The French Girl(42)



“Understandable. But you were questioned quite soon after; that usually helps the details to stick, so to speak.”

I shrug.

“So, all caveats notwithstanding, what do you think happened?”

“Well, at first I thought—well, I thought it was nothing to do with us. Her ex-boyfriend, maybe, or just something totally random, some sick psycho or something . . .”

“And now?” She tips her head to one side.

“I don’t know. No, really, I don’t. I suppose since Modan told me it wasn’t the ex-boyfriend I’ve been thinking about whether it could have been one of us. Just hypothetically.”

“And?”

“I suppose . . . not Lara, obviously; it’s just not within her. And not Tom.”

“Why not Tom?”

“Well, he was with Lara all night. And even if he hadn’t been . . .”

“Let me guess: it’s not within him; he just couldn’t.” It’s not said unkindly; she’s almost smiling, but I know she’s deliberately holding up a mirror to show me the flaws in my thinking. “That’s what you were going to say, correct?”

“Something like that,” I concede weakly, but it’s not true actually. Tom could, if it was necessary. He has that steel within him, the ability to get things done. I see his stony face from this morning . . . But if Tom had done it, he’d have done it right. He wouldn’t have allowed a body to be found ten years later. “Anyway, like I said, he was with Lara all night. From what I gather, they didn’t do a lot of sleeping,” I add wryly. I think of Lara and Tom entwined, and my mind immediately skitters away from the image.

She inclines her head, conceding the point. “Which leaves Caroline, Theo and Sebastian. And you, but you were in bed, later joined by Sebastian, after his assignation with Severine.”

I wonder if I would have flinched even a day ago to hear her say that so baldly. Now it’s simply a fact. “Yes. Only I didn’t know about the assignation at the time.”

“What time did he join you?”

“I’m not sure. About 3 A.M. I think.” At least, I think that I think that. It was so long ago . . . Suddenly I’m back in that bedroom in France, groggily opening my eyes to see the glowing red digits of the clock radio showing 6 A.M. in the foreground, and in the background Seb stepping out of his boxer shorts after a trip to the bathroom. Without moving my head that’s the extent of my vision: a sideways image of a clock and Seb, from waist to knee. He’s close enough that I can see the first rays of the morning sun, undeterred by the ineffectual curtains, turning the hair on his legs into golden glowing wires. I can’t face dealing with him, so I close my eyes tightly and pretend he hasn’t woken me.

Seb’s words of last night (was it only last night?) float back to me: And you and I both know I came to our room that night and passed out, so whatever happened to Severine was nothing to do with me. And I think again of Caro’s and Seb’s heads, conspiratorially close; of Caro watching Seb as he spoke to me last night. Do I think he came to bed at 3 A.M. because he told me that at some point?

“And you say Caro and Theo were together till they went to bed.”

“Yes. So I understand.” How do I know that? Certainly there’s no Theo to ask.

“Was Sebastian the last person to see Severine alive then?”

“No, the bus driver. And the CCTV.” The bus driver. Of course. I forgot that last night. It doesn’t matter what time Seb came to bed; it doesn’t matter whether Caro and Theo were together: Severine was alive enough on Saturday morning to take a bus. Something inside me unwinds a little.

“True. If it was indeed Severine.” She frowns for a moment. “Though the chances of another young girl matching that description getting on in that location . . . Mmmm.” She ponders silently for a moment, leaning back and tapping her teeth with a fingernail. I wonder if she will later find that dreadful pink lipstick all over her fingers. She straightens up. “Right. Plan of action. No talking to Monsieur Modan without me present.”

“Okay. What else?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “That’s it for now. All we can do is wait.”

I stare at her, nonplussed. “Wait?” I’m paying painful amounts per hour, and all she can come up with is keep quiet and wait?

She nods. “Yes, wait. Believe me, Modan is not here on a whim. He has information he’s not yet revealed. Perhaps from the autopsy, or something else . . . At any rate, there’s something he’s not telling you. Because otherwise, there is literally no evidence to tie any of the six of you to this crime, and it’s quite a stretch to find a motive, too, despite best efforts to paint you as the jilted lover. So if the juge d’instruction still has Modan digging around over here, you can be sure there’s something up his sleeve. So . . . we wait.”

Jesus. “I’m not good at waiting.”

“No,” she says contemplatively, as she pushes back her chair to stand up and extend her hand. “I wouldn’t think you are.”

I’m not quite sure how to take that.





CHAPTER TWELVE


All day Severine hovers.

I’ve decided it’s a sign of tiredness, or distraction: like an illness, she can creep in much more easily when my defenses are low. Not that she creeps. She strolls, she saunters, she claims territory as her own with a single languid glance; everything about Severine is on Severine’s terms. Except her death, of course.

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