The French Girl(75)

“I don’t . . .” I realize I don’t know. Even yesterday I would have said that Tom would do anything for Seb, but now? The bitterness in Seb’s voice last night, the tightness of Tom’s face when Seb revealed he’d known all along that Tom was angling for me . . . I don’t know who Tom would choose, Theo or Seb. “I don’t know.”

“And you?” She watches me closely, those slender wrists sweeping up to clasp together by her chin, a picture of poise. Once again I’m in awe of her control, all the more because I have an inkling of what’s beneath it.

What would it take to push Modan down this road? I imagine him strolling along the dusty lane by the farmhouse, sunshine beating down on the shoulders of his immaculate suit as he ambles and constructs an argument in his mind for Theo as murderer. Perhaps that could indeed come to pass if he were the recipient of a few well-chosen comments, a few hints . . . Lies. Lies, all. Lies and a betrayal of Theo. Would that betrayal really be any worse than revealing Caro’s cocaine use? I could claim that was only what she deserved given I’m sure she’s spreading rumors about me through Mark Jeffers, but the truth is that as soon as I felt cornered I barely hesitated; I’d have done it without the Jeffers info. Again, I wonder what Tom will say about that.

“Kate?” prompts Alina.

“I’ll think about it.” At the least, I have given her a genuine response. I will probably think about little else.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


I’m saved from having to bring Tom up to speed; it appears Lara has done that for me. He calls me that evening and sounds almost desperate. “Jesus, Kate. The garden rake. I’ve just been looking up the French for it—rateau! I thought she said bateau. It was rateau.”

“What? Who said? What do you mean?” I’m on my mobile in my living room; I quickly hunt for the remote to kill the sound of the television program that I’d been hoping would hold my interest sufficiently to calm the vicious storm of my thoughts. As the characters turn abruptly silent it occurs to me I have no idea what I’ve been watching.

“I saw Severine. I saw her go into the barn with Seb, but I saw her again after they . . . you know. She was coming past the pool, and she had blood on her face; not much, just a bit, nothing to cause alarm.” I’m not sure I have ever heard Tom—steady, reliable Tom—talk in such a stream of consciousness. “I asked her if she was all right; I didn’t really get the gist of it at the time. She didn’t have the right English word; she kept saying bateau. At least I thought it was bateau, but it must have been rateau.” I see a brief image of Severine in the darkened barn, her slim foot stepping on the fanned-out prongs of the garden rake, the other end flipping up to smack her in the face Abbott and Costello style; it ought to be funny, but it’s not. “I just thought she wasn’t making a lot of sense—there wasn’t a boat around for miles, but then we’d all had a lot to drink, so I put it down to that at the time. And she waved me away fairly forcibly and headed off, so I thought she was rather sensibly putting herself to bed.”

“Why didn’t you tell the police? Then, or now, even?”

He sighs down the phone. “I thought I was protecting Seb. I mean, I see a girl with blood on her face, who subsequently disappears. In retrospect I started to wonder if she wasn’t drunk; maybe she was severely concussed—I mean, she was babbling about boats! Except she wasn’t . . . Fuck! But given she was coming from the barn, with Seb, I didn’t want to implicate him in any way, so I just . . .”

“Kept silent,” I finish for him. I sink back on my sofa, the phone pressed against my ear.

“Yes. Yes.” He seems to have run out of steam; he takes a deep breath, then blows it out down the phone. It’s an intimate sound. I can imagine his breath stroking my cheek. “But at least they won’t find any of your DNA on the rake.”

“True.” I’m silent again, remembering the police taking our DNA samples years ago—in order to easily rule us out, we were told. I didn’t demur at all; I simply opened wide for two large cotton swabs. I wonder if I would be more reluctant now in the same circumstances. “But isn’t there a saying? The absence of proof is not proof of absence . . . Something like that, anyway.”

“Fuck, I’ll never be able to forgive myself if I’ve made it worse for you,” he mutters, half to himself.

I don’t know yet if he has or hasn’t; I’m still trying to work it all through. The police have a murder weapon that isn’t really a murder weapon—it’s an inciting item in slapstick comedy. “So what did you think happened to her?” I ask at last. “I mean, what did you think at the time?”

“I thought her head wound must have been much more serious than I realized, one of those freak accident things; that she collapsed and died from it.” As he speaks I see it happening: Severine in her black shift, sandals hanging loosely from a single finger of one hand. She’s passing the pool, barely visible in the darkness, lit only by the shimmering reflection of the moonlight off the water. She takes a step and stumbles, her other hand going to her bloody temple, and then she crumples without a sound. But no, that isn’t what happened, because Severine is here with me, lounging in my armchair. Only that’s not right, either, because Severine is dead, except not how Tom is describing . . . I find I’m rubbing fiercely at my forehead; my head is throbbing. I’ve lost the thread of what Tom is saying, but he’s still speaking: “I thought Seb found her and panicked, wanted to hide the body, but he’d have been in no fit state to do anything on his own. So someone helped him, Caro or Theo, I thought. Or both. I thought they’d driven somewhere and dumped her.”