Tangerine(73)

I started, turning back to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Payment,” he repeated. “That’s why he claims you gave him the bracelet.” He gave a short laugh. “He seemed to have no idea that it was worthless, a piece of metal and paste.”

Maude shifted. “Payment for what, exactly?”

The officer turned toward her. “Papers, madame. According to Youssef, Madame Shipley suggested that the police would know what she had done, sooner or later. She wanted to make sure she was able to leave, undetected, before that happened.”

Papers. Lucy had obtained new papers from someone recently, and Lucy was the one who had befriended Youssef, all those weeks ago. Perhaps—though I didn’t know why—Lucy had planned it all. But no, why on earth would this man ever agree to any of it when he had landed in jail? There would be no reason for pretense now. But then, perhaps he did not know that it was pretense, perhaps he believed it—believed that she was me, that she was called Alice.

I started.

“Madame?” The officer frowned.

“The name,” I gasped. “What was the name on the papers?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The new passport,” I said hurriedly. “What was the name on the new passport?”

The officer looked down at his notepad, turning a page or two calmly, carefully, leaving me to lean forward, gripping the handles of my chair until my knuckles were white.

“Alice, what is it?” Aunt Maude asked. She looked down at my shaking fingers and I released them, quickly.

“The papers,” I whispered, not wanting to disturb the officer. “It’s the papers, don’t you see?” She frowned and I hastened to explain. “Lucy. She had new papers made, ones with Sophie Turner as the name.”

“Alice—” she began, the frown deepening between her brows.

“No,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “I’m right, I know I’m right. It makes sense. It’s the only thing that makes sense.” I turned back toward the officer. “Have you found it yet? The name?”

The officer looked up. “He did not know the name. He said madame was insistent she be put in touch with the forger personally, so as not to incriminate him further.”

I fell back against the chair.

“Madame,” the officer began again, though his voice was distant now. “We also went to speak with your husband’s mistress. She was, however, not to be found. It seems she left the country—fled, rather, in fear of her life. It was, it appears, with the help of your husband, the night before he went missing. And from what we understand, he had plans to eventually join her, in Europe.”

I shook my head, feeling the words as they were absorbed, one by one, into my body. “I didn’t push her,” I whispered, knowing as I did, that it was the wrong thing to say.

Both Ayoub and Maude leaned forward quickly, words spilling from them both, loud and rushed, though I did not hear them, did not register them. Instead I felt the blood drain from my face, felt the knowledge of it all hit me—sharp and accurate, so that it seemed my breath had been knocked out of me. I realized then, for the first time, what was happening—why this man was asking these questions. I turned to look at Aunt Maude, to see if she too had realized. Her stony demeanor told me that she had, and I found myself wondering just how long she had known—whether she had figured it out from the beginning, from the moment the officer had pointed us through the door. My skin prickled. “I need to be excused,” I said, the words dulled so that I did not recognize them as my own.

The officer watched me with those hardened eyes, any trace of kindness long dissipated. “There is just one more thing,” he said.

I hesitated. “Yes?”

He peered up at me. “Why did you not go to the police, when you knew your husband was missing?” When I did not respond, he continued, “Or perhaps you did. That is also unclear. You see, my men claim that someone by the name of Alice Shipley telephoned the station, only when they paid her a visit, she denied having made the telephone call.”

I blinked. “It wasn’t me. And I didn’t know. Not at first.”

He frowned. “You didn’t know that your husband was missing?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head, knowing how the words sounded, that no explanation would ever suffice. Still, I hastened to explain: “He was supposed to go somewhere. With a friend.”

“What friend?”

I hesitated, suspecting what his next question would be. “His name is Charlie,” I responded. And then, when he did indeed follow up by asking how he could get in touch with him, I answered, shaking my head: “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know how to get in touch with your husband’s friend?” he asked, suspicion, doubt, flooding his voice.

My heart began to pound as I admitted, “No, I’ve only ever met him a couple of times. Charlie, I mean.”

“But that still does not explain how you knew.”

“About Charlie?” I asked, puzzled.

“No, madame,” he shook his head. “That your husband was missing.”

“A man came to tell me. Someone that John works with.” I paused, knowing, once more, that his next question would demand specifics I could not provide. “I don’t know his name.”