The French Girl(18)

She nods. “He mentioned that. I suppose they have to tick every box, but it seems a waste of effort since it was obviously after we left. But they have to do it. Apparently they even have to try and pin down exactly which ferry we were on so they have confirmation of when we left the farmhouse. It’s really hard work for him,” she says earnestly, then looks up as the waitress arrives with our plates. “Oh, thank you.”

I start eating mechanically, my mind full of Monsieur Modan, and Tom’s words, and Severine—always Severine, with her walnut skin and secretive eyes, hovering just out of sight. “Why is he even back in the UK?” I ask suddenly.

“What?” Lara looks up from her salad.

“Modan. I thought he interviewed us all. Why is he still here?”

“Oh. Yeah, he said he had a few more questions.”

“For who?”

“For whom,” she corrects with a glimmer of a smile. Lara prides herself on having better English than any native-born. “Actually, for you, I think.” She shrugs. “Probably my fault, I suppose; after all, I did interrupt your session with him.”

Another interview. I reach for the wineglass.

“And for Seb, of course,” she adds, with an apologetic grimace. “Apparently he’ll be back in the country this week.” She goes on hesitantly, “Are you . . . Are you okay with that? Seb being back, I mean?”

“I daresay I’ll cope.” It comes out harsher than intended; Lara flinches. I’m instantly remorseful. “I’m sorry, honey, I don’t mean to snap; I’m just having a shitty week.” She nods sympathetically, accepting the apology. I feel guilty enough to consider her question more carefully. “I actually don’t know what I feel. I suppose I spent so long avoiding thinking about him that I’m not sure what I think anymore.”

She cocks her head. “So maybe it would be good for you to see him.”

“Maybe.” I take a swallow of the wine. “But in an ideal world, not in a week where my business is going under and I’m being interviewed in connection with a murder.”

She laughs. “Come on, that’s a little dramatic. We’re just helping the investigation; we’re not really suspects.”

“Well, that depends.”

“What do you mean?”

“That depends on when the well was filled in. Or at least, when the police think the well was filled in.”

She stares at me. Her eyes have finally found their focus. “You really think—but he hasn’t said anything . . .” She trails off, then visibly shakes herself. “But of course the well was sealed after we left. The builders will say that.”

“Of course,” I agree easily. “When the police find them.”

“When they find them,” she echoes. She is silent for a moment, then cocks her head and looks at me piercingly. “You think I’m being played.”

“I don’t know,” I admit reluctantly, but honestly. I remember the sudden stillness in Modan’s face when he saw Lara again. “I think—I think that he would very much like to do whatever he told you he’d like to do to you . . .” Now I’m the one blushing. “But whatever you said about the six of us—he can’t ‘unhear’ it. You weren’t being interviewed, but he’ll use it, if it helps him.” She looks at me thoughtfully but doesn’t say anything. I don’t know if she’s upset, and if so, with me or Modan. “I’m just saying . . . be careful, honey.” I reach out and touch her arm. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Finally she catches my hand in hers and smiles. “I know. I’ll be careful.” She changes the subject deliberately, and as we talk, I see that half of her focus is elsewhere: reliving aural sex in a transport hub, perhaps, or dreaming up meetings yet to come; in any case, half her mind is threaded through with Alain, Alain, Alain.

I suspect Lara’s definition of careful won’t match mine.



* * *



—

Wednesday dawns bright and sunny, but blustery, with a bite in the wind. It’s the kind of day that could go either way. Fitting.

I’m early to the restaurant; the staff haven’t quite finished preparing our table. I deposit myself on an uncomfortably low sofa in the entrance area, flicking through a newspaper that was laid out for just this purpose. The economy is not improving, small businesses are going under at an alarming rate. I turn that page quickly.

“Kate?” I look up, my automatic welcome smile pasted on, only this isn’t Gordon. It’s not even a male voice.

“Caro,” I say with unconcealed surprise. I scramble to my feet inelegantly from the low seat. She’s wearing an impeccable dark skirt suit that looks ultra-fashionable and ultra-expensive, and beautiful kitten heels. Her hair is scraped back into a perfect chignon. It’s alarming how closely she fits the image I had of her in work attire. We double-kiss, our cheeks barely grazing. “What a surprise. Are you eating here today?” For a confused moment I wonder if Gordon has asked her to join us.

“No, I was just stalking you,” she says breezily, then grins impishly at my expression. “Relax. I was just passing—this place is a stone’s throw from our office.” This is true; it’s why Gordon’s a fan of the restaurant. “I spotted you through the window. How are you?”