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a Sony hi-fi – all black dials and knobs, with two miniature loudspeakers, one on either side. On the wall behind it there was a large old-fashioned mirror with a patterned border etched into the glass. On a small table in the centre of the room there was a vase full of fresh flowers, and along the remaining wall a small sink and a cooking stove let into the top of some fitted cupboards.
    It was someone’s whole world encapsulated in a few square metres.
    It certainly wouldn’t have done for Doucette, nor for him either. He found himself wondering what Madame Caoutchouc did in her spare moments – other than listen to theradio. There wasn’t a single book or a magazine to be seen anywhere. His own day was rarely complete without reading something before he went to sleep. Perhaps she didn’t have any spare moments.
    At that moment he heard footsteps coming up the steps. He let the curtain fall back into place and turned just as the door opened.
    If Madame Caoutchouc was surprised to see such an early customer she hardly registered the fact. Instead she motioned him towards the nearest chair.
    She looked worried, distracted. He could see the family likeness at once. She was an older, larger version of the girl. Yasmin in perhaps twenty years’ time.
    ‘I have told you all I know. There is nothing more to add.’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse looked suitably baffled.
    ‘I’m sorry. I do not understand …’
    It was Madame Caoutchouc’s turn to look confused.
    ‘You are not from the press?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘Or the police?’
    He shook his head again. ‘No. I simply wanted to buy a ticket for tonight’s performance.’
    Madame Caoutchouc gave a short laugh. ‘Tonight? Tonight, there will be no problem,
Monsieur.
’ She reached for the door handle.
    Monsieur Pamplemousse shrugged. For reasons best known to themselves, Le Cirque Bretagno was not in the business of selling tickets that morning. So be it. He turned and was about to leave when the memory of the man pasting over the advertising posters came back to him.
    ‘I’m sorry. I do not understand. There
is
a show tonight?’
    There was moment’s hesitation. ‘You mean you haven’t heard about the accident?
Morbleu
!’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse felt an icy hand clutching at the pit of his stomach. He knew the answer before he even posed the question.
    ‘It was the trapeze artiste? The girl Yasmin?’
    Madame Caoutchouc nodded. ‘It was terrible. I was there when it happened. I saw it all. There was nothing anyone could do. She missed the bar after a triple somersault. It was a difficult trick, but she had done it many times before. She landed in the net – that too, has happened many times – but this time …’ She suddenly had difficulty in finding the right words.
    ‘We did everything we could. Everything. I went with her in the ambulance …’
    Monsieur Pamplemousse asked the question uppermost in his mind.
    ‘No, she isn’t dead, but she is in a coma. If you had seen her lying there …’
    To his dismay Madame Caoutchouc suddenly burst into a flood of tears. It was as though a dam had broken. For a moment or two it was so uncontrollable he felt at a loss to know what to do or say. It was always the same when he was confronted by a woman crying; a mixture of tenderness and helplessness, which occasionally gave way to irrational anger, not with the person concerned, but with his own inability to supply the right words.
    ‘I am sorry.’ He reached out and touched her. ‘If there is anything I can do’ For a moment he was tempted to tell Madame Caoutchouc about his meeting with the girl, then he decided against it. There seemed little point.
    ‘
Merci, Monsieur
.’ With a struggle she pulled herself together. ‘I’m sorry. I am a little overwrought. The police have been here asking questions. What do they know about the circus?
    ‘There will be a show tonight – we cannot afford not to have one, but it will be without Yasmin. And without