“Bull. Shit,” I say clearly. “You have six”—I shake my head abruptly: Theo. Not six, not ever again six—“no, five people who can attest to that. The builders did the pool fence while we were there, but I don’t remember them anywhere near the well. The paperwork is wrong and the builder is lying.” The recklessness is spilling over; I struggle to stamp it down.
Modan is not fazed by my combativeness. “It was a long time ago,” he allows. “And Monsieur Casteau thinks it was his brother who actually did the work on the well; he can’t remember doing it himself.”
“And what does the brother say?”
“We haven’t been able to speak with him yet. He’s on”—he stretches for the word—“ah, miel, ah, honey . . . moon. Honeymoon, oui?” I nod. “Trekking. In the Himalayas.” He makes a movement with his mouth that shows that yomping through the Himalayas is not his idea of a post-wedding treat.
The folder lies there still, untouched. “Regardless. You have five people who say the well wasn’t filled in. Why are you spending time on this?”
One eyebrow raises a little. “It’s our job to be thorough.”
I press on. “What about the bus driver? He remembers Severine, right?”
He looks at me, his long face displaying nothing except his habitual watchfulness. “The bus driver remembers that a young girl climbed on near the farmhouse and traveled to the station. He described her as wearing dark sunglasses and having her hair tied in a red scarf.”
I see Severine, smoking a cigarette at the end of the garden whilst speaking rapidly on the phone. It’s morning; there’s still a freshness in the air that the sun will beat into submission within an hour or so. Severine’s dressed in her uncompromising black bikini, a red chiffon scarf tied turban-like on her head; her back is to me, and I can see the delicate wings of her shoulder blades moving under her skin as she gestures with her cigarette hand. It’s a look that’s reminiscent of the 1950s, of glamorous movie stars in oversize sunglasses lounging on the French Riviera. At that moment I wish she was gone with an intensity I don’t understand; more than that, I wish she had never been. But today, to Modan I murmur, “Yes. Severine.”
He shrugs, a curiously nonsymmetrical movement that suggests his limbs are moved by a puppet-master. It should be awkward, but not so on Modan. “Perhaps.”
I look at him sharply. “Perhaps?”
He shrugs again, right shoulder then left. “Perhaps.”
“And the CCTV from the bus depot?”
He reaches for the folder and holds it out to me. “Regardez-vous. Please, look.”
I force myself to breathe as I take the folder from him and slowly open it. Inside there is indeed a photo: a grainy image, not so much black-and-white as shades of gray. In among what must be the bus depot forecourt, I can make out a figure that is most likely a slender girl, perhaps with her hair tied under a scarf or perhaps wearing some kind of cap. She appears to be standing by a large bag. I look up at Modan, dismayed. “This is it?”
He raises a couple of fingers briefly, somehow conveying we really tried and c’est la vie in one small movement. “That is the best picture we could get.”
I look back again at the photo. Caro may have exaggerated a little—it’s definitely a person—but her point is still valid: this counts for nothing. I keep looking, as if it’s a digital image that needs time to resolve, but the fuzzy edges refuse to settle into a clear picture. All the while my mind loops over the same cycle: the well, the bus driver, the CCTV image. The well, the bus driver, the CCTV image. One of these things is not like the other . . . the well, the bus driver, the CCTV image . . . one of these things . . .
I thrust the folder back at Modan. “Why are you still here?” I ask him abruptly.
“I have a few more questions—”
“Yes, but why are you still here? As in, in this country?” I interrupt impatiently. “I know you have to be thorough. You’ve been thorough, you’ve spoken to us all, so what’s keeping you here? You have five people who saw her alive on Friday night, you have a bus driver who had someone exactly like her climbing on his bus on Saturday, you have a picture of that same girl at the depot with a bag; it all points pretty clearly to her being alive and well after we left.” The recklessness has its head and won’t be quieted. “But you’re still here, and I can’t figure it out, unless you’re looking for an excuse to spend more time jeopardizing your career by ambushing Lara in airports”—he looks away quickly and rakes a hand through his hair, then fixes wary eyes upon me, but I won’t be derailed—“or unless you actually don’t believe us. Is that it? Do you actually believe that all five of us are lying? Are we in fact suspects?” I stop abruptly. The recklessness is spent.
Modan looks at me for a moment, his face expressionless. I have no doubt he is busy working out how best to handle me. Then his face softens. “Miss Channing,” he says gently. “This is difficult. It is always difficult, murder is . . . alors, murder is not a nice thing. No one wants to think about it too hard; it’s upsetting, it’s intrusive, it is frustrating, it is inconvenient. But to find whoever did this, we have to investigate, we have to ask questions.” He makes one of his elegant hand gestures, spreading his hand wide with the palm up, almost as if inviting me to place my own in it, while his lips move in a sympathetic smile. “So . . . s’il vous pla?t . . . may I continue?”
I hold his gaze for a moment. I can’t read what is going on behind those dark, watchful eyes, but I know he’s better at this than me. Better at this than almost everyone, I would think. I’m suddenly exhausted. “Go on,” I say wearily. “Ask your questions.”
* * *
—
Afterward I know I should go back to the office, but I can’t face the possibility of an empty chair opposite me, or staring again at that spreadsheet. Instead I wander aimlessly. A short walk takes me into the throngs on Regent Street. The gaggles of foreign tourists are easy to identify, with their cameras and white socks pulled up and sensible shoes, but what is everyone else doing on a shopping street in the middle of the day? Are they students? Or do they work nights? Do they work at all?
I wonder what I will do when I finally call time on my company. I won’t be able to go back to practicing law: I’m not sure I’d be able to convince any firm that I really wanted to—mainly because I don’t. I suppose I could work for another legal recruitment firm, but my credibility will be damaged by a failed solo venture; it might take quite a while to land any position, let alone one I really want. And the truth is that the one I want is the one that’s slipping away from me right now.
I walk into French Connection then walk back out again. It’s too busy, and anyway, I don’t really have the will or the patience to look at clothes or try anything on. I start walking again and see my reflection moving from one window display to the next, a wraith in a dark trouser suit slipping unnoticed past the mannequins in their forward-thinking summer attire. I could just . . . leave, I think. Get on a plane, find myself somewhere hot and dusty where living costs a pittance. Slough off my skin and take a waitressing job, or tend bar—take any job, unfettered by the pride and expectations that are built up by an Oxbridge education; built up until they wall you in.
My mobile phone rings; number withheld. I hesitate, unwilling to be wrenched back into the real world, but the phone continues to chirp aggressively. I sigh and hit the answer button. “Kate Channing.”
“Hey, it’s Tom. How are you?”
“Halfway to South America.”
There’s half a beat of silence. “Really?” he asks uncertainly.
“No, not really. Just wishful thinking. Bad day.”
“Well, in that case I’m taking the spot on the plane next to you. Bad day here too.” He does in fact sound exhausted. “Want to grab a drink later and commiserate?”
I hesitate. “I’ll be dreadful company,” I warn.
“Yeah, me too,” he says grimly. “We might as well get smashed together rather than poisoning the mood of anyone else.”
“Jesus.” This is a far cry from the easy, steadfast Tom I’m used to. “What happened to you today?”