The French Girl(79)

The discussion moves abruptly to the long drive back. I must have been tired, Modan suggests, perhaps even hungover—surely the drive home was shared. I shake my head, tell him no: I repeat that I was the only one insured, and besides, I wasn’t that tired—probably out of all of us I’d gone to bed the earliest. And I don’t remember being very hungover on that drive back; I suppose I must have stopped drinking when we all started arguing. I remember the gulf between Seb and me in the front of the car, so much wider than the gap between our two seats. I remember Caro and Lara sleeping in the back. I remember being furious at Caro for making us leave late. I remember that fury dissipating as I drove, leaving me utterly, desolately miserable. But I don’t tell Modan all of that. I just explain why I wasn’t tired and why I wasn’t hungover.

Not a single one of the questions are specifically about Theo. He hovers peripherally; I mention him obliquely from time to time, but Modan never pays him any attention. Even if I wanted to throw some red-haired Theo-shaped red herrings into the mix, I can’t see how I could achieve it with any degree of subtlety.

When Modan’s stock of questions appears to dwindle to nothing, I look across at Ms. Streeter. Her neat, cropped head gives me a little nod, which I interpret to mean I’ve done well. I’m surprised to see we have been here for over an hour and a half, but not surprised to feel exhausted. Ten minutes of Modan’s questions does that, let alone ninety minutes.

“Bien,” says Modan. He closes his notebook and stands, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “Merci. Most helpful, Miss Channing.” He turns his charming smile on me, and it is charming. I want to laugh at myself. How is it that he can pose the danger he does, and yet I am not immune to his appeal? “That is all. For now.”

For now. I look at Ms. Streeter, but she’s already charging into battle. “My client has been nothing but thoroughly cooperative from the start of this process.”

“Your client forgot to mention Class A drugs on several occasions.” Modan is smiling, but his eyes are steely.

“Understandable given there’s no relevance to the murder investigation and she was anxious not to get a friend into trouble. It’s certainly not a case of obstruction of justice. Your continued interest in my client without any evidence to link her to the murder is bordering on harassment. It’s disrupting her business and putting enormous stress on her, and I’ll be extremely happy to explain that in detail to a judge. So I suggest you either charge her with something or leave her be.”

Stress. I blink at the stark reference and open my mouth to protest but then shut it again silently. In truth I’m a good bit further down the line than stressed, and perhaps this is not the time to display a stiff upper lip. I glance round quickly for Severine and find her loitering near the doorway, drawing lazily from a cigarette. The smoke curls upward, partially obscuring a no smoking sign stuck to the wall. I know she stood there deliberately, and I fold my lips to stifle a grin.

Modan is not in the least bit fazed by Ms. Streeter’s attack. “Noted,” he says, deep lines bracketing his smiling mouth. He turns to me, and the smile drops, though the lines remain. I feel him assess me, though again, I see a kindness in his eyes that confuses me. “I truly do hope you are not too . . .”—he clicks his tongue briefly in frustration, searching for the word—“agitated by the situation. You have been most helpful.”

I look at Ms. Streeter again, completely nonplussed. She smiles back encouragingly, with a slight air of satisfaction, as if this is all a game and it has played out exactly as she expected. Modan, too, seems satisfied. I’m the only one in the room who doesn’t have the script. Well, Severine, too, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t need to care about anything now. Not for the first time I wonder why she cares to hover around me.

I don’t go back to my office afterward. I should—of course I should; there is plenty to do—but I can’t focus. I can’t even care that Caro will win today. I call Julie and tell her I’m feeling unwell, which I most definitely am, and that she should cancel my appointments and calls, and then I head for the tube. Severine joins me; she’s been sticking very closely to me today. I can’t imagine that’s a good sign vis-à-vis my mental state, but there’s something comforting about her presence, so I’m certainly not going to complain. I think carefully about my route home, determined to be conscious of it; on the packed train, I look around at the individuals with the trappings and cares of their lives on display in their clothing, their bags, their faces buried in newspapers and Kindles and phones. That one with the Financial Times must be a banker, I think, and perhaps that one an accountant, but it’s nothing but a label. I cannot imagine their lives. I cannot think of anything but the wreckage of my own.

I wish Tom was with me. It’s not a physical wish—though a strong arm wrapped round me certainly wouldn’t go amiss right now. No, I wish Tom was with me metaphorically: I wish I could reach inside myself and know as an absolute truth that Tom is always there for me, that Tom is mine. But Tom is going back to Boston—I’d have heard from him by now if he’d changed his mind about that—and I’m sitting alone on a tube.

Of course, I’m not completely alone. There’s Severine.

My flat feels cold when I get inside, but the thermostat needle points exactly where it normally does, and I realize it’s me that feels cold. Perhaps I really am getting a virus. I should have a bath and go to bed, but I know I won’t sleep well. Still, I can’t think of anything else to do, so I start to run the hot tap into the tub, then drift into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. It takes me a moment to notice an odd buzzing noise above the sound of the kettle boiling, and even longer to identify it as someone at the front door. I open the door cautiously. The burly chap who lives in the flat across the hallway—Ben, I think he is—is at the door, looking mildly impatient.