Heart thumping, Laurent related the story of the bag he had found. 'Yes, I see ... a woman's handbag ... Abandoned ... just sitting there.' Anxiety started to show on Modiano's face, as if he were highly disturbed by the story of the bag and would not be able to sleep because of it. Laurent had just upset one of the greatest living writers because of his amateur investigation. He apologised several times and with each pa.s.sing second became more and more aware of the absurdity of his init.i.tiative, then just as he was wishing he could vanish into thin air, Modiano had responded, 'I'm not sure I can help you. I can't really remember ... Wait, yes ... I do remember something.'

Now they were walking side by side. 'Yes ... we must find her to give her back her bag ... that will complete the story,' Modiano mused. They exchanged some ba.n.a.lities about the weather and the upkeep of the gardens in winter.

'I haven't really been any help to you ...'

'Oh, you have, you've been a big help,' Laurent told him. 'And thank you, thank you for all your books.'

'Thank you,' Modiano murmured quietly, looking at him, then, 'Good luck with your search.'

They shook hands and Modiano added purely out of politeness, Laurent felt sure that he would perhaps drop into the bookshop one day if he were pa.s.sing that way. Laurent watched him walk away. A breeze had sprung up again making the author's coat flap slightly. Then Modiano disappeared round the corner as though consumed by the railings.

He had done it. He had risen to his daughter's challenge. In the enthusiasm of the moment, Laurent decided to go on a tour of the nearby dry-cleaners'. It was Thursday; the strappy dress would be ready. When he got back to Le Cahier Rouge, he told Maryse and Damien that he would be gone a couple of hours. Having identified nine dry-cleaners' within a radius of roughly a kilometre, he printed out the Google map of the area, a.s.siduously marked each dry-cleaner's with a little cross and set off on the trail. If he used the Metro as well as walking, he would get round them all by midday.

But at eleven o'clock precisely, ahead of schedule, he was walking along the street carefully carrying a hanger from which dangled a white dress in a transparent dry-cleaning bag marked Aphrodite Dry-cleaner's: 'We care about caring for your clothes'. He had visited six dry-cleaners'. The first four had told him the ticket was not one of theirs, the fifth had brought Laurent seven ironed Hermes ties. Although incontestably the creme de la creme of leather working, the famous design house produced, in Laurent's view, the most hideous ties in the world: motifs of foxes, snails, horses and little dogs on silk backgrounds of mustard and blue were spread out in front of him. His ticket's number, 0765, did indeed correspond to the ticket on the ties. But on learning that the ties were not what Laurent was after, the dry-cleaner quickly understood that the ticket was not in fact one of his. The woman in the sixth dry-cleaner's had taken the ticket, brought the dress without comment, and asked him for twelve euros. In reply to the question Laurent had been burning to ask, the answer had been as simple as it was disappointing: no, she had no recollection at all of the person who had dropped the dress off, sorry.

So now Laurent had a first name, and a description: shoulder-length brown hair, pale complexion, very light eyes, possibly grey, a beautiful smile, not very tall and with a beauty spot to the right of her upper lip. But nothing at all to indicate her surname. Although Laurent had been galvanised by his meeting with Modiano and was very proud of 'Operation Dry-cleaner', he was forced to admit that he had now played all his cards. Returning to his apartment, he hung the dress on the door of the bookcase, stepped back, then took the dress down and held it by his side. Judging Laure's approximate height, he held the dress well below the level of his shoulder. The gla.s.s door of the bookcase reflected back their image, like a daguerreotype of yesteryear in which the face and body of the woman had been effaced by time, leaving nothing but the image of the dress. The man had been preserved, a man and his phantom wife. Behind the gla.s.s you could see the spines of the novels Laurent collected, the old paperbacks, the first editions, the Pleiades cla.s.sics, the books signed by authors who'd come to do events at Le Cahier Rouge. Although there were books elsewhere in the apartment, this was the bookcase where he displayed the books that meant the most to him. He even made sure not to shelve authors who did not get on next to each other. So he would never put Celine next to Sartre, or Houellebecq next to Robbe-Grillet. The image of him posing next to an empty dress could have been captioned The Imaginary Girlfriend, a t.i.tle borrowed from John Irving. (The book did not recount the tale of a bookseller who finds the bag of an unknown woman but was actually the memoirs of the student Irving, his first literature courses and his discovery of Greco-Roman wrestling.) He hung the dress back on the bookcase and turned to the card table. Laid out were the little stones, the mirror, the make-up bag, the keys with their hieroglyphic fob attached, the Pariscope, the little notebook with her thoughts, the Modiano paperback, the Montblanc pen, the hair clip with the blue flower, the recipe for ris de veau, and the packet of liquorice sweets. He took one. He was not going to find her. The search was over. The thought of putting all those objects back in the bag and taking it to Rue des Morillons was as repellent as the idea of taking an animal to a rescue shelter on the pretext that you could no longer look after it. Laurent suddenly felt profoundly dejected. He seriously considered leaving Laure's possessions on the table for good. Like those knick-knacks that collect dust, family souvenirs brought back from holidays that end up being part of the decor. He switched off the light, and went back down to Le Cahier Rouge. In the gloom, the dress gave off an almost phosph.o.r.escent glow.

