‘I knew him a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Pierre Laurent was murdered.’ The detective looks like he didn’t spend too long shaving this morning. Maybe he has a fast growth – some people are like that. Shut up, Sandra. This is serious.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It was tragic.’
‘You knew him well?’ The detective asks this with intensity – like he’s digging deep. His name is O’Connor. I think he already knows the answer. He probably knows, too, that I faked the paperwork, that I’m a liar and a fraudster. Despite my best efforts, I bite hard.
‘We were friends. He took me under his wing when I was homesick. He made me less so.’ I sigh.
‘Were you romantically involved?’
His question is like another invasion. I feel my chest going blotchy. I stall for time, telling him I don’t understand the question. Then I say, ‘He was a friend, a good one. Our relationship was platonic.’
‘Your time in Paris, at the art college … How you got there was somewhat irregular.’
He’s getting to it now. Is that what this is all about? The college would hardly press charges after all this time. Would they?
‘It was a very long time ago, Detective. I’d prefer to put it behind me.’
‘I’m sure you would.’ His words are loaded with accusation.
‘Sandra,’ says the woman, ‘we’re not here to dig up old issues.’ Her name is Kate Pearson and she’s a psychologist. She’s helping the police with the investigation. ‘As Detective Inspector O’Connor has told you,’ she says, ‘we’re investigating a murder from more than three weeks ago, that of Rick Shevlin.’
The name means nothing to me. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘How does this have anything to do with me?’ I stare back at her.
‘We think whoever killed Pierre Laurent may have killed Rick Shevlin.’
I must look shocked, because she tries to appear reassuring, saying, ‘I understand this must be difficult.’
‘Yes, it is,’ I say. ‘It’s been so long.’ I think again about Pierre, how talented he was. He didn’t have to spend time with me. He could have been with anyone. But when we were together, it was like he saw a side of me that no one else ever did.
It’s the detective who speaks next: ‘Sandra, did you know Rick Shevlin?’
‘No. I’ve never heard of him.’
He looks at me inquisitively. ‘We believe he was in an extra-marital relationship before he died.’
Is he thinking I could be the other woman? I almost want to laugh with relief. I’d been worrying about the breakin, stupidly forging those papers, but this is about a man I’ve never met. ‘I wish I could help you, Detective, but as I said, I didn’t know anyone by that name.’
‘Tell us a little bit about Pierre,’ the woman asks. There’s something soothing about her voice.
‘He was a very talented artist. Some people thought he was egotistical. Perhaps he was …’ I hesitate. ‘He was complicated. He could change, you see. One moment he would be ultra-confident, fearless, and the next, like a scared young boy.’
‘You two were obviously close.’ Her words are not as threatening as the detective’s.
‘I guess we were. At least, I hope so.’
‘Did you know anyone else involved with Pierre, one of your friends, perhaps?’
I stare at her again. ‘No … well, not exactly.’ I already know it’s the wrong answer because of the change on her face.
‘What do you mean by that, Sandra?’
‘Pierre liked my friend, Alice, but I don’t think anything ever happened between them.’
‘But you can’t be sure?’
What’s she getting at? I try to remember what they’ve already told me. They think the same person who killed Pierre killed this Shevlin person – do they think Alice is involved? Had I been right to be suspicious of her? ‘No,’ I say. ‘I can’t be sure, not completely.’
‘What about your other friends, Lori and Karen? Were they close to him?’
Lori wanted to be, I think about saying, but instead, I say, ‘No.’
‘Is there anything else you can tell me about Pierre?’ the woman asks.
I could tell her a lot of things. I could tell her how he liked to bring people to that club, but instead I say, ‘He had the most beautiful face.’
My last words seem to interest her, because she looks at the detective. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asks.
I think about it for a moment. ‘He had perfect bone structure, but it was his eyes – they sparkled and were always full of life.’ I say nothing for a minute, remembering his face again. ‘I sketched him once. He reminded me of someone I knew as a child.’
‘Do you still have the sketch?’ Her question doesn’t sound threatening.
‘Yes, I think I do. I kept all my work from Paris. It would be in my studio.’
She smiles back at me, again in a reassuring way. ‘You said Pierre reminded you of someone you knew as a child. Who was that, Sandra?’
‘Pierre had the same eyes as my father. They were full of love.’