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boulevard where his wife and daughters strolled. In what way, hurt? When his telephone rang, he snatched it up. ‘De Charembourg. Who is this?’
    ‘You got my note, M. le Comte? You understand my meaning?’ The voice was hoarse, the accent hard to place … something guttural mixed up in Parisianargot.
    Jean-Yves answered in his crispest Academy French – an instinctive defence. ‘Whoever you are, I imagine you are hoping for money. Prepare to be disappointed. Your accusations are as wild as they are offensive.’
    A crackling pause. Then: ‘You lead an interesting life, Monsieur. So many friends. So many
lady
friends … Can your wife count them on her fingers? I’m sure she tries.’
    ‘How dareyou speak of my wife?’ How did this creature know anything of his life? Of his discreet liaisons? He was so careful.
    The caller gave a thick laugh. ‘You are an appreciator of female beauty, and what is wrong with that? Women and girls,ah … so tender and vulnerable, no? Is it not tragic when a young girl is hurt? You would not wish to cause the mutilation of a girl’s face?’
    ‘God, no. Of coursenot. What—’
    The voice became businesslike. ‘Five hundred thousand francs and nobody you love will know what a bastard you are – well, you
were
. I know what you did to Alfred Lutzman.’ The line went dead.
    Jean-Yves discovered his shirt was soaked. At last, after so many years, the horror of that winter’s day in Kirchwiller had come back to haunt him. Five hundred thousand francs was equivalentto a year’s untaxed income. How would he find such a sum?
    In London he’d held a responsible position in the Banque d’Alsace, retiring with shares that bolstered his current, modest salary as a director of a textiles firm. Rhona had brought money to the marriage too, but what remained of that was invested for their daughters. And there was far less of it than she imagined. As Miss Aisleby, heiressto her grandfather’s coal-mining fortune, she’d once been the richest girl in northern England. By the time she inherited, the Aisleby pits were exhausted and war had wiped out her invested fortune. Her grandfather’s debts and death duties took much of the rest. Jean-Yves often tried to explain that it was mismanagement and socialism that had swallowed her wealth, not theft, but Rhona still believedher money existed somewhere. She certainly spent as if it did.
    Bluntly, he wasn’t up to the luxury of a blackmailer.
    He realised the telephone receiver was slick with sweat, and wiped it quickly. Who did that malevolent voice belong to? And how could a stranger ever know about events that took place in Alsace thirty-five years ago? It had all been hushed up.
    He could think of only one personwho might tell him. He must break a taboo and ask her to meet him.
    *
    ‘Paul, I’ll do it. I’ll steal Javier’s spring–summer collection so neither of us need worry about money ever again. I’ll slip into his show in disguise with a sketchbook up my skirt. Just don’t ever tell my grandmother.’
    Having said her piece, Alix dug her fork into a mound of grated carrot doused in vinaigrette. She had radisheson her plate too – and cold green beans, boiled egg, onion and slices of Toulouse sausage. This café on Butte de Montmartre specialised in the cheap and the vibrant. It was Friday lunchtime, 12 th March, and though the wind was still sharp, Place du Tertre was bright with sunshine, the trees squeezing into bud. Alix had just completed a night shift at the exchange and a further four hours to coverfor a sick colleague. She felt light-headed. ‘It’s mad, stealing a whole collection. And impossible but …’ She broke off.
    Paul was making a dam of salt in a trickle of wine. When she asked, ‘Am I dining alone?’ he made a face and responded, ‘I’ve something to tell you.’
    Oh, no. Surely his contact hadn’t approached somebody elseto steal the collection? Not after she’d spent sleepless nightsworking