It was a terrible idea. An idea that only Dominique could have come up with. To meet up with other people rather than have dinner alone when they could have talked to each other, and he could have explained the story of the bag and the hairgrip and soothed her fears. She, however, wanted a neutral encounter in a neutral environment. In a new wine bar Le Chantemuse opened by a couple of graphic designers who had moved into bistronomy. There were to be seven guests: a couple of journalists both remarried who were celebrating their wood wedding anniversary (five years), an architect, a junior minister, a press officer and the two of them.

When he arrived, they were already seated at the back of the restaurant, each with a gla.s.s of green kir royale which was apparently champagne with basil liqueur. Laurent kissed Dominique perfunctorily on the lips then greeted the other guests and sat down opposite her. Dominique seemed pleased to see him.

'We're waiting for Pierre, but I don't understand, he's not answering his mobile,' announced the junior minister with the annoyed air of one who juggles many case files and does not appreciate unforeseen problems.

Dominique suggested that since he was flying in from Madrid, maybe his flight had been cancelled; the female half of the anniversary couple hoped there had not been an accident; the press officer was more inclined to think that Pierre must have got the wrong date, then Laurent joined them all in toasting the wood anniversary of the couple he didn't know. The architect did not turn up and his chair remained empty all evening. Laurent imagined that Pierre had probably preferred to stay in Madrid and eat tapas with a flamenco dancer, but he decided not to share this opinion with his neighbours.

The conversation turned to the exhibitions that were currently on and to politics. From time to time he caught Dominique's eye. They held each other's gaze without saying anything, then turned away again. Their complicity during these fleeting exchanges seemed faked it was a far cry from the look that had pa.s.sed between them on the evening of the event at Le Cahier Rouge. That look in which they had promised each other, almost by telepathy, that nothing would stop them ending the night together. That had been a little over a year ago, which was a cotton anniversary, according to the wood anniversary couple. Would they celebrate the next anniversary together? As the dinner progressed, Laurent doubted it. Ephemeral relationships like that just happen, programmed from the outset to die after a brief period but you only realise that as they are about to end.

After the starter of organic salmon with fair-trade red fruits, they moved on to steamed chicken fillets with vegetables (organic obviously) in a spicy sauce made from an ancestral Peruvian recipe brought back from a trip taken by one of the graphic designers-turned-restaurateurs. It was all very of the moment, very on trend, very boho. As Dominique talked about an article on the economic crisis she wanted to put together for Le Monde, Laurent fell to dreaming of those Relais et Chateaux hotels in the provinces where, in the dining rooms with crackling fires, they said 'Enjoy the rest of your meal' at every course.

'What's happened to your pretty handbag?' Dominique's question had involuntarily coincided with a lull in the conversation and Laurent was obliged to explain the saga of the handbag to the group.

'I would love it if a man searched for me like that,' declared the press officer, finishing off her third gla.s.s of wine. 'Perhaps it would end in a beautiful relationship. I'm so bored, stuck with Mark and the children.' Her remark struck a sour note. 'What?' she went on. 'It's the truth. After twenty-two years of marriage, you get tired of each other. I'm sorry but that's the way it is.'

Dominique asked her neighbour, the junior minister, if he would kindly refill her gla.s.s. Laurent reached for the bottle, but the other man beat him to it.

'Have you had a book signing with Jean Echenoz?' the wood anniversary wife asked, showing a sudden interest in his bookshop.

'Yes,' replied Laurent. 'For Ravel.'

'What was the name of his book that won the Goncourt?'

'I'm Leaving,' replied Laurent 'You also know Amelie Nothomb, Dominique tells me.'

'Yes, I know Amelie.'

