“For who?”
“For whom,” she corrects with a glimmer of a smile. Lara prides herself on having better English than any native-born. “Actually, for you, I think.” She shrugs. “Probably my fault, I suppose; after all, I did interrupt your session with him.”
Another interview. I reach for the wineglass.
“And for Seb, of course,” she adds, with an apologetic grimace. “Apparently he’ll be back in the country this week.” She goes on hesitantly, “Are you . . . Are you okay with that? Seb being back, I mean?”
“I daresay I’ll cope.” It comes out harsher than intended; Lara flinches. I’m instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean to snap; I’m just having a shitty week.” She nods sympathetically, accepting the apology. I feel guilty enough to consider her question more carefully. “I actually don’t know what I feel. I suppose I spent so long avoiding thinking about him that I’m not sure what I think anymore.”
She cocks her head. “So maybe it would be good for you to see him.”
“Maybe.” I take a swallow of the wine. “But in an ideal world, not in a week where my business is going under and I’m being interviewed in connection with a murder.”
She laughs. “Come on, that’s a little dramatic. We’re just helping the investigation; we’re not really suspects.”
“Well, that depends.”
“What do you mean?”
“That depends on when the well was filled in. Or at least, when the police think the well was filled in.”
She stares at me. Her eyes have finally found their focus. “You really think—but he hasn’t said anything . . .” She trails off, then visibly shakes herself. “But of course the well was sealed after we left. The builders will say that.”
“Of course,” I agree easily. “When the police find them.”
“When they find them,” she echoes. She is silent for a moment, then cocks her head and looks at me piercingly. “You think I’m being played.”
“I don’t know,” I admit reluctantly, but honestly. I remember the sudden stillness in Modan’s face when he saw Lara again. “I think—I think that he would very much like to do whatever he told you he’d like to do to you . . .” Now I’m the one blushing. “But whatever you said about the six of us—he can’t ‘unhear’ it. You weren’t being interviewed, but he’ll use it, if it helps him.” She looks at me thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if she’s upset, and if so, with me or Modan. “I’m just saying . . . be careful, honey.” I reach out and touch her arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
Finally she catches my hand in hers and smiles. “I know. I’ll be careful.” She changes the subject deliberately, and as we talk, I see that half of her focus is elsewhere: reliving aural sex in a transport hub, perhaps, or dreaming up meetings yet to come; in any case, half her mind is threaded through with Alain, Alain, Alain.
I suspect Lara’s definition of careful won’t match mine.
* * *
—
Wednesday dawns bright and sunny, but blustery, with a bite in the wind. It’s the kind of day that could go either way. Fitting.
I’m early to the restaurant; the staff haven’t quite finished preparing our table. I deposit myself on an uncomfortably low sofa in the entrance area, flicking through a newspaper that was laid out for just this purpose. The economy is not improving, small businesses are going under at an alarming rate. I turn that page quickly.
“Kate?” I look up, my automatic welcome smile pasted on, only this isn’t Gordon. It’s not even a male voice.
“Caro,” I say with unconcealed surprise. I scramble to my feet inelegantly from the low seat. She’s wearing an impeccable dark skirt suit that looks ultra-fashionable and ultra-expensive, and beautiful kitten heels. Her hair is scraped back into a perfect chignon. It’s alarming how closely she fits the image I had of her in work attire. We double-kiss, our cheeks barely grazing. “What a surprise. Are you eating here today?” For a confused moment I wonder if Gordon has asked her to join us.
“No, I was just stalking you,” she says breezily, then grins impishly at my expression. “Relax. I was just passing—this place is a stone’s throw from our office.” This is true; it’s why Gordon’s a fan of the restaurant. “I spotted you through the window. How are you?”
“Um, good, thanks. You?” I’m still thrown. She spotted me, and she actually chose to come in and talk to me?
She flaps a hand. “Good, busy—you know, same old, same old.” She pauses. “How did it go with the detective?”
“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “Though we got interrupted so I’m meeting him again this week.”
“What a bore for you,” she says, rolling her eyes theatrically. “What sort of things was he asking?”
“Much the same as he asked everyone, I suppose. When we left, how we got home, that sort of thing. You?”
She nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yes, that sort of thing. Lots on everyone’s timings that last morning. And about the builders and the well and when the girl was planning to leave.” Her head is cocked on one side, watching and waiting. I wonder exactly which of her words she’s expecting a reaction to.
“Severine,” I say quietly. “Her name was Severine.” The skull grins knowingly at me.
“God, you do have a bee in your bonnet about that.” Caro sounds amused, but somehow I don’t think she is. “Did he show you the CCTV footage?”
I shake my head. “No, what footage? Do you mean Severine at the bus station?”
She nods. “It’s a joke,” she says, throwing up a hand expressively. “You can barely tell it’s a person. Technology has moved a looooong way in the last decade, believe me. Thank God the bus driver remembered her getting on his bus, or things might be rather more uncomfortable for us all right now.” She laughs a high, tinkling laugh, much less genuine than her earlier sly grin. I think of breaking glass.
“Caro,” says a mild voice behind her. Gordon has arrived.
“Dad,” she says, turning to him. This time the smile she pulls on is overly bright. “Don’t worry, I’m not stealing your lunch date.” He rubs her arm awkwardly in lieu of a kiss; perhaps they never kiss during the working day. I suppose it would be a little disconcerting for others around the office.
“Hello, Gordon,” I say, smiling. We shake hands and tell each other it’s a pleasure and so on. Which it actually is, at least for me.
Caro explains to her father: “I just popped in to tell Kate that we have a date for Seb’s return.” I feel a quick burst of triumph that I knew this already. She turns to me. “He’ll be back this week, so we’ll have to have another get-together of the old gang. Maybe a restaurant this time. What do you think?”
I’m on my best behavior given Gordon’s presence. “Good idea.” Then I look for something intelligent to add. “Less people, which might be better for Alina. Less overwhelming.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Caro says, unconcerned. It’s not clear whether she means that Alina, whom I’ve never met, is not easily overwhelmed, or whether Caro simply doesn’t care whether she’s overwhelmed or not. “I just thought it’d be a nice change since we just did the drinks party thing for Tom.” She glances at her watch and grimaces. “Oops, back to the grindstone. I have a conference call in five, which may well last till five—no rest for the wicked.” She rolls her eyes again. “Enjoy your lunch.”
I look at Gordon as he watches her clip smartly out of the restaurant; perhaps I’m expecting to see love or pride or benevolent affection. Instead he seems . . . what? I can’t decipher his face, though he watches for longer than feels comfortable. Then he feels my eyes upon him and turns with eyebrows raised. “Well, shall we?”
* * *