Now there was a hitch. A mighty big one. Fred paced up and down the promenade, but it was no longer there. And he combed the lot. The sea-front pavement up and down. Half a mile of it. And it was pelting down. On his third time round, his mac was soaked and his socks, wet through. As for Fred’s mood, it was murkier than the deepest seas.

What could he do? Above all, what was he going to tell Paul? That yesterday after work he’d had too much to drink. Too pissed to drive back. Be nicked by the cops, no way. A taxi at 4 A.M. And now, it was no longer there.

His cell phone rang in his pocket. A jazz tune. Fred loves jazz. Got to be Paul, getting impatient. What was Fred going to say. Make an official complaint, start proceedings to find it? Fred laughed, his eyes streaming with rain. Better laugh than weep. There, indeed, was the hitch. In the boot, there was a dead body…

                           Texte original de Philippe Huet

                           adapté en anglais par Ann et Dominique Lafosse