The eye over my shoulder scrutinizes me. No restraint. A piece of work. Figg doesn’t care about being indiscreet. I could take it badly. In my little dishevelled head, I’m having some bad thoughts. But I ignore this continuous indignation and focus. I think, I ponder, I speculate.
I have a task and nothing else matters.
I try to ignore the inquisitive gaze of Cay, comfortably settled in the Porsche, fifty yards behind me. He didn’t even deign to follow me to control the fruits of my investigations himself and that’s a paradox.
The road is straight, long, swallowed at the horizon by a gaping hole in the cerulean sky. A conventional country road, lined with a strip where the grass and bushes are trimmed. A few scattered ash trees rub shoulders with the roadway. The lanes are wide. Enough
