Tangerine(71)

Once we were seated, the officer lowered himself into his own chair behind the desk and leaned forward. “Madame Shipley,” he began. “Do you know of any reason why a man by the name of Youssef might have been in possession of your husband’s articles?”

I shook my head, surprised by the question, for whatever it was that I had been expecting, it was not this. But then something poked, needled, and I remembered what Lucy had said the other night to the policeman, about Youssef.

“No,” I whispered, my voice low and hoarse. “I have no idea.”

He frowned, watching me. “Are you quite all right, madame?”

I considered telling him then. About Lucy, about how she had deliberately mentioned Youssef to the policeman, how she had, more than likely, been responsible for whatever it was that they were talking about. I considered telling him this and everything else that had happened—but then I noticed the way that he was looking at me, his features sharp and narrow, and the words died on my lips.

“Could I have a glass of water, please?” I asked instead.

He looked irritated at this request but nonetheless signaled to one of his officers standing just outside the door. A few moments of silence passed until at last a glass of tepid water was placed in front of me.

“Thank you,” I murmured. I placed the glass back onto his desk, watching as a small puddle formed, the ring that encircled it eventually sinking into the wood beneath. I could feel Aunt Maude’s eyes on me, but I could not bring myself to return her gaze. Not just yet.

“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?” I asked the man, stalling.

He sat back in his chair and sighed. “My apologies, madame. I am Officer Ayoub,” he said. “Now, I understand you knew the man.”

I frowned, placing a hand to my temple, wondering if anyone else had noticed just how stuffy and confined the office was. “Who?” I asked, not knowing, in that moment, who he was referring to.

“Youssef,” he responded, his voice curt, the word overenunciated. “Or perhaps you knew him as Joseph. He is the man responsible for your husband’s death, madame.”

“No,” I responded, shaking my head at the impossibility of the idea. No, they had got it all wrong. I could feel Aunt Maude stir beside me.

“No?” Ayoub raised his eyebrows. “Do you mean that you do not know him, or that he is not the one responsible?”

“No, I don’t know him,” I said, wanting, and failing, to say the other as well.

“That is not what my men reported to me.” Ayoub’s eyes narrowed. “They say that you were well acquainted.”

“No, that isn’t true,” I protested, worried that it had already progressed to this—from knowing him to well acquainted. There was a difference, I was well aware. “I knew of him, but not him personally. John—” I stopped, my voice halting for a moment, stumbling over his name. “He warned me about him.”

“Warned you—why?” Ayoub asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. To watch out for him, I suppose. To be careful if I ever ran into him, while I was on my own.”

The officer seemed to consider this. “Your husband had met him, then?”

I shook my head. “No.” But then I thought of Sabine, of the other life that he had lived apart from me. “I don’t know,” I found myself admitting. “I mean, I don’t think so. Not that he ever mentioned.” I reached for the glass of water again.

The officer watched me, his face still, revealing nothing. “I’m confused, madame. If you had never met Youssef, and your husband had never met him, then why were you both scared of him?”

“We were never scared,” I replied, quickly.

“No?” He frowned.

“No,” I repeated, frustrated now. “I don’t know. John had told me stories, about Youssef, about how he had conned some tourists out of money.”

“And you were afraid he would do this to you as well—con you out of money?”

Again, I shook my head. “No, not really. It’s just—”

“Just what, Madame Shipley?” he snapped.

I felt a flush, could tell that it had broken out across my chest, its redness most likely unmistakable even in the grim, darkened setting of the room. I cleared my throat, but before I could speak, Aunt Maude stirred. Leaning forward, she placed a hand on the officer’s desk. “What is this about, please?”

Ayoub tilted his head, clearly unsettled by the interruption but doing his best to hide it. “Nothing at all, madame,” he finally said, with what seemed a reluctant smile. “We are only trying to establish a link between this young woman, her husband, and the perpetrator.” He turned back to me. “So you never met Youssef?”

I shook my head. “I’ve told you this already. I have never met him.”

“That is interesting.” He sat back in his chair, a smile emerging on his previously blank face. “You see, we’ve spoken to the suspect and he claims to be very well acquainted with you, Madame Shipley.”

I stilled at his words. “What do you mean?”

“He says that you know each other, that you met a few weeks back, in a café, outside Cinema Rif.”

“But I’ve never been to Cinema Rif,” I protested, but even as I said the words, I realized—it was Lucy. She was the one he was describing. She was the one who had somehow planted this idea, this trap, so that I had ended up here, in this particular office. “Lucy,” I breathed.