“Got it. And everyone is coming?” I ask this as casually as I can, but of course Lara isn’t fooled.
“Yes. Though now I don’t know who you’re most worried about seeing, Seb or Tom.”
“Caro, actually,” I say dryly. “Always Caro.”
* * *
—
It’s 6:30 P.M., and we are meeting at the enormous 1960s glass and concrete monstrosity that is New Scotland Yard, the home of the Met Police. I didn’t pay much attention to that when Lara gave me the details over the phone, but now, standing outside by the familiar triangular sign that I must have seen in thousands of TV news items, I feel the knot in my stomach tighten. Modan is not just the tricky Frenchman who’s screwing my best friend. He’s a man with the weight of the law behind him—both the law of his own country and of mine. Recognizing that this intimidation is intentional doesn’t make it any less effective. I look around in the vain hope that perhaps Lara might be arriving at just this moment and we can brave it all together, but no. I am on my own. I square my shoulders and push through the door.
The inside is sparse and clean and hard-edged, but I’m not really in the frame of mind to take much note. The solid-faced uniformed officer behind the reception desk is expecting me; within minutes I’m led into a conference room with a pine-effect conference table and twelve chairs—surely six too many—clustered around it, though none of those chairs are currently occupied.
“You’re the first,” says the officer, pointing out the obvious. His tone is cheerful, but his face doesn’t change. Perhaps that’s what a career in the police does to you—though Modan seems to have retained the faculty of facial expression. “I’m sure Detective Modan will be along shortly. There’s a coffee machine just down the hallway on the right if you’re so inclined.” Then I’m alone with the functional furniture. I drop my handbag onto one chair and look around. The gray London street beyond the window is slightly distorted; I wonder if the glass is bulletproof. It’s certainly soundproof; I can’t hear the traffic at all. From the hallway I can hear the muffled buzz and chatter of life continuing, but in here both I and the oversize room seem to be holding our breath, as if suspended before the roller coaster drops.
Then I hear Tom’s distinctive rumble and Lara’s giggle; I feel a sudden lurch as the roller coaster picks up speed again, and then they spill into the room with Seb on their heels. I put all my focus on Lara, absurdly self-conscious as I hug her in greeting, but I can’t hide in our hello forever; I have to release her and turn to Tom and Seb. Both of them step forward at the same time, but then Tom gestures awkwardly and steps back, leaving the field for Seb.
“Hello, Seb,” I say neutrally. Behind him I can see Caro enter the room, her blond hair pulled back into a severe chignon.
“Kate,” says Seb warmly, though perhaps I detect a touch of apprehension lurking in his eyes. “Good to see you, though of course I’d rather we were in a pub or something.” He leans in to kiss me on each cheek. I stay still throughout, imagining my cheeks are marble, and all the while I’m looking at Tom, who in turn is looking at Seb and me with a shuttered expression. When his eyes catch mine he immediately glances away. And Caro watches us all.
“Hello, Tom,” I say quietly, crossing to him.
“Hi, Kate,” he says, not quite meeting my eye. Then he leans in and kisses me on both cheeks, Tom who never kisses, Tom who always hugs. Yet again my cheeks are marble, this time not in silent protest but because it’s all I can do to hold myself in one piece. I can feel I’m beginning to tear apart, and I don’t know how to sew myself back together.
“Tom—” I start when he steps back, but Seb is talking over me.
“Christ, I need a coffee,” he’s saying. “Shall I grab you one, Tom?”
“I’ll come with you,” Tom says quickly, with what sounds suspiciously like relief. I watch the two of them leave together, and for a moment I see them as a stranger might: two men similar enough around the eyes and in frame as to be brothers, though very different in coloring. Seb always seemed older, and he seems older still, but that’s no longer a compliment. A decade ago he was a man among boys, but now he is a man hurtling more quickly toward middle age than the rest of us; in the light of day there’s a slackness to him that becomes more noticeable next to Tom’s clean bulk.
Caro is speaking to Lara and me whilst simultaneously fishing something out of her slimline soft leather briefcase. “God, I thought I’d never get here on time. I was leading a negotiation for a major client; I couldn’t really just up and leave.” I feel my jaw clench. Not just a client, a major client. Not just in a negotiation, but leading it. It’s petty and mean and plain exhausting to be so attuned to the slightest word or expression, but I just can’t stop myself. Perhaps it’s just not within me to gift Caro with the benefit of the doubt. “Anyway,” she says, finally looking up, BlackBerry in hand. “How are you two?”
“Fine,” says Lara brightly. “Just—oh, here’s Alain.”
