Perhaps she should dig Piaf up and put him in Madame Camus’ tulip bed instead. Madame Camus had never expressed much love for Piaf, but she was at least a studious gardener. She’d won a prize for her nasturtium patch…

Monique, secretary-to-everyone-but-mainly-Claude, buzzed. ‘You joining us for coffee?’

‘Yes. No… I don’t know.’ The inspector sat back down. In her coat. In a muddle. It doesn’t really matter where you put a body. A garden in the north end was just as good as a garden by the park. And the flat on the third floor was a stop-gap, not a final destination. In her heart Aliette knew she could not go back there in any permanent way.

Toward mid-morning, Monique buzzed again. Claude had something. Please come.

She headed down the hall. Monique asked, ‘Are you OK?’

‘Piaf died.’

Monique raced around her desk and hugged the inspector before the tears could start again.

Just in time. ‘Merci, Monique… I’m fine. I’m good…’ She breathed. She smiled.

Collecting herself, stepping into Claude’s domain, she mused that if Piaf were to be cremated his ashes would fit into a cigar box, maybe a hand-thrown clay jar. ‘I could keep him on my desk.’

Claude nodded but refrained from comment. Piaf was a private matter. They had to stick to the rule about leaving private stuff at home. And he knew that whatever he might say, it would surely be wrong and only add to the larger problem. Not easy trying to manage two separate relationships with the same person. Instead, he passed her the information just sent up from the municipal police detachment at Village-Neuf, a bedroom community thirty minutes away on the banks of the Rhine. ‘You should check the situation. It’s up your alley, or appears so.’ A body discovered on the shore. Found by two kids that morning. ‘If you don’t want it, give it to Patrice or Bernadette, depending.’ Inspector Patrice Lebeau was their Anti-gangs specialist. Inspector Bernadette Milhau, still a rookie, was focusing on Vice. A senior inspector knew whose skills fit with what crime. She also had tacit rights of first refusal on whatever case struck her fancy.