His eyebrows have not quite descended fully, and his eyes remain on me. I work hard to hold his gaze and I don’t think of Seb.
After a moment he gives a minute shrug and looks at his notebook again. “Did she speak about her plans for after she left the Dordogne?”
“Not with me. Though Caro said that she told Theo she was heading back to Paris.”
He cocks his head to one side. “Caroline Horridge? She said that?”
I nod. “The other night.”
He is making notes again, in his little book. His handwriting is like tiny spiders multiplying across the page. “So. The well. There was—how do you say, workings?—going on?”
“Building works.” It’s a relief to move on to something less personal. “Theo’s parents wanted to rent the place out. They needed a few things done to comply with the safety regulations.”
Modan is nodding. “Oui. A fence round the pool. And the well filled in.”
“Probably.” I shrug. “I remember the builders doing the pool fence.” Suddenly the significance of what he’s saying hits me. “Oh. The well. She . . . God, she must have been in there before they filled the well.” The skull appears, but it’s no longer gleaming. Sand fills the eye sockets and spills out of the grinning mouth. I find my hand is at my mouth and carefully remove it to descend to my lap. “Is that why you didn’t find her? I mean, till now?”
“We didn’t find her because we were looking in the wrong place,” he says simply. His eyes are fixed on me again. I can’t fathom his expression.
“Do you think it was her boyfriend? Ex-boyfriend, I mean?”
“We’re looking at all possibilities—”
“Yes, but you must be looking pretty hard at him in particular,” I say impatiently, suddenly fed up with the one-sided nature of this interview, even though that’s how interviews are meant to be. “There was a history, right? Severine said she’d had to call the police about him before.”
“There’s no record of that.” He’s looking at me as if he’s waiting for something.
I pause. “No record?” Severine lied. Why would she lie about that?—but I instantly know the answer. To appear more mysterious, more alluring. The kind of woman a man would literally go insane for.
“None,” says Alain Modan calmly. “And the ex-boyfriend, he was doing a science project, some very intense work for his thesis. He was in the laboratory every day in June, even weekends, attending to his cultures or some such . . .” His hand waves expressively. “So.” He is still watching, waiting for me to catch on to something. I shake my head dumbly. He tries again. “So . . . unless the well was not filled in until July—”
The doorbell buzzes, cutting him off. He cocks his head questioningly at me. I shrug then raise myself up from the sofa to go and answer, and find that I’m stiff. I’ve been sitting unnaturally still for a very long time now.
I know it’s Lara before I open up; I can hear her rustling in her bag for the spare key she keeps. “Lara, the detective is here,” I say quickly as I unlatch the door, forestalling her greeting.
She looks past me, alarmed, as if she can see through the hall walls to the living room. “I thought that was tomorrow,” she whispers urgently.
“No, today. You may as well come and say hello.”
“But I don’t . . . I’m not . . . But . . .” I look at her, puzzled, then she takes a deep breath and smooths her dress. “Okay.” She comes in, taking a quick glance at herself in the hallway mirror before she follows me into the living room.
Mr. Modan has climbed to his feet and is looking out of the window. He turns as he hears us enter the room, and his face goes oddly still. Before I have a chance to say a few words of polite introduction, Lara speaks up from behind me. “It’s you.”
I glance at her, not understanding the words or her tone. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s half turned to the door, as if she still might flee. The French investigator could be a statue. I’m not completely sure he’s breathing. Then with an effort, he comes alive and shoots the cuffs of his suit before crossing the room to shake her hand. “Yes. Alain Modan.”
“Lara Petersson,” she says quietly. “But of course you know that.”
I look from one to the other. I wonder if it will be the same one? She wasn’t talking about the lead investigator. “I take it I’ve been very rude and failed to remember you from the earlier investigation,” I say dryly to Alain Modan.
He turns to me with a quick smile and raises a hand as if to say, No matter. “It was a long time ago. I was very junior, one of many assisting.” He looks back at Lara, then away quickly. Then he collects himself. “Miss Channing, you have a guest. We can continue another time, if I have more questions.”
“Oh. Okay. Fine.” If I’d known having a guest would roust him, I’d have arranged for an interruption long before this, I think sourly. Except I wouldn’t have, really. Better to get these things over and done with.
He turns to Lara. “à demain, Miss Petersson.” Until tomorrow.
“Oui, à demain,” she says, then follows up with something too quick for me to catch. I forgot Lara’s French was rather impressive; she’s one of those irritating Scandinavians with umpteen languages to their credit.
When I’ve closed the door on Monsieur Alain Modan, investigateur, I follow Lara to the kitchen and find her already pulling a bottle of white wine from my fridge and studiously avoiding my eye.
“What was that all about?”
She pours two glasses. Very large glasses. She seems to be giving the task more attention than it deserves. “Nothing. What do you mean?”
“Don’t give me that. Did you and he . . . ?”
“No!” She looks up, appalled. “Of course not!” I hold her gaze until she breaks and takes a sip of her wine.
I reach out for my own glass and take a sip, still watching her. She’s avoiding my eyes again. “Lara,” I say warningly.
“Oh, all right!” She folds, like I knew she would, and finally looks up. “Nothing happened, truly. He, um . . .” She takes another sip of wine, then says in a rush, “He wouldn’t. He said it wouldn’t be proper. Appropriate, I mean. Under the circumstances.” She’s blushing, more furiously than I’ve ever seen before.
“Oh my God,” I say wonderingly, a smile breaking out slowly on my face. “He’s that mythical creature. The one that got away from Lara Petersson.”
“He’s not . . . It’s not . . . Oh, fuck off,” she says, screwing up her nose prettily. She takes an unfeasibly long drink from her glass, then looks at me dejectedly. “Only it’s still not appropriate, right? Not until he clears us from the investigation. And then he’ll be back in France.”
“I can’t believe you never told me any of this.” I’m not hurt; I’m just amazed that I missed this.
She ducks her head apologetically. “Well, like I said, nothing happened. And you and Seb had just split up, and you know what a state that left you in. I didn’t want to dump my crap on you . . .”
For once the mention of Seb slides by almost unnoticed; I’m too thrown by this revelation. What else did I miss when I was licking my Seb-inflicted wounds? She takes in another large slug of wine, and I gaze at her in bemusement. Not only did the rejection matter to her then, it clearly still matters now. This is a Lara I haven’t seen before.
And then I think, Poor Tom.
CHAPTER FOUR