Dan and Merel both sipped at their drinks, the fire of the cognac a reminder to Dan of his meeting with Patrick, the meeting that had set him on this road. Inger and Catherine Merel nursed their glasses but he noticed neither of them drank.
Before Dan could start, Merel looked at Inger, puzzled, and said, “Inger, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but what is the involvement of the Swedish government in this?”
“I don’t mind at all. The new evidence concerning your daughter’s murder came to light in Sweden, from someone living there.”
The couple looked even more baffled by that, but Merel said, “So you’re police? You’re working with the French police?”
Dan cut in and said, “It’s bigger than that, Sebastien. Sabine’s murder is part of a complex investigation, the nature of which means it has to be carried out under the radar. It’s best that you don’t ask too many questions, but rest assured that we’ll do everything we can to get to the truth.”
Whether it was something in Dan’s tone or just the words he’d used, Sebastien Merel nodded eagerly and, to Dan’s slight concern, hopefully. He looked at his wife as he said, “Of course, what can we tell you?”
“First, just some basic details. Did Sabine have a boyfriend at the time, or mention that she was seeing anyone? Was she happy with her roommates? Had she seemed nervous at all, or troubled?”
“I think everything was fine, more or less. Only Catherine . . .”
“The last time I spoke to her,” said Catherine Merel. “I think it was two days before, I couldn’t quite . . . I didn’t know what, but I felt something was wrong. I asked her more than once, and finally she laughed and told me I worried too much.”
Inger said, “Her roommates also, they thought everything was fine?”
“One can never tell, at a time like this. I thought everyone was lying to us.”
Dan said, “Do you have contact details for either of the roommates? I appreciate it’s a long time ago, but . . .”
Merel smiled and said, “But of course. Only for one, Sylvie. She always kept in touch. She works for Vogue in Paris.”
His wife smiled a little, perhaps with the bittersweet reminder of what her daughter’s contemporaries were doing now, but then she said to her husband, “And Yousef.”
“Of course, Yousef! He was a colleague of Sabine, and is now quite a successful artist, also in Paris. He was in the studio with her that night.”
The final words were delivered with delicacy, as if there was something fragile about the statement.
Dan said, “The boy they questioned. The accusations of racism.”
“Anyone who knew Yousef at all would know it was ridiculous for him to be questioned.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the most gentle person.” He turned again to his wife and offered her a smile, something almost apologetic about it, then faced forward and said, “Sabine was punched in the face, I’m sure you have read. One single punch, they think, but it was powerful enough to break her nose, fracture her cheekbone and knock out two teeth.” Dan was conscious of Inger taking a drink of her cognac for the first time. “They think he waited until she was fully conscious again. She was face down. He was kneeling on her back, with so much force that he also broke two ribs. Then he strangled her with her own scarf, and even then his violence was beyond belief, crushing her windpipe, rupturing blood vessels in her neck. I repeat, if you knew Yousef, you would know that’s impossible for him.”
Catherine Merel’s face had sunk as she’d listened, the story so familiar and yet still visibly sapping her will and her energy as she sat there.
“Thank you for telling us about it,” said Dan. “And we’d really appreciate those details for Sylvie and Yousef, and perhaps if you could call them, tell them we’ll visit in the next day or two.”
“Of course, if it helps.”
“There was one other thing I wanted to ask. Had Sabine ever mentioned any American friends, any American connections at all?”
Catherine Merel looked up again, an urgency about her, and she said, “You think she was killed by an American? Somebody important?”
Inger said, “Why do you say important?”
Her tone was accusatory in response, saying, “It is what you said. It’s bigger than the police. And now you ask about Americans. You know something you’re not telling us.”
Dan quickly cut in and said, “We know lots of things, Madame Merel, but nothing certain. I wouldn’t play games with you. I know it means too much.”
She nodded, accepting what he was saying, acknowledging the final point, that it meant too much, and she turned to Inger with a brittle smile and said, “I have some photographs, if you would like to see?”
“I’d like that very much,” said Inger.
She got up and crossed the room, coming back with a photograph album.