by Pip Drysdale
I pull the text through to Reverso and press translate.
A woman’s body was found in the wood in le Bois de Boulogne by maintenance staff yesterday… confirmed to be the body of Sabine Roux, 22, the missing Parsons Paris student whose disappearance went viral on social media on Monday. Miss Roux had not been seen or heard from since the evening of Friday, October 15.
Le Bois de Boulogne was right near where she lived. Was she taken on her way home?
I imagine the red and white police tape cordoning off the crime scene. Was she buried or was she just lying there amid the autumn leaves?
My forehead tenses as images from that night flicker through my mind: Noah running after her, watching them from the roof, the empty hallway downstairs, the cobbled street, Khalid is arriving soon, the white car…
I can hear Noah’s voice in my head: ‘She just ran off and I went back up to the roof to look for you, but you were already gone.’
And now I’m thinking of his message, which came in on Saturday at 2.33 am. And his excuse: ‘I wanted to text you sooner, I just couldn’t find my phone… I didn’t know what to say. I knew you’d be pissed off.’
Then a flash of Monday night at the gallery. He was so keen to find me he tracked me down via Instagram. It mattered that much. An echo of Noah’s words: ‘I need you to promise me something. You won’t tell anyone about all this, about what happened on the roof.’
And then back to that message.
Two hours. He had two hours. I know what he said he was doing, but was he really sitting alone on that rooftop, contemplating life for two fucking hours?
My stomach twists.
My hands start to shake a little.
Then everything fades to silence.
Did Noah do this?
But he isn’t a killer. I’d know, wouldn’t I? I’d feel it. I’d sense something.
Still, things happen in the moment. One push. One slip. Another flash of that white car. Maybe that was his. Maybe he was driving her home and it all got heated and it just happened. He panicked. Dropped her body in that park near her home. Went back to the party and pretended it never happened.
I’m the only one who knows exactly what happened on that roof on Friday night. I’m the only one who knows why he ran after her. Because, if he killed her, he would have destroyed her phone, which means nobody would ever see that video. Nobody would know he had motive.
Nobody except me.
That’s why he came to talk to me.
He needed to sew his alibi in nice and tight. To make me believe him. So if anyone asked, I’d be a good little girl and corroborate his story. No, Officer, he couldn’t have been off killing Sabine because he was up on that rooftop looking for me. Yes, I’m certain. If he hadn’t gone back, how else could he have known I’d left?
Like it would never occur to me that Noah may have simply turned his head mid-argument and seen me make my way up those stairs.
My thoughts are so clear now, so rigid, they could snap if I moved too quickly. Because now I’m thinking of that first time we met, when he didn’t tell me who he was, and how he didn’t mention he was married. He doesn’t seem to mention anything that’s inconvenient to him.
He seems to think he can play me.
Well, fuck you, Noah. You picked the wrong girl to try to manipulate. Because I’m not like Sabine. I’m not scared of being a pariah.
I reach for my phone and google: Paris police, homicide. A few clicks later up come the words Brigade Criminelle and a series of pictures: an enormous, reflective, modern building beneath a perfect blue sky. A sand-coloured wall with big black words, Direction Régionale de la Police Judiciaire.
I imagine myself walking through those glass doors. But it’s all the way out near Levallois-Perret, barely inside the Boulevard Périphérique. And today is Thursday. Our editorial meeting. I can’t miss that.
I’ll go straight after work.
Chapitre quinze
There’s a blister on the back of my left foot and I’m thinking about whether I have any plasters in the bottom of my bag when the elevator doors slide open. Judy is standing behind her desk, staring at me, the red of the tulips in the vase to her right so vivid that she looks grey-white in contrast. If I were to squint she’d blend in perfectly with the walls. I wonder if she’s ill? No. Wait. It’s something else. Something is wrong. Her mouth is half-open and uncomfortable. Like she wants to say something but figures she’d better not.
This must have something to do with why she called me.
