her and she'd ordered for the two of them, with an easy confidence, barely glancing at the menu as though she knew it off by heart, only occasionally referring to it when she suggested he might like . . . what? Oysters? The moules farcies? Langoustines?
     
And then performing as adeptly with the wine list, choosing a half-bottle of a white Chateauneuf-du-Pape to accompany the grilled oysters, and a meaty red Gigondas for the daube. She even made a point of saying which Gigondas she preferred, the one from Domaine de la Vauquaquilliere, the name tripping perfectly and prettily off her tongue, the sommelier bowing acknowledgement as though agreeing absolutely with her choice.
Nor did it stop there. When the food arrived Sylviane had eaten carefully and daintily, the knife and fork held just so, elbows tucked into her sides, back straight, sipping her wine and water but never leaving a trace of lipstick on either glass or napkin. And all the time she held his gaze, never once letting her eyes drift to the scarring on his face and the angry pool of claret splashed across his cheek and