The French Girl(21)

“You are in a hurry?” he asks, his mouth quirking.

“Not especially, but I do have a business to run.” I almost laugh as I hear the words from my mouth, though it’s not in the least bit funny.

He nods. “Of course. Well, we have found one of the builders, Monsieur Casteau. He has gone through his paperwork, which states that the well was filled in on the Friday. The day before you left.”

“Bullshit.”

He looks at me. “Excuse me?”

“Bull. Shit,” I say clearly. “You have six”—I shake my head abruptly: Theo. Not six, not ever again six—“no, five people who can attest to that. The builders did the pool fence while we were there, but I don’t remember them anywhere near the well. The paperwork is wrong and the builder is lying.” The recklessness is spilling over; I struggle to stamp it down.

Modan is not fazed by my combativeness. “It was a long time ago,” he allows. “And Monsieur Casteau thinks it was his brother who actually did the work on the well; he can’t remember doing it himself.”

“And what does the brother say?”

“We haven’t been able to speak with him yet. He’s on”—he stretches for the word—“ah, miel, ah, honey . . . moon. Honeymoon, oui?” I nod. “Trekking. In the Himalayas.” He makes a movement with his mouth that shows that yomping through the Himalayas is not his idea of a post-wedding treat.

The folder lies there still, untouched. “Regardless. You have five people who say the well wasn’t filled in. Why are you spending time on this?”

One eyebrow raises a little. “It’s our job to be thorough.”

I press on. “What about the bus driver? He remembers Severine, right?”

He looks at me, his long face displaying nothing except his habitual watchfulness. “The bus driver remembers that a young girl climbed on near the farmhouse and traveled to the station. He described her as wearing dark sunglasses and having her hair tied in a red scarf.”

I see Severine, smoking a cigarette at the end of the garden whilst speaking rapidly on the phone. It’s morning; there’s still a freshness in the air that the sun will beat into submission within an hour or so. Severine’s dressed in her uncompromising black bikini, a red chiffon scarf tied turban-like on her head; her back is to me, and I can see the delicate wings of her shoulder blades moving under her skin as she gestures with her cigarette hand. It’s a look that’s reminiscent of the 1950s, of glamorous movie stars in oversize sunglasses lounging on the French Riviera. At that moment I wish she was gone with an intensity I don’t understand; more than that, I wish she had never been. But today, to Modan I murmur, “Yes. Severine.”

He shrugs, a curiously nonsymmetrical movement that suggests his limbs are moved by a puppet-master. It should be awkward, but not so on Modan. “Perhaps.”

I look at him sharply. “Perhaps?”

He shrugs again, right shoulder then left. “Perhaps.”

“And the CCTV from the bus depot?”

He reaches for the folder and holds it out to me. “Regardez-vous. Please, look.”

I force myself to breathe as I take the folder from him and slowly open it. Inside there is indeed a photo: a grainy image, not so much black-and-white as shades of gray. In among what must be the bus depot forecourt, I can make out a figure that is most likely a slender girl, perhaps with her hair tied under a scarf or perhaps wearing some kind of cap. She appears to be standing by a large bag. I look up at Modan, dismayed. “This is it?”

He raises a couple of fingers briefly, somehow conveying we really tried and c’est la vie in one small movement. “That is the best picture we could get.”

I look back again at the photo. Caro may have exaggerated a little—it’s definitely a person—but her point is still valid: this counts for nothing. I keep looking, as if it’s a digital image that needs time to resolve, but the fuzzy edges refuse to settle into a clear picture. All the while my mind loops over the same cycle: the well, the bus driver, the CCTV image. The well, the bus driver, the CCTV image. One of these things is not like the other . . . the well, the bus driver, the CCTV image . . . one of these things . . .

I thrust the folder back at Modan. “Why are you still here?” I ask him abruptly.

“I have a few more questions—”

“Yes, but why are you still here? As in, in this country?” I interrupt impatiently. “I know you have to be thorough. You’ve been thorough, you’ve spoken to us all, so what’s keeping you here? You have five people who saw her alive on Friday night, you have a bus driver who had someone exactly like her climbing on his bus on Saturday, you have a picture of that same girl at the depot with a bag; it all points pretty clearly to her being alive and well after we left.” The recklessness has its head and won’t be quieted. “But you’re still here, and I can’t figure it out, unless you’re looking for an excuse to spend more time jeopardizing your career by ambushing Lara in airports”—he looks away quickly and rakes a hand through his hair, then fixes wary eyes upon me, but I won’t be derailed—“or unless you actually don’t believe us. Is that it? Do you actually believe that all five of us are lying? Are we in fact suspects?” I stop abruptly. The recklessness is spent.