CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The police archive was in a room at the rear of a long, low, concrete building on the corner of Rue du Lac and Chemin du Pierrier in Clarens. A sign by the bus stop outside proclaimed Police Riviera. It was an easy walk down the hill from Rachel’s studio in Le Château du Châtelard, where she’d returned that morning from his hovel to collect her notebook and papers. The walk should have taken less than twenty minutes but it actually took Rachel three hours as she thought of him, looked in the windows of shops, thought of him and the pain he had endured, lost an hour in an ancient bookshop and thought of him, sipped an espresso and thought of him. She could, in fact, think of nothing but him, but the deadline for her book was getting ever closer and the letters from the
