The French Girl(73)

“I’m sorry,” I admit truthfully.

She doesn’t answer; she has finally picked up the biscuit and is working her way through it. “Well, it wouldn’t have been Seb,” she says definitively, when the biscuit is gone. “I mean, why on earth would he want to kill her? The police can’t possibly suspect him.”

“They might think it was an accident.”

She waves it away. “But you know what he’s like when he’s drunk—he passes out; he can’t hold his own body weight, let alone carry someone to a well.”

“Someone else might have done that bit.”

“Who?” she says, disbelieving. “Tom? Caro?” I see the precise moment the penny drops. The color leaches out of her face, and her mouth works wordlessly before she clamps her lips together. I don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

“Leverage,” she finally says, almost hisses, though more to herself than to me. “That fucking bitch.” She looks across at me again. “Is this what the police think happened?”

No. Luckily for your husband, the police think it was me. This is what I, Kate Channing, think happened. “I don’t know.”

“This can’t be happening,” she mutters, again to herself. Then, louder, looking at me fiercely this time: “This can’t be allowed to happen.”

At that moment my mobile rings out; I grab it as if it’s a lifeline. “My lawyer. Sorry, I’ve got to take this.” I duck outside the café before she can answer.

“Interesting,” says Ms., Miss or Mrs. Streeter, when I’ve downloaded Lara’s discoveries. “Not enough, though, even if the rake shows up your DNA, or anyone else’s. Still simply circumstantial.”

“Circumstantial enough to make it to trial?” I left my coat at the table with Alina. I wrap my free arm around myself, shivering a little. I can feel my ribs beneath my thin wrap dress. They feel worryingly insubstantial. I am too breakable for what life is throwing at me.

She’s silent for a worryingly long pause. “Ordinarily no,” she says at last. “But with the political pressure on this one, it’s hard to say. Have you thought any more about cooperation?”

“Yes.” Cooperation. A deceptive word. It sounds so collegiate, warm and friendly, yet in truth it’s slyly partisan, with its own agenda. Cooperation with the police means betrayal of someone: but who? Seb? Caro? Both? I never thought I was someone who would stoop to this, yet here I am.

“And?”

I close my eyes and speak in a rush. “Caro had cocaine. She smuggled it into France in my suitcase; I knew nothing about it. That’s what the arguments were about on the last night—I found out she’d done that. I honestly didn’t think it had any bearing, so I never wanted to bring it up.” I open my eyes. I never mentioned the drugs all those years ago, and I haven’t mentioned them up to now, but in the space of a few short seconds all that counts for nothing: it’s done. I wonder what Tom will think of me for it, and then I have to screw my eyes tightly shut again to block out the opprobrium I imagine in his face.

“Did you take any drugs that night?” Her voice is clipped, tightly professional.

“No.”

“At any point during the holiday?”

“No. It’s really not my thing; ask anybody.”

“Believe me, the police will. Have you ever taken any drugs?” she continues, unrelenting.

“What, ever in my life?”

“Ever. As in, at any point whatsoever.”

“I smoked pot once or twice at uni, but it just sent me to sleep; plus I don’t like smoking.”

“Once or twice? Be specific.”

“Twice then. Certainly not three times.”

“Okay.” She has finally relaxed a little; I can hear the tension easing out of her voice. “Okay. That’s good. I can definitely work with that. Anything else?”

“Well . . .” I don’t know what time Seb came to bed. Through the café window I can see a side view of the abandoned Alina, sitting where I left her at the table. One hand is resting on her crossed legs, her thumb beating out an unsteady high-speed tattoo. I don’t know what time Seb came to bed. The words are there, fully formed in my head, waiting to be sent forth into the world.

“Yes?”

I look at Alina again. She has stilled her thumb with her other hand, but her ankle is jittering now. “Sorry, uh, something just distracted me here. No, nothing else.”

“Okay then, I’ll set up a meeting with the detective and get back to you. This is good, Kate; it’s helpful.”

“Great.” The word sounds thin.

“Oh, and Kate?”

“Yes?”

“If you have anything more to offer, now’s the time. Think hard.” Then she disconnects.

The cold overrides my reluctance to return to Alina, pushing me back into the café. Alina looks up as I enter. “Sorry about that,” I say as I drop into the seat opposite her.

“You have a lawyer.” It’s almost an accusation.

“Yes.”

“Does Seb have a lawyer?” Her manner is definitely more hostile. I’m the messenger, I realize: she’d really quite like to shoot me. And Seb, too, I expect, for putting her in this position, of being the last to know.