The French Girl(19)
“Um, good, thanks. You?” I’m still thrown. She spotted me, and she actually chose to come in and talk to me?
She flaps a hand. “Good, busy—you know, same old, same old.” She pauses. “How did it go with the detective?”
“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “Though we got interrupted so I’m meeting him again this week.”
“What a bore for you,” she says, rolling her eyes theatrically. “What sort of things was he asking?”
“Much the same as he asked everyone, I suppose. When we left, how we got home, that sort of thing. You?”
She nods quickly. Too quickly. “Yes, that sort of thing. Lots on everyone’s timings that last morning. And about the builders and the well and when the girl was planning to leave.” Her head is cocked on one side, watching and waiting. I wonder exactly which of her words she’s expecting a reaction to.
“Severine,” I say quietly. “Her name was Severine.” The skull grins knowingly at me.
“God, you do have a bee in your bonnet about that.” Caro sounds amused, but somehow I don’t think she is. “Did he show you the CCTV footage?”
I shake my head. “No, what footage? Do you mean Severine at the bus station?”
She nods. “It’s a joke,” she says, throwing up a hand expressively. “You can barely tell it’s a person. Technology has moved a looooong way in the last decade, believe me. Thank God the bus driver remembered her getting on his bus, or things might be rather more uncomfortable for us all right now.” She laughs a high, tinkling laugh, much less genuine than her earlier sly grin. I think of breaking glass.
“Caro,” says a mild voice behind her. Gordon has arrived.
“Dad,” she says, turning to him. This time the smile she pulls on is overly bright. “Don’t worry, I’m not stealing your lunch date.” He rubs her arm awkwardly in lieu of a kiss; perhaps they never kiss during the working day. I suppose it would be a little disconcerting for others around the office.
“Hello, Gordon,” I say, smiling. We shake hands and tell each other it’s a pleasure and so on. Which it actually is, at least for me.
Caro explains to her father: “I just popped in to tell Kate that we have a date for Seb’s return.” I feel a quick burst of triumph that I knew this already. She turns to me. “He’ll be back this week, so we’ll have to have another get-together of the old gang. Maybe a restaurant this time. What do you think?”
I’m on my best behavior given Gordon’s presence. “Good idea.” Then I look for something intelligent to add. “Less people, which might be better for Alina. Less overwhelming.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Caro says, unconcerned. It’s not clear whether she means that Alina, whom I’ve never met, is not easily overwhelmed, or whether Caro simply doesn’t care whether she’s overwhelmed or not. “I just thought it’d be a nice change since we just did the drinks party thing for Tom.” She glances at her watch and grimaces. “Oops, back to the grindstone. I have a conference call in five, which may well last till five—no rest for the wicked.” She rolls her eyes again. “Enjoy your lunch.”
I look at Gordon as he watches her clip smartly out of the restaurant; perhaps I’m expecting to see love or pride or benevolent affection. Instead he seems . . . what? I can’t decipher his face, though he watches for longer than feels comfortable. Then he feels my eyes upon him and turns with eyebrows raised. “Well, shall we?”
* * *
—
We order and eat and talk business, but general business, not the specific business I’m chasing. Other firms and their hiring practices, the restructuring taking place in the legal industry, the mergers that are being rumored: these are the things we discuss. I wait for Gordon to broach the subject, but our main courses swoop down, and then dessert, and then coffee, and still we’re circling around.
Gordon reaches for the sugar and drops a cube into his cup, paying the task more attention than it deserves. Now, I think. Now we will come to the matter at hand.
“So,” he says. He’s too precise for such a casual opening; it comes out strained. “I understand from Caro that you, too, have been dragged into this awful French investigation. It must be rather unpleasant for you.”
I blink, completely thrown. Why is he bringing this up? “Well, I . . . Of course I’m happy to help the investigation, but rest assured, it would have no impact on my company’s ability to perform under the contract, if we were to be engaged—”
“Oh no,” he interrupts me, startled. “I didn’t mean—I didn’t think that for a second.”
I look at him uncertainly. He seems a little embarrassed.
“Caro seems rather shaken by the whole thing,” he says diffidently. “I just meant to . . . well, to ask how you are. That’s all.”
“Oh.” I watch him stirring his already-stirred coffee, then realize I ought to say something more. “Well, that’s very kind of you.” Before I can add something appropriately inane, like I’m fine, though it’s certainly unsettling, before I can reassert my professionalism without seeming callous in comparison to the “rather shaken” Caro (really?), Severine’s skull begins to laugh mockingly at me, sand streaming from one eye socket. I hastily grab my coffee cup and take a sip.