The French Girl(46)

“Just recently. I had started to wonder, and then Seb—apropos of absolutely nothing—admitted it to me last night. Only because he’s already told Modan, and he didn’t want me to hear it through that avenue.”

Lara is frowning. “But—how? They must have been very discreet. We were pretty much on top of one another in the farmhouse.”

“Apparently it was just the last night.”

“Oh. I suppose it was a pretty crazy night all round.” She shakes her head, still digesting. “I can’t believe I missed that. God, what else did I miss?”

She means it as a rhetorical question, but it’s actually the question, the all-important nub of the matter. “Yeah, I’ve been wondering that myself,” I say quietly.

“You don’t mean—but she was alive on the Saturday morning,” Lara says impatiently. “She got on the damn bus.”

I nod. “Agreed, she did, in which case what happened to her has nothing to do with any of us. Or she didn’t; it was just a coincidence that someone fitting her description got on at that stop—”

“Hell of a coincidence. How many girls even exist in the world who are that height, and build, and who wear a red chiffon scarf over their hair?”

“True, but just a coincidence, in which case . . .” I spread my hands and shrug. “It seems your Modan is rather taken with the latter possibility.”

“He’s not my Modan,” she protests, though without any conviction.

“Really? He does seem to be yours. Head to toe, heart and all.”

“I would think so, except . . . he won’t talk about what’s going to happen after all this is over and he goes back to France.” She looks at me, her eyes over-bright. “I know he had a long-distance relationship before, and he hated it . . . It’s crazy, I can see it’s crazy, we hardly know each other, but . . .” She lifts her hands helplessly, and suddenly I sense her desperate fear: she knows she has already jumped off the precipice. “And he won’t even talk about it. He just says we’ll figure it out. How are we supposed to do that if he won’t talk about it?”

“Maybe he needs to concentrate on one thing at a time. Maybe he just wants to get the case over so you two can stop skulking around.” I can’t believe I’m defending the man who seems intent on painting me as a murderer. But I’ve seen how Modan looks at her. It’s unmissable, it’s cinematic—as if he’s a reformed alcoholic and she’s the very drink he’s been craving for years: that man has no intention of letting her go. “Maybe he’s worried about how you will feel when he puts your best friend in prison,” I add sourly.

“But she got on the fucking bus!” She smacks her hand into the sofa in frustration.

“I know, I know. But that aside . . . if you were constructing the case, who would you have as your prime suspect?”

She pauses, considering. “Not Tom, or me, for obvious reasons—and don’t think you’re off the hook on Tom, I’m coming back to that—and I know it wasn’t you; you didn’t even know about the affair till just now, so what possible motive would you have?”

“Not a rock-solid basis for excluding me,” I tease.

“Oh, hush. If I’m going to have to think about this, let’s not waste time on definite no-no’s. Theo: no motive. He knew her forever, and apparently they’d always gotten on well. I’m sure he fancied her, but let’s be honest: even if he tried it on and got a knock-back, I can’t quite imagine Theo summoning up a murderous rage.”

“Fair point.” I see Theo, his cheeks flooding pink at the slightest jibe, his back covered in thick factor-50 to protect the milk-pale skin that is the curse of the true redhead. I cannot imagine Theo, with all his good intentions and awkwardness, having the courage to make a pass at Severine. Come to think of it, I don’t remember Theo ever making a pass at anyone.

“Is it totally un-PC to say I was really surprised about the way he died?” Lara asks hesitantly. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Totally un-PC. But yeah, me neither.” Theo died by throwing himself on a live grenade, thereby saving four of his colleagues. I can only imagine it was an instinctive reaction. At the funeral, Tom said that Theo’s parents were unimaginably proud, astonished and despairing in equal measures.

“Yeah . . .” She shakes herself after a moment. “But anyway. That leaves Caro and Seb.” She frowns. “I can’t see why Caro would . . . or Seb . . . but he was with her . . .” I’m quiet, reluctant to influence her thinking. This is a test, in a way, and I’m almost holding my breath. If Lara alights on the same theory that has been slowly building in my subconscious, I can’t dismiss it as another product of my demonstrably overactive brain. “So, Seb was with her, but why would he kill her? I mean, he wouldn’t, not on purpose”—here it comes—“. . . God, not intentionally, but what if something happened by accident?” Her eyes widen. “You know, Kate, it could all have been just a tragic accident. Something went horribly wrong, and rather than face up to it all he stuffed her body in the well. I mean, he’s strong enough.”

Bingo. We look at each other, wide-eyed.

“Last night Seb seemed very keen to stress that he came back to the room and passed out,” I say quietly.