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still on all fours. She looked up at him.
    “Tomorrow,” Soliman declared. “The hunt’s on tomorrow.”
    * * *
    In Paris,
Commissaire
Adamsberg paid no attention to the programme flickering like a dream on the screen in front of him. He was uneasy about the hyped-up story he had watched on the news. If that ravenous wolf did not soon slack off a bit, Adamsberg thought, then there wouldn’t be much hope for any of those unwary beasts of prey who had had the gall to drift like clouds over the Alps. This evening the reporters had taken care to get the pictures right, they’d zoomed in on the fine brown streaks on paws and spine that are characteristic of Italian wolves. The cameras were closing in on the culprits, the whole Mercantour affair could easily, very quickly, turn ugly. Tension was rising, and the size of the beast with it. He would be ten feet tall within a month. But that was nothing unusual. He had listened to dozens of crime victims describing their attacker – a real giant, sir, a monster to look at, and his hands were as wide as dinner plates. Then they’d catch the man, and the victim was often quite disappointed to see just how slight and ordinary his big bad wolf really was. Twenty-five years in the force had taught Adamsberg to be very wary of ordinary people, and to offer the hand of friendship to the oversize and to the misshapen who’d learned from early childhood how to take it easy so that people would leave them alone. Ordinary people aren’t so wise, they don’t take it easy.
    Adamsberg waited drowsily for the late-night news. Not to see the savaged sheep or to hear about the exploits of the monster-wolf again. But to catch that clip of the villagers at Saint-Victor milling around in the square at sundown . On the right of the image there was a girl who had caught his eye, turning three-quarters away and leaning against a large plane tree. She was tall and slim, she was dressed in a grey jacket, jeans and boots, she had dark shoulder-length hair, and her hands were in her pockets. That was all you could see. No face. Not a lot to make you think of Camille, but all the same it did make him think of her. Camille was the sort of girl who wouldn’t have extracted her ankles from her cowboy boots just because it was 33°C in the shade. But there must be millions of other dark-haired, grey-jacketed girls who keep their boots on in the summer heat. And Camille had no reason to be standing in the village square at Saint-Victor. But maybe she did have a reason to be standing there, how the hell would he know, since he had not seen her in years, not a sign, nothing. He had not tried to contact her either, but that wasn’t the same thing – he was easy to find, he hadn’t budged from the station, he’d kept on grinding away at his caseload of murder, manslaughter and general mayhem. Whereas Camille had taken off as she always did without the slightest warning, leaving people lost in her wake. Sure, he’d left her, but why couldn’t she send up a signal from time to time? She couldn’t. Camille was a proud woman and answered to nobody. He’d come across her again just once, at least five years ago, on a train. They were lovers again for two hours and that was that, she just vanished, thank you and goodbye. OK, he could take it, he was fine, and who gives a damn? But all the same he would like to know if it really was her leaning against that plane tree at Saint-Victor.
    The news bulletin was repeated at 11.45, sheep, farmer, sheep, then the village square. Adamsberg peered into the screen. Could be her. Could be Camille, the girl he couldn’t care less about who often crossed his mind. Could be a million other girls too. He did not notice anything else, except for a big blond type standing next to her. A broad-shouldered, strapping young fellow with longish hair and an agile and seductive air, the sort of man who can put his hand on a girl’s shoulder and expect the whole world to do his