I was almost here, crossing the road by the station, when my phone began to vibrate and I saw the work number flash up. But what with struggling to control my umbrella against the wind, the blister on my foot, being drug-fucked on Ambien and the shellshock of this morning, I let it ring out. But now I’m worried.
Please, dear god, don’t let me get sacked today too.
‘Hi,’ I say, dropping my wet umbrella into the metal bin provided and taking off my coat. It’s good to be inside, away from the wind, the swirling autumn leaves and the rain coming in at impossible angles. ‘Is everything okay?’
‘Um, Harper.’ She nods to behind me where there are four linen chairs. ‘The police are here to see you.’
My pulse speeds up.
Fuck.
I turn around, and take them in. There are two of them: Batman and Robin. A big, attractive one – tall, thick dark hair, refined jaw, dark eyes, pink shirt – and a smaller, more ordinary one – around five foot eight, mousy hair, brown eyes, white shirt. They stand up.
‘Ms Brown,’ the attractive one says. He has a thick French accent.
‘Hi,’ I say, my brain whirring.
How did they find me?
‘I’m Commandant Luneau and this is Brigadier Moor.’
‘Hello,’ Brigadier Moor says, reaching out a hand for me to shake. He has a perfect London accent. He was clearly handpicked due to his linguistic skills.
‘We tried to call you,’ Luneau continues.
The missed calls. The private number.
‘We just have some questions for you.’
But how did they get my number?
‘Of course,’ I say. But Ambien is still slowing my mind. I need coffee just to be lucid.
‘Is there somewhere we can speak privately?’ Luneau asks.
‘Yes,’ I say, turning to Judy, whose mouth is still a little open. Her eyes are apologetic like she tried to warn me.
‘You can take the meeting room?’ Judy suggests.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘I’m going to grab a coffee, can I get either of you something?’
‘A coffee please,’ says Luneau.
‘Yes, same, thank you,’ says Moor.
‘Great, I’ll be right back. Judy can show you to the room.’
Judy gives a small, scared smile, like she’s never seen a policeman in such close proximity before. As I move towards the kitchen, I hear her say in French, ‘This way, gentlemen.’
Wesley is in the kitchen when I get there, fucking around by the Nespresso machine, trying to decide whether he’d like a black pod or a purple one this morning. He looks up, sees me, and I swear to god he slows down just because I’m clearly in a rush.
I wait for him in silence, pulling three cups and saucers out of the cupboard and placing them on a black plastic tray. He finally decides on the purple one then makes his coffee, while I pour milk into a milk jug and pull out some teaspoons and a bowl of sugar cubes and run through what I’m going to say in my mind.
She videoed us. She threatened to tell his wife. Noah ran after her. I don’t know anything after that.
Simple. I have nothing to hide. So why are my hands shaking? Is it the Ambien? Or is it the fact that once I say it, I can’t unsay it? They’ll look for that video, and if they find it, Noah will become their prime suspect. And fuck my life, I kind of liked him.
Wesley finally leaves and I make the coffee, pick up the tray and head back through the open-plan office toward
s the meeting room, glancing in at Hyacinth’s office. She’s not in. That’s good. I don’t want to have to explain things to her yet if I don’t have to.
The meeting room door is open when I get there and I quickly move inside. I put the tray down on the table then close the door behind me and sit down, passing cups across the table like it’s a social visit. Luneau has a notebook open in front of him and is clicking a pen but he smiles with thanks as I pass him his cup.
I take a big sip of my own coffee and watch as Brigadier Moor adds milk and then four sugar cubes. The sound of his teaspoon clinking against the bottom of the ceramic mug fills the room. I can’t stand it. I need this done, and quickly, before Hyacinth gets in.
‘Right,’ I say with a hospitable smile as I covertly take control. ‘This is about Friday night, right?’ I ask, taking another sip of my coffee. ‘About Sabine Roux? I saw the news this morning. I was going to come and see you after work.’
