“Alors,” says Modan, not quite spelling it out, “the five of you were the last to see Mademoiselle Severine alive.”
“And Theo, of course,” interjects Caro casually. Tom stiffens at this and casts her a dark, thoughtful look, and I know why: the games have begun, if they hadn’t already . . . We’re now in a macabre version of pass the parcel; when the music stops nobody wants to be left holding this prize. It would be incredibly convenient for all if Theo, the only person whose life can’t be wrecked, were to shoulder the blame. But as I look at Tom, I can’t imagine he will allow that without a fight. I look around the table again. It’s impossible not to think, as each face passes under my gaze, Was it you? Could you have done it? And, most disturbing of all, How far will you go to blame someone else? When I get to Severine she returns my gaze coolly, then slides down her chair and tips her head back, closing her eyes: sunbathing. Severine and Lara, I think bleakly: the only people I believe are innocent, and one of those is the victim and, moreover, dead.
Modan inclines his head to Caro in agreement. “Oui, of course, and Theo, too. I’m afraid I will need to conduct more interviews, but as we’re all here first I thought we might try to properly establish the timeline that night. It’s a little . . .”—his expressive hands dance—“unclear at the moment.”
Seb starts to say something, but Tom leans forward suddenly, giving up all pretense of disinterest, and speaks over him. “Should we have lawyers present?”
His words hang in a silence that is only broken by Lara’s sharp intake of breath; she has finally caught on. I look at Tom speculatively for a moment. I spoke with my own lawyer only hours before this meeting, and her instructions had been very explicit: if you must go at all, just observe, listen, and whatever you do, don’t answer a damn question without me present. I wonder if Tom has taken legal advice, too. Modan stretches out his long arms and tweaks at one of his cuffs before answering. “If you wish you can certainly have a lawyer present, though you are not under arrest. Of course.” He spreads his palms. “This is just, ah, fact-finding, non? And of course you all want to be helpful, cooperative. Waiting for lawyers . . .”—he rolls his eyes expressively—“well, it is rather a waste of time.” I can’t help admiring his performance even as the intent chills me.
“Still,” says Tom robustly. “Obviously, I can’t speak for everyone, but I think I’d rather take legal advice at this point.” In phrasing it like that—I can’t speak for everyone—he is somehow speaking for us, as if he’s created a group mentality by the mere suggestion that there could be one. He stands, pushing his chair back abruptly with the action. “And if we’re not under arrest, then of course we’re free to go at any point, correct?”
And just like that, he has wrested the power from Modan and the meeting is over.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We loiter outside the police station, a reluctant group—unwilling to depart, but equally unwilling to engage in conversation.
Lara breaks the silence. “It’s real now, isn’t it?” she says, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “We can’t pretend this isn’t serious anymore. I can’t . . .” She trails off.
Seb speaks into the void she’s created. “Anyone know a good lawyer?” He aims for a joking tone and directs the question toward Caro and me, but he looks anything but playful. It seems to me I can see straight through to the skeleton beneath his surface; the muscle and skin and tissue are just window dressing draped on the bones of him. He might unravel at any moment.
“Criminal law’s not really my area,” I reply. I try to inject some humor myself: “Though if you’re looking for a good corporate lawyer I’m absolutely the person to talk to.” Nobody bothers to honor my effort with even a smile.
Caro is already back on her BlackBerry. She speaks without looking up. “I’m sure my dad will be able to come up with someone. Or your dad,” she adds as an afterthought.
Seb grimaces. “Yeah, really looking forward to that conversation.” Tom glances across with a sympathetic twist of his mouth. Seb’s father’s influence has clearly not waned over the years.
Caro’s head lifts at that. “Come on, Seb, don’t let Modan rattle you. I mean, he has nothing. Nothing! No physical evidence at all and just a load of conjecture.” She looks round the group impatiently. “None of us have anything to worry about. This is all going to go away.”
“Or linger on forever,” says Lara darkly. She glances back at the entrance to the building for the third or fourth time, and I realize she’s expecting Modan to follow her out.
“What do you mean?” asks Seb uneasily.
She shrugs. “The best outcome is that they find who did it and put them away. Then it’s all neatly wrapped up. Otherwise . . .” She shrugs again. “It’s never really over. Even if they consign it to the cold case pile, it could still come alive again. New evidence, new political pressure to take another look.”
Her words cause another blanket of silence to fall heavily on the group. She’s probably quoting Modan, I think uneasily. How many cases has he worked on that end up like that, never resolved but never entirely forgotten, either?
“Well, I have to get back to the office,” says Caro abruptly. “Can I drop anyone at Westminster tube on the way past?” It’s presented as a general offer, but she’s looking directly at Seb when she says it.
“Sounds good,” he says after a pause.
“Best head that way to get a cab,” Tom says, pointing. “I’ll call you later, Seb, okay?”
Normally we would all accompany our good-byes with some kind of physical display, but today Seb simply lifts a tired hand in salute, and Caro takes his other arm, calling over her shoulder, “See you all soon—in fact, see you tomorrow, Kate.”
Oh joy. “See you then,” I say sweetly.
Tom watches them go, a frown between his eyebrows. Is he worried about Seb’s behavior, or Caro’s? And for whose welfare is he concerned, his own or someone else’s? A movement in my peripheral vision pulls my head round, and I see Modan making his way across to Lara, who has moved a couple of paces away from Tom and me. Her gaze is fixed on Modan, but her expression is unexpectedly conflicted.
“I’ll call you later, Lara,” I offer, presuming she will leave with him.
She glances at me swiftly, shaking her head. “No, wait for me. Please, wait.”
“I . . . Okay.” I’m slightly nonplussed. Tom takes my arm and pulls me aside so we are partially hidden by a tree, his eyes fixed on the pair. “What—” I start to say, but he shushes me. I realize I am as close to Tom as I was in the corridor that night, close enough to smell his aftershave. It makes me absurdly self-conscious; I turn my head quickly and focus on Modan and Lara. The detective must have seen us on his route to Lara, but the tree cover does give the illusion that they have some privacy, and in truth I can only pick out the odd syllable from what they are saying. Lara is doing the bulk of the talking, in a low, earnest tone, spots of color visible in her cheeks. She’s trying not to cry, I realize. Something she says cuts at Modan: he flinches and interrupts urgently, reaching a long arm out to her, but she shakes her head resolutely and takes a step back. It finally dawns on me what I’m watching, and I instantly feel grubby, but it’s impossible to look away. Modan tries to make his point again, frustration clear in every line of his long frame, but Lara is resolute. She must be resolute to hold firm in the face of the heartrending misery that slowly steals over Modan’s face. I don’t look at Tom. If he were to display any pleasure at all at this outcome I might actually punch him.