I turn to see him pause at the doorway, an elegant gray suit encasing his long limbs, accentuated today by a powder blue tie. His eyes scan the room and stop on Lara momentarily—just long enough for something to pass between them that I could almost reach out and touch—then resume their survey. Finally he steps forward. “Ladies,” he says, a smile lurking at the edge of his mouth. “And gentlemen,” he adds as Tom and Seb return with their coffees; they each deposit their cardboard cups on the table to shake his hand. I notice that he didn’t shake hands with Caro, Lara or me. “Welcome to the glamour that is New Scotland Yard,” he says with an ironic lift of his eyebrows.
“Are police stations in France similar?” asks Lara.
He considers this seriously. “Ah, oui, in many ways. Though”—he looks at the flimsy cups on the table and wrinkles his nose in distaste—“the coffee is better.” This is greeted with great hilarity: we are all too tense, too desperate in our efforts to project good-humored ease. “And the food is better. And the decor, and the furniture . . . so, ah, maybe no, nothing like the same.” He smiles, acknowledging the laughter his words have elicited, deep lines bracketing his mouth. I haven’t seen him in this kind of environment before, where he has an audience and it’s his show. I can see that he and Lara are birds of a feather; they wear their skin with such effortless charm.
He glances round as if performing a head count. “Alors, we are complete. Please, sit.”
So we sit, Modan at the head of the table, Lara and I on one side and Tom, Seb and Caro (and her BlackBerry) on the other. It’s a split that’s reminiscent of the divisions during that fateful week in France; it doesn’t feel accidental. Caro is the last to choose a chair: I see her evaluating the options. The artificial light reveals shadows under her eyes that even her careful application of concealer has failed to hide, and there’s a gray tinge to her skin: exactly what I’d expect for a lawyer in the run-up to partnership. As she settles into the seat next to Seb I try to step outside of myself, to see her as I might if she was a prospective candidate to be placed through my firm, but I can’t do it. My dislike of her is too pervasive.
I disliked Severine, too, but that was in life. I’m growing accustomed to her in death. I can’t imagine that she would miss this, and sure enough, there are only five chairs too many: Severine has settled herself in one at the far end of the table. Her face doesn’t betray any interest—of course it doesn’t, this is Severine—but there’s a stillness within her that gives her away.
“We are complete,” says Modan again, when everyone is settled. I see Tom glance around the group, and a brief flash of despair crosses his face before he schools it back into submission. Perhaps there are only four chairs too many. I don’t expect Severine has the monopoly on haunting. “Alors, thank you, all of you, for coming.” He looks around the table slowly, his long face grave. Opposite me, Tom and Seb have both pushed their chairs back from the table and have their long legs stret
ched out. I wonder if they teach it in public school, this ability to take ownership of a room by an elegant display of casual relaxation. For whose benefit is the display in Tom’s case? Mine or Modan’s? “I wanted to tell you all together that we now have the results of the autopsy on Mademoiselle Severine.” I glance across the table and see Seb look up sharply, his hand tightening on the coffee cup. By contrast Tom continues to look as if Modan is merely discussing the weather, and not terribly interesting weather at that. “The conclusion is that she died by what you here call foul play.” I wait for him to continue, but he simply looks around the room again, overlooking no one.
“You didn’t get us all here just for that,” I say abruptly. I’m tired—at least I’m tired of the showmanship—and I’m upset and I’m not censoring myself quickly enough. Lara puts a hand on my arm, but it fails to halt me. “Seriously, she ended up concertinaed at the bottom of a well. How could it not be foul play?”
Modan frowns. “Concertinaed. What is this?”
Lara reels off something in rapid-fire French.
Modan’s expression clears. “Ah, I understand.” He tries out the new word. “Concertinaed. Yes, indeed, a fair point, though of course we always have to rule out suicide or accident.” He pronounces the last word in the French fashion, but I’m still caught on the incongruity of suicide. I stamp down on the highly inappropriate urge to laugh: had he seriously considered the possibility she stuffed her own self in the well? I glance down the table, and Severine’s dark eyes gleam as they meet mine: quite apart from the logistical difficulties of that particular theory, we both know she’s not the suicidal type.
“But you are right; there is more.” Modan continues, unaware of the weight of Severine’s dark eyes upon him. Across the table, Caro has her head cocked, her body leaning forward and BlackBerry forgotten, a textbook example of a person listening intently: because she is, or because that’s what she wants to portray? Tom and Seb are still sprawled out, but the tension in Seb is obvious; he doesn’t have Caro’s inherent artifice. “After this length of time, unless the body is somehow preserved, the autopsy can have, ah, nil result. Inconclusive, yes? In this case, we have a body that spent ten years in a warm, mainly dry, environment, which is the most efficient environment for leaving just the bones.” Beside me Lara shudders, the most minute of movements, but nonetheless Modan picks up on it. I wonder if he would have had it been Caro or myself doing the shuddering. “I apologize, this is not a pleasant topic, but it is necessary. So, as I was saying, there are just bones.” He spread his hands. “Broken bones.”