The press officer asked him if the story she always told about eating rotten fruit was true. Laurent was at a loss. He had never discussed food with Amelie Nothomb. After that, everyone stopped asking him questions and the conversation took a different turn, ranging over relationships, family and children in no particular order. The voices round the table seemed to blend into one, dissolving into a gentle hubbub that Laurent was no longer listening to.

His gaze drifted to the architect's empty chair. He poured himself some more wine and smiled slightly, still looking at the chair. It seemed to him that by concentrating a little he could see a figure sketching itself in the air. Yes, as he emptied his gla.s.s, the figure became clearer. Purely by willpower he had conjured up a person sitting in that chair. He was the only one who could see her; she had shoulder-length brown hair, a pale complexion, very light eyes, a beauty spot to the right of her upper lip, lipstick, red of course but tending to the coral. She was as bored by this dinner as he was and now there was no doubt about it she was smiling at him. No one had noticed and their complicity was complete. If he were to concentrate even harder he would see her get up and come over to him. She would lean over and say into his ear, 'Come on, Laurent, let's go.'

'Are you coming with me?'

Laurent turned to look at Dominique.

'I'm going to smoke a cigarette will you join me?'

Outside the cold took him by surprise as Dominique lit her cigarette, shielding herself from the wind. She took her first drag.

'I think we're drifting apart,' she said, after a silence.

'I agree,' replied Laurent quietly.

'I think you're seeing someone else.'

Laurent said nothing.

'You've been thinking about her all evening. It's obvious ... I think this is the parting of the ways.'

Laurent thought, She should make a list of all her 'I thinks'.

Dominique moved towards him and ran her hand through his hair, with a disillusioned smile. 'Happy hunting, Laurent.' Then she added coldly, 'Don't ever call me again.' And she threw away her barely started cigarette and went back into the restaurant.

There, it was over. How was it so easy to disappear from someone else's life? Perhaps it was with the same ease that you enter it. A chance meeting, a few words exchanged, and a relationship begins. A chance falling out, a few words exchanged and that same relationship is over.

He had gone back in a few minutes later, but he longed to quietly pay his share and leave. How many things do we feel obliged to do for the sake of it, or for appearances, or because we are trained to do them, but which weigh us down and don't in fact achieve anything? Dominique wouldn't look at him any more. She was deep in conversation with the junior minister, who was smiling at her. Laurent wondered if he was looking at his replacement. He waited a good quarter of an hour without anyone talking to him, and it was certain now, the junior minister was making good progress, and, judging by her charming smiles, Dominique was responding to his advances. The t.i.tle of Jean Echenoz's book was now an invitation he could no longer refuse.

Laurent rose and said, 'I'm leaving.'

As he walked away towards the till, he heard Dominique say, 'Ignore him. That would also make a good t.i.tle for a book.'

On the stroke of seven Frederic Pichier arrived at the bookshop where readers were already waiting. He took off his scarf and padded jacket, shook hands with each of the bookshop staff, said that he was 'really very touched' by Laurent's compliments on his book and let himself be led to the little table set up for him. He settled down behind the piles of The Sky is our Frame and some of his earlier books. Maryse brought him a gla.s.s of vin chaud and some savoury biscuits. There were at least forty people in the shop already and more were pushing through the door. Laurent sat down beside Pichier, smiled at the a.s.sembled customers, which immediately hushed the low murmuring amongst them and then raised his voice to thank both the author for kindly accepting the invitation from Le Cahier Rouge and the customers for coming out on this cold evening. He then introduced Frederic Pichier, talking briefly about his work, his life and his latest book. The writer answered the questions about the book from his host, who had annotated the text with care. The session ended with applause from the audience and Laurent left the author to his signing. Damien served the customers with gla.s.ses of vin chaud and they obediently queued up in front of the author's table.

Laurent grabbed a gla.s.s of wine and went over to Maryse. 'It's good that so many people have turned up,' he murmured to her.

'And they're still coming,' she replied, looking over at the door. 'Isn't your friend Dominique joining us?'

'Dominique won't be coming any more, Maryse,' replied Laurent, staring at the cinnamon stick floating in his wine.

'I'm sorry, Laurent. I shouldn't have said anything.'

'No, it doesn't matter, really it doesn't,' he told her, taking her hand. 'I've met someone else,' he added, wondering in the next instant what had come over him.

