‘When was that?’
‘A little later. Perhaps – midnight. After the acrobats. Look,’ he says, ‘there must have been some sort of mistake. She can’t simply have disappeared. What efforts are being made to find her?’
The man looks at Hal for a few seconds, as though deciding whether or not to humour him by answering. ‘We have a team of divers on their way.’
‘Divers?’
The man nods.
The meaning of this now forces itself on him. He had dismissed Gaspari’s implication; it had been too horrible to contemplate. ‘But that is presuming that she is …’ He won’t say the word, cannot entertain the possibility of it. ‘She can’t be … Is that what you think?’
‘Mr Jacobs,’ the man says, following a gruff prompt from his supervisor, ‘I am here to ask the questions of you.’ The supervisor says something, now, and he translates: ‘We have been informed that you appeared to be particularly … shall I say, preoccupied by Mrs Truss.’
‘Preoccupied?’
‘That you – ah – watched her a great deal. Mr Truss has told us that he felt you had inappropriate feelings with regard to Mrs Truss – feelings that were not reciprocated. There is an implication that you had an unhealthy interest in Stella Truss. What do you say to that?’
If only they knew . . .
Hal is dimly aware that he may be in some sort of trouble. But he finds that he does not care. His only concern is to find Stella. Perhaps, he thinks, she decided she had to leave early. Perhaps Truss had threatened her – as he had that time before. She could have taken one of the boats …
He turns to the man. ‘Are you certain that she did not leave on one of the boats?’
The man waves away his question, as though heading off an errant insect. ‘We know how to do our jobs, monsieur.’ The monsieur stressed, sarcastic. And then he leans forward, ready with his question. ‘So. Do you have an – ah – “unhealthy interest” in Mrs Truss?’
‘No.’ Hal thinks … if he tells them the truth, might it help them in some way? Certainly, it might help to banish this pointless line of questioning. But then he would be jeopardizing all of the plans that he and Stella have made. And yet perhaps they are already – and irrevocably – jeopardized.
Hal tries to remember anything from the night before that might be of help, but finds himself groping through a champagne-filtered fug of useless sensation and impression. Nothing solid, nothing that might absolutely be relied upon. Why did he allow himself to get so drunk? ‘Look,’ he sits forward. ‘What makes you think that Mrs Truss has—’ he stops, unable to say drowned, ‘has come to harm?’
The two officers look toward one another, as though deciding upon something. The superior gives the other a little nod.
‘There is some blood, at the back of the boat. Quite a quantity. It is being looked at by an expert now, but it looks as though there may have been some sort of struggle.’
For a moment, Hal feels as though he may vomit. He thinks of the terrible pressure of Truss’ hands about his neck, the impassive expression the man had worn throughout.
‘It can’t be,’ he whispers.
‘Excuse me?’ the younger officer leans closer, cupping his ear in an exaggerated gesture.
‘I said …’ Hal looks up at the men, thinking. He wouldn’t kill her, would he? But he thinks again of that coldness, and shudders. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘Mr Truss … I think he may have wanted to hurt her.’ As he speaks he thinks of Truss’ hand on her arm, steering her through the crowd, the visible pressure of the grip.
‘There may not be much time.’ Perhaps she is merely wounded, somewhere. If they can only find her … The men are watching him warily. He realizes that his tone is wrong, heckling. He attempts to control it. ‘It is very important that you listen to me.’
Hal tells them the whole story. He knows that his only recourse now is to be honest. He tells them of the plan, of Truss’ attack of the previous evening. He pulls down his collar to show them the marks. ‘This,’ he says, ‘is what he did to me a few hours before the party.’
They inspect his neck, with reluctant curiosity. The senior policeman says something in French. The other translates. ‘My superior thinks it looks like a shaving rash,’ he says, with an unmistakable smirk. ‘And the redness in your eyes – that could be merely the effect of too much drink, non?’
Hal is thrown. He had been certain that if he were to tell them the truth, they would take him seriously.
‘It is all very interesting,’ the younger policeman says, after a prompt from the other. ‘Your theory.’
Hal looks between them. ‘You have to question him—’
The man interrupts. ‘We have already spoken to Mr Truss.’
‘And?’
‘He has been extremely helpful. We are quite satisfied that he is in no way responsible.’
‘Why?’
‘He has an alibi.’
‘Who?’