The French Girl(62)

“So I understand.”

Tom is frowning. “Just you.” I shrug. “Maybe it’s nothing but Chinese whispers, but it seems a bit odd. You couldn’t put it together from just the newspaper articles, I don’t think. Our names have never been mentioned.”

I nod. “That’s what I thought.”

Lara’s cheeks are flushed and her eyelids a little droopy. The glass or two that she had earlier, plus the large one Tom poured for her, are taking their toll. “Big mouth for a lawyer,” she comments, finishing in a catlike yawn that she neatly smothers. “Aren’t they supposed to be discreet? And aren’t you supposed to butter up your headhunting firm, not spread scurrilous rumors about them? I can’t imagine this has you and Paul dying to find him a good placement.”

It’s another of Lara’s unexpectedly perceptive moments, though she hasn’t followed through to the implications. Tom’s gaze and mine jump to lock together, and for a moment it’s like the darkened corridor never happened, like I’ve never ever doubted him, and I can see exactly what he’s thinking. “But who?” I say to him.

“I don’t know.” Tom shakes his head, then frowns again. “I can’t see who could possibly benefit.”

“Who what?” asks Lara, thoroughly lost.

“Who put him up to it,” I explain. “You’re right, it’s extremely odd behavior. So either he’s an irredeemable gossip, or someone put him up to it.” I think for a bit. “I can take a look in his file and ask Paul about him. If he’s known to be the town crier then maybe it’s just incredibly bad luck that he’s got hold of this.”

Tom turns his attention to the oven. The last few moments have stripped away some of my distrust, or perhaps my growing exhaustion has done that—suspicion is so damn tiring. Things would be so much simpler if Tom was on my side. I’m almost sure he is; I’m almost sure Tom is Tom and all the rest of it is just noise. It’s certainly what I want to believe. “That night . . . with Severine,” I start hesitantly. Tom looks up in the act of removing the pizzas, with a lightness in his eyes that warms me: he recognizes the olive branch. “At first I thought—well, I thought she went to the bus depot the next morning, so I thought it was nothing to do with all of us. Then afterward, when Modan said it wasn’t her, then I started thinking. And the thing is, I don’t know what time Seb came to bed. I was pretty upset, and pretty drunk, to be honest; I think I just passed out, so I really don’t know. But then Seb was really insistent that he was there all night . . .” Lara and Tom are both watching me, letting the words run out of me. “And he and Caro are acting so strangely, so . . . complicit, I actually wondered if they were shagging, but I think actually—I think it’s all to do with this. With Severine.” I take a deep breath, looking at Tom. If I say this it becomes possible. If I say this, I can never take it back. “So I guess I’ve been wondering if Seb killed her—by accident—and if Caro helped cover it up.”

I hear Lara mutter, “Jesus,” and in my peripheral vision she reaches for the wine bottle, but I’m focused on Tom. He nods calmly. Thoughtfully. He’s not surprised, and by now I’m not surprised about that.

“Caro,” he says. He’s speaking dispassionately, simultaneously carving up the slightly burned pizzas with a circular cutter, as if we’re discussing interest rates or car insurance. “Not me for the cover-up?”

In the moment I am unable to think of anything to say but the truth. “It could have been you. But like you said, I don’t think you would have had enough time to manage it without Lara suspecting something. And . . .”

“What?” His cutting of the pizza continues unhurried, and his question is casual, but his eyes on me are anything but.

I shrug again. “I guess I think that if it had been you, it would have been a better cover-up.”

“Thank you, I think,” he says dryly, but the tension has left him, and a smile lurks round his mouth.

“Was it such a bad cover-up?” asks Lara. “It took ten years for the body to be found.”

Severine has perched her bottom on the granite surface beside the sink. She crosses her legs and supports her upper body with her arms braced behind her. She doesn’t shock me with her sudden appearances anymore. I wonder if I would miss her if she were to go wherever ghosts go when they’re done haunting.

“If it was a random stranger, then it’s a poorly executed cover-up that just got lucky,” says Tom. “You’d have to expect the well to be searched sometime early on, and a stranger wouldn’t know it was due to be filled in soon. But we knew that. Even so, even with it being filled in, you’d have to think it would be searched sooner rather than later.”

“What would you have done?” I ask curiously.

“Taken your car keys and dumped her somewhere far away,” he says promptly, so promptly that I know he’s thought about this before.

“Modan asked about cars . . .” I trail off. There’s a tendril of something in my brain that I can’t quite catch. Severine has a cigarette in her hand now. She blows out smoke in a slow, languid breath, her eyes fixed on me, as dark and unreflective as always.

“We’re really considering this, then?” says Lara to no one in particular. “That it could have been Seb? One of us?” There’s nothing to say to that. She reaches for a slice of pizza, then pauses with it partway to her mouth to remark, “If Caro was involved, it would have to be for Seb. I can’t imagine her doing that for anyone else.” She thinks for a moment more, then gestures with the pizza. “Caro and Seb. God, I hope he’s not that stupid.”