Pichier was listening with a smile to the compliments of one of the customers, Franoise, and replying to the usual questions: 'How did you get the idea?' 'How long did it take you to write?' 'You must have had to do a huge amount of research.' Then, as he was finishing off his dedication, 'For Franoise, my loyal reader ...' she reluctantly asked him the ritual question, 'Are you working on a new novel?' 'Yes, yes, I'm working on something ...' replied Pichier laconically.

The truth was that for the last two and a half months he had been adrift in a plot he himself described as c.r.a.p to his friends and family, and which he had avoided relaying to his editor. It was the story of a young maid in the 1900s set against a wide backdrop that ranged from rural French society to the upper cla.s.ses in Paris. And it depicted the purest souls as well as the slightly depraved elite of the Belle epoque. He was stuck on page 40. Marie, the young serving girl, was having an affair with a brutish but romantic butcher's boy, while the son of the family, a timid aesthete who collected beetles, was secretly fantasising about her. Sometimes in his giddier moments, Pichier told himself he was going to give birth to a monster, that he would be the first to produce a novel that was part J.-K. Huysmans and part Marc Levy. Some afternoons, he wished that his heroine would end up at the hands of the knackers of Les Halles. As for the well-born young virgin, many a time had he itched to send him off to the Trappist monks. Sometimes, when he was in real trouble, he wrote barely three sentences before spending the rest of the day in front of his screen, surfing the web, especially eBay, looking for objects that, of course, could not be found. He also spent time, like all his fellow writers, typing his name and the t.i.tle of his books into search engines, looking for reviews on blogs and literary sites, smiling when he came across a good review and cursing when he came across a mixed one that ended with the insulting phrase, 'This book did not make much of an impression on me.' Sometimes, using a pseudonym, he would write a review himself on Fnac.com or Amazon.com, praising himself and hailing the great talent of Frederic Pichier. Recently he had even gone as far as to write, under the ident.i.ty 'Mitsi', on Babelio.com, 'Pichier, a future Goncourt winner?'

Like many writers, Pichier had another job. He was a year eleven and twelve French teacher. At the Lycee Pablo-Neruda in the outer suburbs, which was next door to the Robespierre nursery school. After twenty-one years' teaching, he had felt a sense of exhaustion creeping in. Nervous exhaustion. Encouraged by his nearest and dearest and by his editor, he had taken a year's 'sabbatical', so that he could devote himself exclusively to his writing. Now, suffering from writer's block, alone every day at home, he regretted the decision that had deprived him of his pupils. They might have been rowdy, sly, complicated, and lacking in culture, sometimes appallingly so, but he had to admit that his days with them had been vastly more entertaining than those he now spent in front of his screen. Their concept of literature was frequently disconcerting. To them the Marquise de Merteuil was a sort of 'cougar' and Valmont 'too sick'. They had spent a month going through the text as if it were a TV series. He had chopped it into extracts: season one, season two ... of Les Liaisons Dangereuses. They had really liked the t.i.tle; they thought it sounded s.e.xy and subversive, both attributes that aroused their curiosity. In their own fashion, they had actually followed the thoughts of the eighteenth-century author. Madame Bovary had just been, for most of the boys, 'lame' with a totally desperate heroine. The girls, however, seemed to understand the woes of Emma a bit better. As for the mining community in Germinal, the entire cla.s.s might as well have been reading science fiction. Un Amour de Swann with its ending, 'To think that I've wasted years of my life, that I've longed to die, that I've experienced my greatest love, for a woman who didn't appeal to me, who wasn't even my type!' awakened more interest. Some of the boys seemed to find a connection between Proust's thoughts and their personal experience of disappointment in love. 'The hero was really into a top bird who just wasn't right for him. He finally realised it and that made him think a lot about himself and his life' was Hugo's brilliant summing up fourteen out of twenty 'Good comprehension of the text, but your a.n.a.lysis is underdeveloped and watch your spelling, Hugo.' Some pupils, mainly girls, had read The Sky is our Frame. Djamila had even asked him to sign her copy and asked him lots of pertinent questions about the structure of the book, which had both touched him and made him feel optimistic.

The author signed and smiled politely at his readers, drinking down several vins chauds. Laurent went over to ask if everything was all right.

'Yes, excellent,' replied Pichier.

'We've sold thirty copies,' Laurent murmured to him.

Pichier nodded.

'h.e.l.lo,' he said to a new customer as she approached. 'h.e.l.lo ... Nathalie,' he added with a friendly smile, looking at her neckline.

'How do you know my name?' exclaimed the customer.

