The French Girl(11)

“Tea? Coffee?” I make the offer once the silence has grown uncomfortably long from my point of view. In truth I want a glass of wine, but not one that comes with Modan’s interrogation.

“No, thank you,” he says without looking up. Finally he turns his dark eyes on me. “I’m sorry, this is very inconvenient for you, but please, a few questions. You probably answered the same ten years ago, but it’s . . . how you say . . . procedure.” He spreads his hands wide, palms up, with a Gallic shrug, inviting me to sympathize: Procedure. What can you do, eh?

“It was a very long time ago,” I say steadily. “I doubt I can add anything. Probably the opposite—I expect I’ve forgotten so much that I’ll confuse things for you.”

He shrugs again. “Well, let’s see. Yes?”

“Yes. Of course, go ahead.” He’s here now, in the country and in my living room. Of course he’s going to ask his questions. Of course I’ll have to answer them. And all the time Severine will be waiting for her chance to appear. I had thought she would fade away after a few days, once I’d got over the shock, but no. Severine has more staying power than I anticipated.

“Bon, so you left the farmhouse on Saturday the sixteenth, yes?”

“Yes.”

“All six of you?”

“Yes, all six of us.” Six on the vacation. Really four plus two, but not the two I’d expected. I’d imagined it would be Seb and me, plus a selection of our friends. It turned out to be Lara and me, plus Seb and his friends.

“You drove back to London?”

I nod. “In my car.” We’d planned to use Seb’s father’s BMW, but there had been some problem, I can’t remember what. The others had been extremely rude about my ancient little banger until it turned out it was the only vehicle we could get hold of.

“Ah yes. In your”—he checks his notes—“Vauxhall Nova.” He checks again. “Really?” He looks at me doubtfully. “Six of you? That would be very . . . squished.”

“Four of us. Theo and Tom took the train back together; I dropped them at the station that morning, then went back for the others.”

“Ah, Theo.” He pronounces it the French way: Tay-o. “Afghanistan, yes? Very sad.” His long face does indeed hold sympathy; whether genuine or not, I can’t tell. I expect he’s very good at his job.

“Yes. Very sad.” It is sad, and senseless and a waste and a whole lot of other things I can’t possibly put into words, but even if I could, it wouldn’t change the outcome. Theo is dead.

“He was very patriotic?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He loved his country very much? He always wanted to be a soldier, to fight for her?”

I rub my forehead. “No, I don’t think . . . We were all quite surprised when he enlisted.” Theo hadn’t seemed the type. Too nervous, too selfconscious. The army seemed to me like a grown-up version of a boys’ boarding school; Theo had hated boarding school. I shake my head abruptly. “I’m sorry, what has this got to do with—”

He puts out a placating palm. The man has an elegant gesture for everything. “Forgive me, forgive me. We must return to the point. What time did you leave the farmhouse?”

I try to remember. I must have dropped Theo and Tom at the train station before nine, I think. The rest of us had planned to be on the road by nine thirty, but Caro wasn’t ready. One more reason to be furious with Caro—not that I needed another reason that morning, after the revelations of the previous night. “Erm, perhaps ten thirty?”

He nods and makes a note. “Were you the driver?”

“Yes. I was the only one insured.”

“You drove all the way back? You didn’t share?” His surprise is clear.

I remember the journey, although I don’t want to. The car lacked air-conditioning; I was hot and tired and tight-lipped with hurt and resentment. Caro sat in the back, uncharacteristically pale and quiet; I wondered if she was suffering in the aftermath of the drugs and thought savagely that it would serve her right. Lara was golden and sleek, full of catlike satisfaction after a few days of frolicking with Tom; she slept almost all the way. And Seb . . . I don’t want to think about Seb. I swallow. “Like I said, I was the only one insured.”

His lips twist and he makes another note. “Bon, so, a Vauxhall Nova. Were there any other automobiles at the property?”

“No. We just used my car.” My mobile rings: Lara. “Sorry,” I say, quickly turning it off. I can call her later; I want to get this over with.

“You’re sure? Nothing in the garage?”

“Well, there was an old Jag that belonged to Theo’s father, but we never touched it. No one was allowed to drive it.” The farmhouse belonged to Theo’s parents back then; they sold it later, after Theo died.

He is nodding; he obviously knows about the Jaguar. “Did you see Miss Dupas on the morning of departure?”

“No.” I can feel my muscles tensing, as if anticipating an impact.

“The day before, perhaps?”

“Yes.” My answers are brief, clipped.

“Was that . . . habitual?” The word choice is odd; perhaps he has translated directly from the French. “Did she pass much time with you during the week?”