‘Yes,’ Luneau says. He’s watching me, trying to figure me out. ‘We’re asking questions of anyone… connected.’ He clicks his pen. ‘You called Noah Parker two days ago?’
Parker. That’s his last name.
And I think of that morning in the bathrooms, the cold tiles beneath me as I left that message on Noah’s phone: ‘Hey, Noah, it’s me, I just saw the news about Sabine and Friday night and I—’
All the police needed to do then was call my number back and they’d have heard: ‘You’ve called Harper Brown at The Paris Observer.’
‘Yes, I saw the news about Sabine going missing and I was worried.’
Luneau squints at me. ‘Harper,’ he says. ‘Is it okay if I call you Harper?’
I nod, even though I sense I am not going to like what comes next.
‘Noah claims to not know who you are?’ It’s posed like a question, the subtext being: please explain.
Right.
Even through the haze I can see what happened here. They went through Noah’s phone when they questioned him. They listened to his voicemails and called me back. They asked who Harper Brown was and Noah said he had no idea. But that didn’t quite make sense to Luneau: if Noah didn’t know me, why was I leaving a message in an intimate tone on his voicemail about Friday night and Sabine? What was he hiding?
‘He does know who I am,’ I say, proceeding with caution. I don’t want them to view me as unreliable. ‘He just thinks my name is Grace.’
Luneau cocks his head slightly to the side. ‘Why would he think that?’ he asks. His English is perfect so I’m not sure why he bothered bringing Moor, who is all clinkety-clink-clink with his teaspoon then slurpy-slurp with his coffee.
‘I didn’t want him to know I was a journalist in case he was cagey with me. It was stupid but at the time it made sense.’ This is the best I can come up with under pressure.
The sound of Luneau’s pen pulling across the page fills the room.
‘Right, but you were there on Friday night? At the party?’
I nod.
‘Let’s start at the beginning of the evening then?’
‘Of course.’
‘What time would you say you arrived?’
‘I don’t know, maybe ten thirty,’ I reply.
He makes a note.
‘Can you tell me more about your memory of the night?’
‘Sure, I’d been out at a work do and saw that Noah was having a party. I was writing an article about him and wanted more information on him, to ask more questions, so I asked if I could come.’
He notes it down.
‘And did you see Sabine Roux there?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘she was videoing everything. She kept watching me and Noah. I was with him for most of the night, you see—’ I’m getting ready to tell him about the video but he cuts me off.
‘How well do you know Noah Parker?’
‘Not well at all,’ I say. ‘I met him last week at his exhibition. But, like I said, I was there looking for more information for my article.’
He flips to a new page on his notebook and the sound fills the room.
‘And Sabine, how well did you know her?’
‘I didn’t know her. I’d seen her in Noah’s paintings and she was there at the exhibition last Thursday but we’d never spoken.’
‘But you said she was watching you all night?’
‘Yes,’ I say, swallowing hard. ‘Look, did Noah tell you that he ran after her? That they left the party together?’
‘Yes. He said she was upset and he wanted to calm her down, but then she ran off and he went back to the party—’
‘Did he tell you why she was upset?’ I interrupt.
‘He said she was jealous,’ Luneau says and then waits for my input.
‘Yeah. It was more than that,’ I say. My stomach twists as I say the words. ‘Like I said, she was videoing us. One of the videos was… intimate.’
Brigadier Moor smirks and throws Luneau a look. He’s thinking, And now we get to the real truth: she wasn’t there to write a story, she’s just some groupie who went there to fuck the rising art star.
But screw Brigadier Moor. I will not be slut-shamed.
‘It was of Noah and I having sex,’ I continue, matter-of-factly. ‘We were standing under cover, my leg was around his waist. Would you like me to draw you a diagram? It might help?’
Moor almost chokes on his coffee and Luneau shifts in his seat.
‘Go on,’ Luneau says.
‘Sabine threatened to show that to Noah’s wife. Well, I mean they’re getting divorced but… That’s why she ran off and that’s why Noah ran after her.’
