The French Girl(15)

I close my eyes and rest my head back against the seat, feeling the sun soak into my face. “Oh, you know me,” I say airily. “I’m basically unemployable.”

“Rubbish. You have a first from Oxford and the best CV of anyone we know.”

“Slight exaggeration, but anyway, I didn’t say I was unhirable. I’m unemployable. As in, unsuitable for employment.” My eyes are still closed.

“Ah,” he says, understanding. “You mean, much better suited to being the employer.”

“Exactly.” I open my eyes and turn my head, still resting on the headrest, to look at him. I can’t see his eyes through the sunglasses, but I know what they look like. Seb doesn’t freckle, though. “I got fed up of being overlooked in favor of inferior lawyers who had the right accent and went to the right school.” I grimace. “I may have been vocal about it from time to time.”

“How can you spot a balanced northerner?” asks Tom. He goes on before I can answer: “They have a chip on both their shoulders.”

He’s teasing me, but I know he understands, at least in part. Tom’s whole upbringing has put him on the outside looking in: looking in on Seb, whose father is some kind of nobility—a marquis or a baron or an earl, I forget exactly what—with the stately home and vast grounds one might expect along with such a title. Tom grew up in a cottage on the estate, gifted by the earl-or-marquis-or-baron to his little sister, Tom’s mother, when she married a penniless academic.

“Anyway, one day one of the partners told me I was the best candidate for partner he’d ever come across, but if I couldn’t learn to shut my mouth and put up with some crap from time to time, there was no way I’d even make the short list. I’d be turfed out.”

“What did you say to that?” Tom asks.

“Not much at the time. I was too furious to say anything at all really. But then I thought about it . . . and he was right. There’s no way they could make me partner the way I was; it would be like . . . like putting itching powder on everyone’s skin.”

“And you didn’t want to change?”

“I could have changed . . . well, maybe . . . but not for that firm. Too traditional, too old-school. It got me thinking about how important it is to get the right fit when you hire someone. I mean, they should never have hired me in the first place. I expect they were trying to fill some diversity quota: female, went to a state school . . .”

Tom remains quiet. I close my eyes again and turn my face to the sun. The thrum of the car is soporific. Time becomes elastic; I have no idea how much is passing.

“You never told me much about your meeting with the detective,” I hear Tom say.

I open my eyes again reluctantly. I don’t want Severine to intrude today. She doesn’t belong in the sunshine. “Not much to tell. He just went over the timings of when we left, really.”

“Nothing else?” he asks casually.

“No,” I say, bemused. I think back to the meeting; it doesn’t seem my place to tell him about Lara’s fascination with the detective. Though perhaps I should if Tom is going to get hurt . . .

“What?” asks Tom, noticing my hesitation.

“Nothing.” I grope around for something to cover with. “Just—well, he said he didn’t think it was the boyfriend.”

Tom is nodding. “Yeah, Theo’s dad told me he’s out of the picture.”

“Modan was a bit more conditional than that. It seems to hinge on the timing of when the well was filled in, I think.” I frown. “But surely they know when that was done.”

Tom shakes his head and says carefully, “There’s some confusion.” He appears to be intent on the road; with his sunglasses on, I can’t read his expression at all.

“How come? Can’t they check with the builders?” I can see the two builders in my head: both in their thirties, unmistakably brothers, with the same swarthy complexion, dark hair and heavy eyebrows. I remember watching them watch us; I remember the resentment in their eyes and the sense of unease it put in me. I could see us from their perspective: the careless, awful presumptions of privilege. I wanted to say, “But I’m not one of them!” Only I was, at least for that week.

“Haven’t tracked them down again yet. But according to the records that the police looked at then, the well was filled in on the Friday.” He glances across at me. Oddly I have the same feeling as with the detective: he is watching me, waiting for something. I shake my head dumbly. He elaborates. “Friday, Kate. The day before we left.”

“But that’s . . . that’s impossible.” I’m no longer sleepy. “Severine was with us on Friday night.”

“I know that. You know that.” He shrugs.

I am upright in my seat now, twisted sideways to stare at Tom’s profile. He’s calmly focusing on the road ahead. “There’s CCTV footage of Severine at the bus depot on Saturday morning,” I argue heatedly. “And the bus driver remembered her getting on at the stop by the farmhouse. So she obviously wasn’t, you know, stuffed in a well at that point.” The skull is there, with the dirt and the sand and the insects; I shake my head violently. It doesn’t dislodge.

“I know, I know.” Tom takes a hand off the wheel and spreads it out, palm up. “I’m just saying, there are inconsistencies. Things like that, they muddy the waters. Which could be rather . . . inconvenient for us, until it’s all sorted out.”