The French Girl(67)

I know I’m an unholy mess. I wish beyond all reason that my dad was still alive. But he’s not here, and I am, in a taxi driving through the deserted streets of London. So I go home to an empty flat—truly empty, as Severine is nowhere to be seen—and crawl into bed with all my clothes on, craving the oblivion of sleep.



* * *



—

When I was growing up my mother often used to say that things look better after a good night’s sleep. I’ve always been my father’s child, and he was never so blindly optimistic. In the morning, I’m still under suspicion of murder and my love life still has not improved. And I remember that I still haven’t found out what Tom saw all those years ago at the farmhouse.

The office provides little respite. A potential client—big job, looking to flesh out their whole litigation team, but we’re in stiff competition with two other recruitment firms—asks me diffidently about any “events in the private lives of the key personnel of Channing Associates that could be potentially reputation damaging” were they to enter into a contract with us; I know immediately that the rumors aren’t confined to Mark Jeffers.

“Ah,” I say with what I hope is a knowing laugh. “You’re actually asking about the completely ridiculous rumor that I’m about to be sent down for murder.”

“Well, I . . .” I can practically hear the squirming down the line.

“To tell you the truth, it’s all horribly sad. A girl disappeared in the neighboring farmhouse to where I was staying on holiday in France ten years ago, and her body has just been found. Naturally the police have spoken to all of us who were staying there, and naturally we’re all keen to do anything at all we can to help.” I pause and add meaningfully, “As I’m sure you would be, if you were in my shoes.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. We just have to be very careful. As a firm we pride ourselves on our unimpeachable reputation . . .”

It’s hard not to zone out. No matter what I have said or can say now, we’ve lost this one. It was a tight race anyway, and rightly or wrongly, this just gives a reason for them to pick another horse. They won’t say that, of course. I’m mildly curious to see what excuse they will come up with. My money is on them labeling us “a comparatively new firm that has yet to be sufficiently proven.”

Paul comes in, his face grim, just as I’m putting down the phone.

“I know,” I say to forestall him, moving around my desk to rest my backside on it. “I just had chapter and verse on reputation from Strichmans.”

His mouth is in a thin line almost as pale as his eyebrows. “What did you say?”

“The truth, as it happens, but we’ve lost it anyway.”

“They said that?”

I shake my head. “No, but they will.”

He pulls out his chair and flops into it, dispirited. “This isn’t going away, Kate.”

“It will.” But even I can hear that I lack conviction.

“Can’t they arrest someone already?”

“I’d be fine with that. So long as it isn’t me.”

He almost bursts up out of his chair. “What the fuck, Kate? You said—”

“Joke, Paul. Just a joke.”

“You can’t joke about this stuff,” he says stiffly, but at least he subsides back into his seat. “It’s serious, Kate.”

“I know. We just lost Strichmans. Though we may never have got that one anyway.”

“So what are you going to do?”

The you in his question rings out like a bell, loud and clear, reverberating in my brain. Paul is dissociating himself, preparing for the worst. “We’re going to do our jobs, and we’re going to do them very well.” I’m careful not to put stress on the plural pronoun.

“Sure,” he says with no vigor. He leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees and hands hanging in between, staring at the floor.

“Paul.” I speak sharply, pulling myself upright. He doesn’t look up. “Paul!” This gets his attention. “Don’t build this up to be something it’s not. We’re quite some distance from finished. I hired you because I knew you’d get out there and hustle. So get out there. Hustle. Otherwise you’re absolutely no good to me.”

He stares back at me for a moment. I refuse to break eye contact. I have the advantage of height since I’m standing; it puts me in mind of wolf pack behavior, fighting to be alpha male. Then I see a small gleam in his pale eyes. “Pep talk over?” he asks dryly. “Or do you want to give me another kick up the arse?”

My lips twitch. “That’s it for now.” Then a thought crosses my mind. “Oh, pass me the Mark Jeffers file, would you?”

“I haven’t loaded it all onto the network yet. Why, do you have something suitable?”

“We’ll see,” I say evasively.

“I should have it up there by the end of today. Unless you’re in a hurry?”

“No rush,” I tell him breezily, and circle my desk to sit back at my station, but Severine has planted herself in my chair. I should sit down anyway, I know I should, but I find myself saying to Paul, “I’m running out for coffee. Want anything?”

“No, thanks.” He doesn’t look up from his screen. “I’m trying to cut back. Though that’s kind of like holding back the tide in this job.”