Again, the sound of Luneau’s pen pulling across the page as he makes notes fills the room. My thoughts – Noah did this – and my feelings – but I don’t want him to be a killer – are a matted mess. Moor takes a loud slurp of his coffee.
‘Does anyone else know about this video?’ Luneau asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘Just me and Noah. And Sabine.’
‘Right,’ he says, still writing. ‘And what time did you leave the party?’
‘Soon afterwards.’
‘How long afterwards would you say?’
‘About five minutes,’ I say.
‘And you didn’t see Noah or Sabine on the street?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They were arguing at the bottom of the stairs when I first came outside.’
‘What were they saying?’
‘I don’t know but it must have been about what happened. But they were gone by the time I headed down there.’
‘What do you mean, by the time you headed down there?’ Luneau asks.
‘I went to wait for my Uber at the top of the stairs first. But I was in the wrong place – it was set to pick me up just past where Noah and Sabine had been arguing. But they were gone by the time I figured it out.’ As I speak, a memory flickers in my mind. That white car.
And deep down I want to be wrong about Noah. I want to be told Sabine caught the metro and was attacked on her walk home. That he didn’t do it. So I don’t say this next bit outright, I pose it as a question.
‘Do you know whether Sabine ever got to the metro station?’ I ask.
Luneau frowns at me. I can tell he doesn’t want to hand over any information about the case, but he also wants to know why I’m asking. He senses I know something more. ‘This can’t end up in print,’ he warns and I nod. ‘But no, she’s not on any of the CCTV in the metro. Why?’
I swallow hard.
‘It’s just that there was a car. A white one. About halfway down Rue Chappe. It drove away as I got there. The number plate ended in double A.’
‘Do you know what time that was?’ Luneau asks.
‘Ummm,’ I say, reaching for my phone and navigating to Uber. ‘Here you go. This was my ride. It arrived just after I saw the white car.’ I pass it to him and he notes down the information and I log it in my memory: Khalid picked me up at 12.46 am.
‘This has been very helpful, thank you,’ Luneau
says.
And then he stands up, Moor follows. I lead them back into the reception area. And as Judy watches on, Luneau hands me his card.
‘Let me know if anything else occurs to you,’ he says. And a moment later they’re gone.
Chapitre seize
I’m hobbling back to my desk, the blister on the back of my foot stinging as my finger traces the edge of Commandant Luneau’s business card when I hear: ‘Harper?’
I turn my head. Hyacinth is standing in her doorway, hands on her hips. She’s wearing some sort of woollen kaftan. She must have come in while I was in the meeting room and pried the morning’s events, and the reason the meeting room door was closed, out of poor Judy. ‘Can we have a word?’
‘Of course,’ I say with a smile, heading into her office.
‘Take a seat,’ she says.
I sit down, hearing the click of the door behind me.
She goes to her side of the desk and sits down too. ‘Apparently we had a visit from the police this morning?’ she says.
I swallow hard, trying to think of the least inflammatory way to tell the story. ‘They had some questions,’ I start, sombre. ‘I was at a party on Friday night and a girl went missing. Sabine Roux. You might have seen her in the papers? There have been posts about her all over social media. They found her body yesterday.’
Hyacinth’s posture stiffens. Thoughts flicker behind her eyes.
‘Whose party was it?’ she asks.
‘Noah X,’ I say. ‘The artist I wrote about last week.’ She gives me this look and I know I’d better explain. Fast. ‘I went there to get more information for my story.’
She nods slowly, finishing my sentence for me. ‘And the police are questioning everyone who was there that night? Trying to find out more information?’
I nod. But I fear it’s a trap. They only found Sabine’s body yesterday, why seek me out at my place of employment over everyone else at that party? I need to elaborate.
‘Yes. Except they wanted to talk to me specifically,’ I say, shifting in my seat. How to tell the next bit truthfully without screwing myself over in the process? ‘I was talking to Noah just before Sabine Roux left. She came over, said something to him in French, and ran off. The police wanted to ask about that.’
