The French Girl(31)
“I reckon I can lobby Cadfields again on the back of this publicity,” Paul is saying. “They kind of left the door open. I’ll try them, and then there’s Wintersons, and I heard about an in-house general counsel role at BP from a mate at . . .” He babbles away. The Haft & Weil win has given him renewed vigor beyond all expectation; I wonder if he’s further up the bipolar curve than most.
I put Legal Week down on my desk, next to Severine. One article where I’m mentioned by name; one where I’m simply one of the “English holidaymakers staying in the neighboring farmhouse” at the time, who are “helping the police with their inquiries.” It’s not an even match. Severine continues to gaze from her sun lounger, and I can think of nothing else.
I need a lawyer. Which ought to be funny given I’m a legal headhunter, except that it’s not funny at all. Because I need a lawyer.
* * *
—
Modan again.
He’s waiting for me when I emerge from Pret, clutching my coffee and my lunch in a bag. I stop short in the doorway when I spot him lounging against a lamppost. “Bonjour,” he greets me, inclining his head.
I sigh and start walking. “Bonjour. I’m afraid I don’t have any time for you today.” And I don’t have a lawyer yet.
He falls in beside me and shrugs. “Surely a few minutes.”
“Not really, I’m afraid.”
“Perhaps I talk and you listen. While you are eating your lunch, non?”
I’m walking back to my office, but it occurs to me that he will very likely follow me all the way there. I definitely do not want Paul and Julie exposed to the charming Alain Modan and the no-doubt innocent-sounding questions that he would produce. I stop walking and look at him. He cocks his head and smiles his most beguiling smile, the deep lines in his long face curving to frame his mouth.
“I’ll listen. That’s it.” I take a detour toward a nearby courtyard with a bench that will be in the sun, if there’s any sun; it’s warm enough today to justify eating outside. The bench is empty; I navigate to it carefully given that cobblestones, a cup of coffee and kitten heels are a difficult mix, but I make it there unscathed and sit at one end, with my coffee placed precariously on the arm of the bench. Modan sits also, at the far end, spreading his arms along the back of the bench. The sun makes an unexpected appearance, and he tips his head back to enjoy it, eyes closed. Today he’s wearing a pale pink shirt under his suit, with a silver gray tie; very Eurotrash, but it works for him. I wonder if he looks at my clothes in abject horror: this dress is probably two years old. At least I’m wearing designer shoes.
“Alors,” he says, pulling himself upright into business mode. I’m unpackaging my chicken wrap and pay him no heed. “So, I talk. As promised. We have the answer on when the well was filled in.” He looks at me expectantly. I remember that I’m not supposed to know this and raise my eyebrows obligingly over my mouthful of wrap. “Saturday the sixteenth.”
Having a mouthful is useful; it gives me time to think. About what to say, how to say it; about whether to say anything at all. “You said Friday before. Now you say Saturday,” I comment mildly when I’m done chewing. “What makes you so sure you’ve got it right this time?”
He inclines his head: a silent touché. “The papers say Friday, but Monsieur Casteau—the younger one—tells me it was Saturday. He remembers that his girlfriend arrived in town unexpectedly, so they went off to . . .” He spreads his hands eloquently. “He came back on Saturday to finish the job.” He looks at me again as if waiting for a comment, but when he sees I have another mouthful he goes on, with a wry twist to his lips. “He wrote down Friday on the paperwork because of the contract: there was a bonus if the work was finished on time. On Friday. You see?”
I do see why Modan believes Monsieur Casteau the younger; even I believe this, and I’m hearing it secondhand. “Does Theo’s dad plan to sue him for return of the bonus?” I ask, tongue in cheek.
Modan’s lips quirk. “I don’t believe he considers it a high priority.” He gives this last word the French pronunciation: priorité.
I take another mouthful and chew thoughtfully. Saturday. The day we left. Modan tips his head back to enjoy another brief appearance of the sun.
I try to nudge the conversation forward when I have finally swallowed. “What time on Saturday?”
He’s been waiting for this; for him this is all a game that he’s very, very good at. He tips his head forward again and blinks a few times while his eyes adjust. “He doesn’t remember exactly, but he thinks perhaps lunchtime.”
Lunchtime. Severine would have had plenty of time to return from the bus depot and then . . . what? Get herself killed by person or persons unknown and stuffed in a well? My breath catches: it’s not a game; I don’t want to play. I put down my suddenly very unappetizing chicken wrap. “I presume you’ve considered Monsieur Casteau,” I say in a rush. “Younger or elder.”
“Bien s?r. Of course.” He purses his lips and moves his head this way and that as if trying to look at something from different angles. “They do not seem to . . . fit.”
“And neither do the rest of us.” I can’t hide my frustration. He gives an equivocal one-shoulder shrug. I stand up to dump my leftovers in a nearby bin, annoyed with myself as well as Modan. I have no lawyer. I shouldn’t be here. I pick up my handbag and my as-yet untouched coffee.