Claude smiles and looks at me. ‘You do not need to drive. Tonight, you can stay here. Tomorrow morning, we will see again.’
Jessica senses I’m about to protest. ‘You’ve just driven all the way from England. It’s late. And it’s been a busy day,’ she says, as if I’ve just had a stressful day at work or had to redecorate the bathroom. I wonder how much she’s told Claude. Presumably not much, judging by how comfortable he seems. He heads into the kitchen to put the empty wine bottle away.
‘Jess, we need to keep moving.’
‘Why?’ she says, almost before I’ve finished my sentence. ‘Who’s going to be coming here to look for us?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t even know who this guy is,’ I reply, lowering my voice but knowing damn well Claude can hear me and understand every word.
‘I’ve told you who he is. And no-one’s going to be looking for us until late tomorrow morning at the earliest. And they aren’t going to be looking here.’ She offers no more information and just takes a large gulp of wine. The fruity tang wafts under my nose from my glass and I raise it, taking a small mouthful myself. It feels so good.
‘You want something to eat?’ Claude says, returning from the kitchen. I go to say no, but my stomach disagrees and decides to tell me how hungry it is. Fortunately for Claude, he’s French and has already returned to the kitchen and started clattering about in cupboards before even waiting for an answer. Of course they want something to eat; they’re guests.
I look at Jessica and she looks back at me. Neither of us says a word, but, in that moment, so much is spoken.
13
Over the next hour or so, I feel the bizarre mix of adrenaline and tiredness starting to subside and a deep sense of panic begins to set in.
Jessica and Claude have been talking in French for most of the meal, which has got me wondering what they’re saying. Claude clearly speaks perfect English, so why would they choose to speak in a language they know I can’t understand? I know exactly why: because they don’t want me to understand.
Everything’s happened so fast. My wife’s dead, I’ve been framed for her murder and I’m sitting in a farmhouse in France eating dinner with essentially two complete strangers. Why am I even here? What possible reason could Jessica have for wanting to help me? She’s a runner – I get that. She’s probably run away a hundred times before, and she’s clearly had issues in her past. But she barely knows me. Why would she trust me so implicitly, especially after what happened to Lisa? I’m not sure I even trust myself. And how does she know Lisa’s even dead? She didn’t ask for any proof, didn’t want to see the body. How do I even know she was dead? At the time I was certain, but could I ever be completely sure? Time will tell, I suppose. I’m comforted by the tiny possibility that Lisa isn’t dead at all, Europe’s police won’t be out looking for me tomorrow morning and I can return home having just had a rather impetuous but nice trip to France.
Except I know that isn’t going to happen.
I’m broken out of my reverie by something odd. I’ve been pretending to pay attention to Claude and Jessica the whole time, my eyes casting over in their direction regularly, watching them and looking as though I was present. But now I’m caught by the look on Claude’s face.
I think back to that indescribable but perfectly clear vibe I was getting from Jessica out in the car, that she knew she had to come here – felt it was her duty to do so – but really didn’t want to. If this was the place – if Claude was the person who could help us – why would she have such reservations about coming here? Something doesn’t quite seem right about that. And that look he’s giving her right now as she tucks into the last few spoonfuls of her stew is starting to creep me out. It’s almost as if I’m not even here.
A thought occurs to me. She’s calm and collected because she’s in control. She’s always in control. That’s who she is. But how long has she been in control? That’s the thought that worries me. Has she been able to prepare for this? Was she involved earlier than I thought? Was she somehow responsible for what happened to Lisa? I shake the thought from my head. I’ve known Jess mere days and she’s never met Lisa. It’s not as if she’s fallen for me and wanted me for herself – she’s told me often enough she’s not the commitment type. It just doesn’t add up.
As Jessica finishes her stew, Claude raises one side of his mouth into a half-smile, leans across to pick up her bowl and takes it out into the kitchen.
‘Are you alright?’ I ask her.
‘Fine.’
I give it a second or two. ‘What was that all about?’
‘What?’
‘The talking in French for the past hour. And those weird looks he was giving you.’
‘What weird looks?’
I struggle to tell whether she’s as innocent and naive as she makes out, but I somehow doubt it.
‘Nothing. I just . . . It seemed a bit odd, that’s all.’
Claude comes back in from the kitchen. ‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘I have to go and see to Baiard.’
Jessica seems to know what this means. I haven’t got a clue. She waits until he’s walked out through the back door from the kitchen until she explains.
‘It’s his horse. He’s got a stable down at the back of the house.’
‘A stable? Jesus.’
‘Trust me,’ she says. ‘That’s nothing.’
There’s a few seconds of silence before I speak again.
‘So how do you know Claude?’
She takes a deep breath. ‘He was a friend of the family,’ she says through a sigh.
‘Was?’
‘They had a bit of a falling out,’ she replies, her eyes blinking a few times as she says it.
I nod. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Jess, and I’m not being funny, but I need to know who this guy is. I’m in the biggest shit I’ve ever been in in my life, my wife’s lying dead in my hotel room back in England and you’ve dragged me down to a farmhouse in France with Poirot here. I don’t know who he is, I don’t know who you are and I don’t know what the fuck’s going on.’ My voice cracks as I speak, the panic starting to break through the protective buffer my brain had created for me.
‘Claude’s a good man. He protected me. He cares for me. I feel safe with him. And you don’t need to know who I am.’
‘I do, Jess. Believe me, I do. I don’t even know who I am right now, so I need some sort of security. Some constant.’
‘You have security,’ she says quietly but confidently. ‘You can trust Claude.’
‘So you tell me, but how do I know I can trust you?’
‘What do you mean?’ she replies, looking at me for the first time since dinner, her eyes narrowed.
‘I met you only a few days ago, Jess. I know every fucking inch of your body but not a single thing about you. I don’t know what’s happened, I don’t know who killed Lisa, but all I know is someone did. Now I’m down here with two people I don’t know, who are trying to convince me they’re looking after me, but why would they? Why would you? You don’t know me, either. You don’t know I didn’t kill Lisa.’