The French Girl(90)

“But she went to the train station to mislead everyone. That’s why she was late when I wanted to leave.” All the while I was driving back, desperately unhappy behind the wheel of my little car, Caro was settled in the back, fresh from covering up a murder. How is it possible I couldn’t tell? “Like I told you, with her hair up in a turban, like Severine wore it, it’s quite hard to tell she’s blond.” I see Caro again with the red trilby, superimposed on Severine’s image. “Can’t your bone measurement thingy prove it was her?”

Modan is already nodding. “Oui. I have thought that for a while. A very smart thing to do, in fact. But again, no hard evidence. We can prove it could have been her at the depot, but we can’t prove it definitely was her. There is no . . . stomach . . . for a high-profile loss on this. Perhaps, if it was less political . . .”

At last PC Stone speaks up. “I couldn’t agree with you more about the character of Miss Horridge,” he says heavily. His hand is working at his red-tinged stubble again. He is the sort of man who must have to shave twice a day if he has an evening out planned. “Given we can’t get her on the French murder, we were really hoping to nail her on attempted murder of you. Is there really nothing else you can tell us? Nobody who might have seen her? Heard you talking? We’ve asked all your neighbors, but . . . nothing.”

“You spoke to Ben? From across the hall?”

“Ken,” says Modan. “Ken Moreland.” There’s no judgment in his tone, but I feel it all the same. My memory, or lack of it, is the elephant in the room, though aren’t elephants supposed to never forget?

“I never really did catch his name,” I mutter mutinously.

PC Stone clears his throat. “Yeah, well, anyway, we spoke to him. He said you appeared to be alone when he delivered the flowers, and then he went out for a bit. He got back as the ambulance was just leaving.”

Flowers. I look at Tom and almost wail, “But your flowers will be dead.”

He smiles. “No matter. I can buy you more, and with more romantic cards if you like.”

But still, this mention of flowers is tugging at something, a tendril of a thought that curls up from a crack. The flowers, the card, all my secrets in one dark pocket—“My clothes!” I exclaim suddenly.

“Dr. Page won’t let you up yet,” says Tom, warningly.

“No, I mean the clothes I was wearing. Where are they?”

“They’re in evidence,” says PC Stone.

“There was something in my pocket.”

Modan speaks up. “Perhaps you are a little tired. We should come back later, non?”

“No, no, this is actually relevant,” I say testily. “There were two things in my pocket. The card from the flowers. And a Dictaphone. I don’t know if it will have picked up much, but maybe . . .” Once again I feel my hand slipping quietly into my pocket and slipping back out again just as quietly.

Suddenly Modan and PC Stone look a lot more interested. “A Dictaphone? You’re sure?” asks PC Stone. I nod. “But there’s nothing in evidence,” he objects.

“A Dictaphone, did you say? Looks a bit like a mini cassette player, yes? Oh, that’s in your top drawer,” says a breezy voice from across the room. It’s the nurse; I didn’t notice her coming in to check on the bathroom supplies. “It looks a bit bashed up, I’m afraid.”

I turn toward the drawers, but Modan is faster, pulling a glove out of his pocket. He rummages in the drawer and comes out with the little black device in his gloved hand, turning it over carefully. One corner looks crushed, and a crack runs across the face of it. Both the Dictaphone and I bear the marks of the crash to the tiles. I’m working, mostly; is it?

“It was in my pocket,” I say, horribly anxious. “I don’t know how much that will have muffled the sound. And it’s pretty old anyway; it’s not even digital . . .” Tom takes my hand, and I realize I’m babbling, so I trail off. Modan is carefully rewinding the tape, which makes a whining sound I don’t remember, and stutters and grates from time to time, causing me to hold my breath each time until it recovers. And then it stops abruptly. Modan’s eyes catch mine and hold for a beat. Then he presses play.

I’m talking, but my mouth isn’t moving: “Arrange to meet candidate in advance of the, uh, Stockleys recruitment drive becoming common knowledge; have Julie arrange on Monday—”

I shake my head at Modan, still linked to his eyes, and talk over myself, “No, this isn’t it—” but the tape abruptly switches scene. Indistinct, muffled sounds can be heard, and then indistinct voices. There’s almost certainly a woman, probably two; it certainly sounds like a not-quite-heard conversation. Modan raises his eyebrow, and I nod back imperceptibly, then he looks for a volume knob. It’s already at maximum.

“I can’t—” I start, but Modan holds up a hand to silence me. So we listen, the four of us, to a conversation played out too far beyond the veil of time and technology to be audible. Tantalizing words slip out: I hear Darren Lucas, I hear accusations, I hear flowers, but I have the benefit of having been at the first screening; Tom looks utterly in the dark. But still, even with my advantage it’s plain to me the tape is not clear enough. It was all for nothing. We sit, as the gently rotating tape spools out into our silence, and I consider my future. I can’t pick up and start again; the rumors will never die. What on earth will I do? The words mostly peter out after a while, dwindling to short snatches interspersed with indistinct movements; it’s oddly soporific. But then the recording ends with an overloud scrunch, as if something bashed the microphone. I remember that crunch distinctly, the sea of white tiles rising up to meet me . . . Modan presses stop with a theatrical click.