Pichier smiled, pleased with the effect he had produced. 'You're wearing it round your neck,' he said, narrowing his eyes.

She put her hand up to a gold pendant. 'You read hieroglyphics?' she said admiringly.

'I wrote Tears of Sand,' responded Pichier, laying his hand on a copy. 'There's a lot about Egypt in it. I learnt as I was doing research for the book.'

'I'll be right back,' said Laurent quickly and he made his way through the customers to the internal door of the bookshop that led to the lobby of the apartment building. He took the stairs four at a time up to his flat, opened the door, turned the light on, quickly grabbed the keys from the card table, and looked breathlessly at the fob with the hieroglyphics. Now he understood: it had never been meant for keys, it was a pendant just like the customer's; it was simply that she had attached it to her key ring. He left the apartment, slamming the door behind him and rushed back down the stairs.

The customer was having two books signed: Tears of Sand for her husband and the latest novel for herself. Pichier was polishing off the dedication as Laurent approached. He had to wait while the customer related a colourful family anecdote, something that had happened to her great-grandmother during the Great War which was very like an episode in the novel. At last she said goodbye to the author and Laurent slipped in front of the next customer.

'Can I just interrupt a moment,' he said to Pichier. 'Do you know what this says?' And he laid the bunch of keys on the cover of one of the books.

Pichier picked it up, adjusted his gla.s.ses and looked closely at the Egyptian characters. 'Yes ...' he murmured. 'It says Laure ...' Then he turned the little rectangle over. '...Va ... Vala ... Valadier.'

Laure Valadier.

Silence is golden. The phrase inscribed above the entrance of the ateliers and gold-plated by Alfred Gardhier (18781949) himself had taken on a new significance for William. It had been four days now, and Laure had still not woken up. No matter what Professor Baulieu said to rea.s.sure him the brain scan had not shown any damage the fact that she was still in a coma surely did not bode well. He picked up the leaf with the flat of his knife, placed it on the calfskin cushion and blew very gently; it unfurled into a perfect rectangle. With the sharp edge of the knife, he divided it in two, rubbed the sable brush against his cheek and picked up the first half in one smooth movement. The static electricity lifted the leaf above the layer of wetted Armenian bole covering the woodwork. With a flick of the wrist he dropped it into place. In a fraction of a second, the gold leaf moulded perfectly to the contours of the wood, blending in with the seventy-five others he had already positioned that day. Two more and the restoration of the pier gla.s.s bearing the coat of arms of the Counts of Rivaille would be all but complete. The only thing left was to burnish the surface with an agate stone until the gold shone as it had in its glory days.

For the last four days Laure's seat in the workshop had been vacant. When she had not arrived on Thursday morning, he had known something was wrong. At eleven o'clock he left her a message. At midday he left another. At one o'clock he rang her landline. After lunch, during which Laure's absence was the main subject of conversation with Agathe, Pierre, Franois, Jeanne and Amandine the other gilders who had completed their apprenticeships he agreed with Sebastien Gardhier (the fourth generation to run the family business) that it would be sensible if he went round to see her.

'It's William again. I've left work. I'll just go home and pick up Belphegor's keys and then I'm coming round' was the last message he had left on Laure's mobile. This was how they referred to the spare set of keys to her apartment; William only used them to go in and feed the cat when she was away.

When he had rung the bell twice and no one had come to the door, he made up his mind to let himself in. As soon as the door opened, the cat slipped out onto the landing, as he had a habit of doing. He looked at William, arched his back and started moving crabwise, his ears pointing backwards. 'He does that when he's scared it's an attacking position.' Laure's words came into his head, and if the cat was scared it must mean something had happened.

'Laure?' he called out. 'Are you home?'

As soon as he stepped inside, he had a strong sense of deja vu. The scene in front of him was merging with one he had seen before, as he suddenly remembered the afternoon he had let himself into his grandmother's house when she had not come to the door. That afternoon, ten years ago, when she had not responded to him asking if she was there, as he was doing now. He had gone round opening doors and found every room empty until he reached the kitchen. She was lying on the tiled floor. Lifeless.

'Laure?' he shouted, opening the door to her bedroom and then the study, the bathroom, the toilet and finally, at the end of the corridor, the kitchen. This time the apartment really was empty, and William sat himself down on the sofa in the sitting room. He concentrated on his breathing; his chest felt tight and wheezy and the telltale itch was creeping up his back. He took out his inhaler, held it to his mouth and pressed twice. Belphegor slid between William's legs, brushing him with his tail.

