The French Girl(52)

Lara’s hand tightens on my arm. Modan doesn’t look at her. “Regrettably, non.” He adds a theatrical sigh. “You are correct, we do not have cause of death, but we do have her bones. The human body is amazing.” He shakes his head a little, half smiling. “Truly amazing. Even after death it still finds ways to speak to us.” Tell me about it, I think with dark humor. Severine’s bones are far too communicative as far as I’m concerned, though I imagine they are communicating with Modan through a somewhat different method. “We have her bones, and what they tell us is that Severine was not at the bus depot on the Saturday morning.”

“What?” says Lara, confused. “But the CCTV . . .”

Modan is shaking his head. “Not her. Non. Similar height, similar build, similar, ah, thing with the scarf”—he twirls a hand expressively above his head—“but not her. The proportions are wrong. I cannot translate the technical details, but there is something with the length of one bone in relation to another one . . . along with photographs . . . Ah, the experts, they are absolutely certain. Absolument. It is not Severine on the CCTV.”

And so. It was one of us.

His words plow into me with the weight of a wrecking ball. Somewhere inside, I’ve been expecting this, dreading this. It was one of us. Like the discovery of her body in the well, it suddenly seems inevitable, unavoidable, obvious. One of the five of us—six, including Theo—killed Severine. For all one could construct a theory to say otherwise, I now believe it with a sickening certainty that is absolute, as if I’ve always believed it.

I look around the table and see varying degrees of shock on the faces. Lara is still stuck on what he actually said; the full implication hasn’t hit her yet. I hear her mutter, “Hell of a coincidence.” Tom is very, very still, but behind those hooded eyes I imagine the activity is frenetic. Caro says, “Really? You’re sure?” to which Modan nods, and then she steeples her hands and props her chin on them, frowning thoughtfully. And Seb looks . . . tired. Gray. Defeated. He looks like he’s been dreading this, too.

“Alors,” says Modan, not quite spelling it out, “the five of you were the last to see Mademoiselle Severine alive.”

“And Theo, of course,” interjects Caro casually. Tom stiffens at this and casts her a dark, thoughtful look, and I know why: the games have begun, if they hadn’t already . . . We’re now in a macabre version of pass the parcel; when the music stops nobody wants to be left holding this prize. It would be incredibly convenient for all if Theo, the only person whose life can’t be wrecked, were to shoulder the blame. But as I look at Tom, I can’t imagine he will allow that without a fight. I look around the table again. It’s impossible not to think, as each face passes under my gaze, Was it you? Could you have done it? And, most disturbing of all, How far will you go to blame someone else? When I get to Severine she returns my gaze coolly, then slides down her chair and tips her head back, closing her eyes: sunbathing. Severine and Lara, I think bleakly: the only people I believe are innocent, and one of those is the victim and, moreover, dead.

Modan inclines his head to Caro in agreement. “Oui, of course, and Theo, too. I’m afraid I will need to conduct more interviews, but as we’re all here first I thought we might try to properly establish the timeline that night. It’s a little . . .”—his expressive hands dance—“unclear at the moment.”

Seb starts to say something, but Tom leans forward suddenly, giving up all pretense of disinterest, and speaks over him. “Should we have lawyers present?”

His words hang in a silence that is only broken by Lara’s sharp intake of breath; she has finally caught on. I look at Tom speculatively for a moment. I spoke with my own lawyer only hours before this meeting, and her instructions had been very explicit: if you must go at all, just observe, listen, and whatever you do, don’t answer a damn question without me present. I wonder if Tom has taken legal advice, too. Modan stretches out his long arms and tweaks at one of his cuffs before answering. “If you wish you can certainly have a lawyer present, though you are not under arrest. Of course.” He spreads his palms. “This is just, ah, fact-finding, non? And of course you all want to be helpful, cooperative. Waiting for lawyers . . .”—he rolls his eyes expressively—“well, it is rather a waste of time.” I can’t help admiring his performance even as the intent chills me.

“Still,” says Tom robustly. “Obviously, I can’t speak for everyone, but I think I’d rather take legal advice at this point.” In phrasing it like that—I can’t speak for everyone—he is somehow speaking for us, as if he’s created a group mentality by the mere suggestion that there could be one. He stands, pushing his chair back abruptly with the action. “And if we’re not under arrest, then of course we’re free to go at any point, correct?”

And just like that, he has wrested the power from Modan and the meeting is over.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN


We loiter outside the police station, a reluctant group—unwilling to depart, but equally unwilling to engage in conversation.

Lara breaks the silence. “It’s real now, isn’t it?” she says, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “We can’t pretend this isn’t serious anymore. I can’t . . .” She trails off.