mystery.
‘Two brothers,’ replied Grace. ‘Paul was a good bit older and he passed away before Ken was diagnosed. Dessie is older by a couple of years; he took early retirement a while back and lives in Spain with his partner. It was partly because of him that we bought the apartment near Cartagena. He was always going on about the great lifestyle he and Margaret had. But Ken would never have dreamt of retiring there. He liked his life at home.’
While Grace was speaking, Deira picked up another book. ‘Here you go,’ she said. ‘It’s a Maigret case.’
The cover was dark green, with the title Maigret et le Corps sans tête written in green print on the front, and Simenon’s name underneath.
‘Maigret and the Headless Corpse,’ translated Grace. ‘Yuck.’
‘There’s a complete collection of them,’ Deira said as she investigated the books on the stall.
‘Are they all in French?’ Grace leafed through the one she was holding. She could translate fragments but she knew she’d never be able to read it.
‘Afraid so,’ said Deira. ‘They’re great, though, aren’t they?’
‘Is the Lock 14 one there?’ asked Grace.
‘Not that I can see. But maybe the title is different in French.’ Deira took out her phone and did a search of Maigret titles while Grace returned the book and moved to the next stall, where the novels were rather more literary.
Deira joined her as Grace was flicking through an even older edition of The Sun Also Rises than the one she’d brought with her.
‘More Hemingway?’ Deira grinned. ‘You’re a glutton for punishment.’
Grace made a face. ‘I’m trying to be cultural. Any luck on the Maigret?’
‘Yes.’ Deira waved a slim paperback under her nose. ‘The Crime at Lock 14 was originally called Le Charretier de la Providence, whatever that means.’ She handed the book to Grace. ‘Et voilà. Here you go.’
‘You found it! Did you buy it? How much do I owe you?’
‘It was cheap as chips, so don’t even think about it,’ said Deira. ‘Just add it to your collection.’
‘My collection of books I won’t read.’ Grace laughed. ‘This would be beyond me.’
‘You know, Grace, I don’t think anything is beyond you,’ said Deira.
The older woman smiled, then shook her head.
They walked back to the hotel in companionable silence.
On their return, they went to reception to pick up the keys to their rooms. The white-moustached receptionist had gone, replaced by a young woman who gave them a bright smile and wished them a good evening.
‘I like proper keys instead of cards,’ remarked Grace. ‘They’re more— Oops.’
The key, which she’d been swinging from its wooden fob, slid out of her grasp and clattered onto the floor. There was a flurry of caramel fur as a large Labrador dog that had been asleep on a beanbag beside the desk leapt up and ran after it. He collected it in his mouth and returned it to Grace, even as the young female receptionist was calling to him. ‘Non, non, Brigitte!’
The dog ignored her, but Grace and Deira exchanged glances.
‘Brigitte?’ said Deira, while Grace took the key from the dog’s mouth, patting her gently on the head and thanking her first in English and then with a couple of mercis. She glanced at the red leather collar around the dog’s neck.
‘Her name is Brigitte,’ she told Deira.
‘Wow. The dog . . .’ Deira turned to the receptionist, who was clearly relieved that the guests weren’t upset by the sudden game of fetch and were still petting Brigitte, who was looking pleased with herself. ‘When did you get her?’
‘She came here before me,’ replied the receptionist. ‘She belongs to the owner. She has her own photo, look.’
And there, on the wall behind reception, was a small wooden plaque: Bienvenue Brigitte. 8 Août 2015.
‘That’s the answer.’ Grace turned to Deira, her eyes shining. ‘The eighth of August: 8!’
‘Hopefully we would’ve got there eventually, but we’ve caught a lucky break,’ said Deira. ‘Do you want to get the laptop?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Grace. ‘Wait here.’
Deira took over the petting of Brigitte while Grace went to fetch the computer. The dog accompanied them to the large, squashy sofa in the reception area and rested her head on Deira’s legs while Grace called up the files.
‘OK,’ she said. ‘Here we go.’
She began by uploading the photograph of the café. Once again there was a nerve-racking wait while the progress bar moved slowly across the screen, and another nervous moment before the message that the photo was a match appeared. This time the