'Where is Laure? Do you know?' asked William. But the animal remained silent.

Having stroked the cat and established that nothing in the flat appeared untoward, William made one last call to Laure's mobile and got her voicemail again. He left a brief message before closing the door behind him and heading back downstairs. On the face of it, no, nothing untoward, but something must have happened, something big, for her to have failed to turn up for work and not be answering her phone. If he hadn't heard from her by the end of the day, he would call the police. When he reached the lobby, he saw that a white envelope had been pushed under the main door. He was sure it had not been there when he arrived. He leant down and read the delicate handwriting: Mademoiselle Laure Valadier and family.

Hotel Paris Bellevue ***

Madame, Monsieur, Should you require any information about Laure Valadier, who stayed with us on the night of 15 January and was taken ill, please contact reception.

Kind regards, The management That evening, they had let him see her through a window. She was lying in a room shared with several others. The patient next to her was hooked up to a ventilator. Laure seemed just to be asleep with a drip in her arm. When he returned the next day he was allowed to sit at her bedside. Her face was relaxed, her eyelids closed. Her breathing was barely perceptible, in and out at regular intervals. The hushed room was bathed in weak artificial light. There were six beds he now counted, and the men and women lying in them were all deep in the kind of sleep that goes on for days, weeks, years, or even until the end of their lives, leaving loved ones to wonder: was he aware he was dying, or was he already long gone? The only sound was the quiet pumping of the ventilator by the neighbouring bed, which went on continuously as if it had a life of its own which would never end. The human race could die out, mortal bodies turn to dust, and this pump would go on gently rising and falling until the end of time.

'It's William,' he finally murmured. 'I'm here. Apparently people in comas can still hear. I don't know if that's true. Don't worry, I'm looking after Belphegor. He's eating his Virbac biscuits, the duck ones. Amandine and Pierre took over your work today; they'll finish restoring the Virgin Mary for you.'

He placed his hand over hers. It didn't move.

'I have to go to Berlin soon to do the ceiling for the German guy Schmidt or Schmirt, is it? you know, the gold mouldings.'

I'm scared of storms.

'I'll think of a plan for the cat. I'll think of something, don't worry.'

I'm scared of zoos. I'm scared because the animals are in cages.

'You have to wake up. You have to come back, Laure.'

I'm scared of boats.

'All this for a bag. I told you not to buy it, it was too nice.'

I'm scared when I don't understand. I don't understand why I'm here.

I'm scared when I don't know where I am, and I don't know where I am. I don't know 'when' I am.

I'm scared when William talks to me and I can't say anything back.

The days had pa.s.sed between visits to Laure in the morning and Belphegor at night. Professor Baulieu had taken him into his office.

'Your sister ... She is your sister, isn't she?'

The doctor had a sweep of white hair, a rather round face and kind, laughing eyes. The ability to keep a degree of detachment and a sense of humour must be essential in this job, William thought to himself.

'What do you think?' he replied, smiling ruefully.

'I think ... you're not her brother,' the doctor said with a knowing smile. 'But that's really neither here nor there. What matters is that you're here, which is great, and you're the only one able to speak for her.'

William replied as best he could to the doctor's questions. Yes, he was effectively Laure's next of kin; she had lost her husband and parents and had no children only a sister who lived a long way away, in Moscow, from whom she heard only once or twice a year.

'She has a lot of friends, though,' William began explaining.

'Including you,' the doctor cut in, 'the best of them, the only one who's here. You must talk to her when you come. That's very important. She can hear you.'

'I do talk to her.'

'That's good,' the doctor said, nodding approvingly. 'Right, let me tell you where we are. Laure is in a mild form of coma caused by the head injury and the subdural haematoma that developed during the night. This sometimes happens to people involved in car crashes they go home feeling a bit dazed and collapse an hour later. The signs are encouraging. I see no cause for concern she should wake up within days. It seems she was mugged,' he said, consulting the notes on his desk.

'She had her bag stolen. I guess she must have tried to fight back,' replied William.

The doctor shook his head with a sigh. 'All for a handful of euros, and I've seen far worse,' he muttered.

William went on to answer a series of questions about Laure: Was he aware of any previous operations? Was she on any medication? Had she ever been involved in an accident? Any drug or alcohol addictions? If at all possible, he should also get hold of her social security number and a few other bits of paperwork. William said yes, he could supply that information the ateliers would provide the necessary doc.u.ments.