“I’m not sure. About 3 A.M. I think.” At least, I think that I think that. It was so long ago . . . Suddenly I’m back in that bedroom in France, groggily opening my eyes to see the glowing red digits of the clock radio showing 6 A.M. in the foreground, and in the background Seb stepping out of his boxer shorts after a trip to the bathroom. Without moving my head that’s the extent of my vision: a sideways image of a clock and Seb, from waist to knee. He’s close enough that I can see the first rays of the morning sun, undeterred by the ineffectual curtains, turning the hair on his legs into golden glowing wires. I can’t face dealing with him, so I close my eyes tightly and pretend he hasn’t woken me.
Seb’s words of last night (was it only last night?) float back to me: And you and I both know I came to our room that night and passed out, so whatever happened to Severine was nothing to do with me. And I think again of Caro’s and Seb’s heads, conspiratorially close; of Caro watching Seb as he spoke to me last night. Do I think he came to bed at 3 A.M. because he told me that at some point?
“And you say Caro and Theo were together till they went to bed.”
“Yes. So I understand.” How do I know that? Certainly there’s no Theo to ask.
“Was Sebastian the last person to see Severine alive then?”
“No, the bus driver. And the CCTV.” The bus driver. Of course. I forgot that last night. It doesn’t matter what time Seb came to bed; it doesn’t matter whether Caro and Theo were together: Severine was alive enough on Saturday morning to take a bus. Something inside me unwinds a little.
“True. If it was indeed Severine.” She frowns for a moment. “Though the chances of another young girl matching that description getting on in that location . . . Mmmm.” She ponders silently for a moment, leaning back and tapping her teeth with a fingernail. I wonder if she will later find that dreadful pink lipstick all over her fingers. She straightens up. “Right. Plan of action. No talking to Monsieur Modan without me present.”
“Okay. What else?”
She shakes her head, smiling. “That’s it for now. All we can do is wait.”
I stare at her, nonplussed. “Wait?” I’m paying painful amounts per hour, and all she can come up with is keep quiet and wait?
She nods. “Yes, wait. Believe me, Modan is not here on a whim. He has information he’s not yet revealed. Perhaps from the autopsy, or something else . . . At any rate, there’s something he’s not telling you. Because otherwise, there is literally no evidence to tie any of the six of you to this crime, and it’s quite a stretch to find a motive, too, despite best efforts to paint you as the jilted lover. So if the juge d’instruction still has Modan digging around over here, you can be sure there’s something up his sleeve. So . . . we wait.”
Jesus. “I’m not good at waiting.”
“No,” she says contemplatively, as she pushes back her chair to stand up and extend her hand. “I wouldn’t think you are.”
I’m not quite sure how to take that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
All day Severine hovers.
I’ve decided it’s a sign of tiredness, or distraction: like an illness, she can creep in much more easily when my defenses are low. Not that she creeps. She strolls, she saunters, she claims territory as her own with a single languid glance; everything about Severine is on Severine’s terms. Except her death, of course.
I’m back in my office after the appointment with my lawyer, and despite my hangover, despite Severine, despite the—what? drama, row, contretemps?—with Tom, I’m getting rather a lot done. The trick is bloody single-mindedness, a strong personal trait of mine. Do not pick up the phone and call Lara; do not pay attention to the slim, secretive-eyed dead girl who perches casually on the edge of my desk, swinging one walnut brown ankle; do not descend into introspection and speculation; do not pass go, do not collect ￡200.
Gordon calls early afternoon. We now have a weekly catch-up call in the diary for each Friday afternoon, though I’ve been forewarned he will frequently have to reschedule, or skip it altogether: Mr. Farrow is a busy man. I presume he’s calling to reschedule, but instead he says, in his mild manner, “Why don’t you drop by the office instead of having a call today?”
“Sure, let me just check my schedule.” I have a couple of calls in my diary before then, but I should still be able to get across town in time. “That’s fine, I can come over. Everything okay?”
“Fine, fine. Just thought it’s been a while since we had a face-to-face catch-up. I’m a little quieter today, so it seemed best to take advantage.”
“No problem. See you at 3:30.” I hang up, thinking that I should take Paul with me, to broaden the relationship and so forth, but I know I won’t. Gordon enjoys meeting me (and vice versa); he will find Paul too slick, too accommodating.
I wonder if I will be bringing Severine with me.
* * *
—
Either Severine finds business meetings uninteresting, or I am sufficiently focused to keep her at bay, but whatever the reason, I’m flying solo when I meet with Gordon. We run through an update on the candidates he has seen: what he thinks of them, what they think of the opportunity, what other firms appear to be thinking of them . . . Recruitment at this level—partner, soon to be partner, which is what we’re concentrating on first—is a strategic game. The next step is the associates, but a good number will simply follow the partners they’ve worked with most closely.
“If we get those two, it will be quite a coup,” says Gordon thoughtfully, tapping the sheet of names that lies on the table in front of us, flanked by our empty coffee cups. We’re in one of the meeting rooms on the top floor of the Haft & Weil building, with a glorious view over the city. I can see the gleaming curve of St. Paul’s dome, with glimpses of the flashing silver ribbon that is the Thames popping up unexpectedly between buildings. From this height, London has a stately gravitas in its lofty architecture, standing indomitable and proud in the sunshine. It would be easy to forget the hustle and grime one encounters close-up.
“We’ll get them,” I say confidently, wrenching my gaze back to the paper.
“Well, I suppose the size of the guarantee we’re offering is hard to ignore.”
I shake my head. “It’s not about the guarantee.” Gordon glances at me, a question in his eyes. “That’s necessary, obviously, but what I mean is, it’s not about the money for those two. It’s about what the money means. They feel undervalued, underappreciated where they are, and they hate the lack of collegiality. The guarantee just proves to them that you value them. If you manage them properly once you get them across, make them feel safe but also give them opportunities to feel like they’re making a difference, then I think they’ll do very well for you.”
Gordon’s sharp eyes are assessing me. “You have strong views on management styles, I take it.”
I shrug. “In my job, you need to have an instinct for who would fit where. No point putting a diffident technical specialist into an aggressive American setup, for example.”
“You need to be a good judge of people.” He’s toying with his empty coffee cup, as if turning something over in his mind.
“I like to think I am. In a professional context.” My mind skitters to that week in France, to Seb, to Tom, to Lara, Theo, Caro, Severine, and the spider’s web that entangles and binds us all. With everything I know now, I can only think that my judgment was disastrously clouded back then. Possibly—probably, even?—it still is. “In a professional context,” I repeat. He’s still turning the coffee cup this way and that. “Why, is there something troubling you?”
He glances up, surprised. “No, I . . . No. Well.” He looks away again, as if reluctant to look at me, to acknowledge we’re having this conversation. “Caro is on the slate this year.”