I made my excuses to leave the penthouse as quickly as I could. I just wanted to get out. There was a moment, sensing them all watching, when I wondered if one of them might try and stop me. Even as I opened the door I thought I might feel a hand on my shoulder. I walked back down the stairs to Ben’s apartment quickly, the back of my neck prickling.
They’re a family. They’re a family. And this isn’t Ben’s apartment: not really. Right now I’m sitting here inside someone’s family home. Why on earth didn’t Ben tell me this? Did it not seem important? Did he somehow not know?
I think of how impressed I was with Nick’s fluent French in the police station. Of course he’s bloody fluent: it’s his first language. I’m trying to think back to our first conversation. At no point, as far as I can recall, did he actually tell me he was English. That stuff about Cambridge, I just assumed—and he let me.
Although he did lie to me about something. He pretended his surname was Miller. Why pick that in particular? I remember the results I got when I searched for him online: did he simply choose it because it’s so generic? I march to Ben’s bookshelf, pull out his dog-eared French dictionary, flip through to “M.” This is what I find:
meunier (m?nje, jεR) masculine noun: miller
Miller = Meunier. He gave me a translation of his surname.
One thing I can’t work out, though. If Nick has got some other, hidden agenda, why was he so keen to help? Why did he come to the police station with me, speak to Commissaire Blanchot? It doesn’t fit. Maybe he has another more innocent reason for keeping all of this from me. Maybe they’re just a really private family as they’re so rich. Or maybe I’ve been taken for a complete fool . . .
A chill goes through me as I think of them tonight at the drinks party. Observing me like an animal at the zoo. I think how it didn’t make sense that such a random group of people should choose to hang out together. That they seemed to have nothing in common. But a family . . . that’s different. You don’t have to have anything in common with your family; the thing that binds you is your shared blood. I mean, I assume that’s how it is. I’ve never had much of a family. And I wonder whether that’s why I didn’t spot the truth. I couldn’t read the signs, the important little clues. I don’t know how families work.
I go to put the dictionary back on the shelf. As I do, a sheet of paper comes loose and falls out onto the floor. I think it’s one of the pages of the book at first, because it’s such a ratty old thing, until I pick it up. It takes me a moment to work out why I recognize it. I’m sure it’s the top sheet of those accounts I found in the desk drawer in the penthouse apartment. Yes: there’s a “1” at the bottom of the page. The same sort of thing: the vintages, the prices paid, the surnames of the people who have bought them, all with a little “M.” in front of them. But what is interesting is what’s printed at the top of the sheet of paper. The symbol of a firework exploding, in raised gold emboss. Just like the strange metal card Ben had in his wallet: the one I’ve lent to Theo, yesterday. And what’s also interesting is that Ben—in the same scrawl he’d used in his notebook—has written something in the margin:
Numbers don’t make sense. Wines surely worth much less than these prices.
Then, underneath, underlined twice: ask Irina.
My heart starts beating a little faster. This is a connection. This is something important. But how on earth am I going to work out what it means? And who the hell is Irina?
I take out my phone, snap a photo. Piggybacking off Nick’s Wifi again, I send it to Theo.
Found this in Ben’s stuff. Any ideas?
I think of our meeting in the café. I’m not sure I entirely trust the guy. I’m not even convinced I’ll hear back from him. But he’s literally the only person I’ve got left—
My thumb freezes on the phone. I go very still. I just heard something. A scratching sound, at the apartment’s front door. I wonder briefly if it’s the cat, before I realize it’s lying stretched out on the sofa. My chest tightens. There’s someone out there, trying to get in.
I get up. I feel the need for something to defend myself with. I remember the very sharp knife in Ben’s kitchen, the one with the Japanese characters on it. I go and get it. And then I approach the door. Fling it open.
“You.”
It’s the old woman. The concierge. She takes a step back. Puts her hands up. I think she’s holding something in her right fist. I can’t tell what it is, the fingers are clenched too tightly.
“Please . . . Madame . . .” Her voice a rasp, as though it’s rusty from lack of use. “Please . . . I did not know you were here. I thought—”
She stops abruptly, but I catch her involuntary glance upward.
“You thought I was still up there, right? In the penthouse.” So she’s been keeping an eye on my movements around this place. “So you thought . . . what? You’d come and have a snoop around? What’s that in your hand? A key?”
“No, Madame . . . it’s nothing. I swear.” But she doesn’t open her fingers to show me.
Something occurs to me. “Was that you last night? Sneaking in here? Creeping around?”
“Please. I do not know what you are talking about.”
She is cringing backward. And suddenly I don’t feel good about this at all. I might not be big, but she’s even smaller than me. She’s an old woman. I lower the knife: I hadn’t even realized I was pointing it at her. I’m a little shocked at myself.
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s OK.”
Because how harmless can she be, really? A little old lady like that?
Alone again, I think about my options. I could confront Nick about all this, see what he says. Ask him what the hell he thought he was doing, giving me a fake name. Get him to explain himself. But I reject this pretty quickly. I have to pretend to know nothing. If he knows I’ve discovered his secret—their secret—that will make me a threat to him and to whatever else he might be trying to hide. If he thinks I still don’t know anything, then perhaps I can keep digging—invisible in plain sight. When I look at it like this, my new knowledge gives me a kind of power. From the beginning, from the moment I stepped foot in this building, the others have held all the cards. Now I’ve got one of my own. Just one, but maybe it’s an ace. And I’m going to use it.
Mimi
Fourth floor
When I get back to the apartment I just want to go to my room and pull the covers over my head, crawl deep down into the darkness with Monsieur Gus the penguin and sleep for days. I’m exhausted by the drinks upstairs, the effort it all took. But when I try to open the front door I find my way blocked with crates of beer, bottles of spirits and MC Solaar blaring out of the speakers.