“Broken?” asks Lara. “From what?”
“We cannot tell if the breaks are pre- or postmortem.” He shrugs, his fingers flexing out briefly in a synchronized movement. “They would fit very well with a car crash, a . . .”—he searches for a word for a moment, then snaps his fingers—“a hit-and-run.” Across the table I see Tom’s gaze sharpen and jump sharply to Modan. In less than a blink that honed focus is gone, and once again he’s the only-casually-interested observer he has been all along. Tom is surprised by something. It’s the first time I’ve detected surprise in him since Severine was found.
“Or,” continues Modan, “they could have occurred when the body was put in the well. Concertinaed, as Kate says.” He inclines his head in my direction. There’s no smile lurking around his mouth—that would be in terribly poor taste—but I know it’s inside him.
“So you’re saying,” says Caro, her expression clinically professional, “that you have no evidence of cause of death? In which case shouldn’t you pack up and go home?”
Lara’s hand tightens on my arm. Modan doesn’t look at her. “Regrettably, non.” He adds a theatrical sigh. “You are correct, we do not have cause of death, but we do have her bones. The human body is amazing.” He shakes his head a little, half smiling. “Truly amazing. Even after death it still finds ways to speak to us.” Tell me about it, I think with dark humor. Severine’s bones are far too communicative as far as I’m concerned, though I imagine they are communicating with Modan through a somewhat different method. “We have her bones, and what they tell us is that Severine was not at the bus depot on the Saturday morning.”
“What?” says Lara, confused. “But the CCTV . . .”
Modan is shaking his head. “Not her. Non. Similar height, similar build, similar, ah, thing with the scarf”—he twirls a hand expressively above his head—“but not her. The proportions are wrong. I cannot translate the technical details, but there is something with the length of one bone in relation to another one . . . along with photographs . . . Ah, the experts, they are absolutely certain. Absolument. It is not Severine on the CCTV.”
And so. It was one of us.
His words plow into me with the weight of a wrecking ball. Somewhere inside, I’ve been expecting this, dreading this. It was one of us. Like the discovery of her body in the well, it suddenly seems inevitable, unavoidable, obvious. One of the five of us—six, including Theo—killed Severine. For all one could construct a theory to say otherwise, I now believe it with a sickening certainty that is absolute, as if I’ve always believed it.
I look around the table and see varying degrees of shock on the faces. Lara is still stuck on what he actually said; the full implication hasn’t hit her yet. I hear her mutter, “Hell of a coincidence.” Tom is very, very still, but behind those hooded eyes I imagine the activity is frenetic. Caro says, “Really? You’re sure?” to which Modan nods, and then she steeples her hands and props her chin on them, frowning thoughtfully. And Seb looks . . . tired. Gray. Defeated. He looks like he’s been dreading this, too.
“Alors,” says Modan, not quite spelling it out, “the five of you were the last to see Mademoiselle Severine alive.”
“And Theo, of course,” interjects Caro casually. Tom stiffens at this and casts her a dark, thoughtful look, and I know why: the games have begun, if they hadn’t already . . . We’re now in a macabre version of pass the parcel; when the music stops nobody wants to be left holding this prize. It would be incredibly convenient for all if Theo, the only person whose life can’t be wrecked, were to shoulder the blame. But as I look at Tom, I can’t imagine he will allow that without a fight. I look around the table again. It’s impossible not to think, as each face passes under my gaze, Was it you? Could you have done it? And, most disturbing of all, How far will you go to blame someone else? When I get to Severine she returns my gaze coolly, then slides down her chair and tips her head back, closing her eyes: sunbathing. Severine and Lara, I think bleakly: the only people I believe are innocent, and one of those is the victim and, moreover, dead.
Modan inclines his head to Caro in agreement. “Oui, of course, and Theo, too. I’m afraid I will need to conduct more interviews, but as we’re all here first I thought we might try to properly establish the timeline that night. It’s a little . . .”—his expressive hands dance—“unclear at the moment.”
Seb starts to say something, but Tom leans forward suddenly, giving up all pretense of disinterest, and speaks over him. “Should we have lawyers present?”
His words hang in a silence that is only broken by Lara’s sharp intake of breath; she has finally caught on. I look at Tom speculatively for a moment. I spoke with my own lawyer only hours before this meeting, and her instructions had been very explicit: if you must go at all, just observe, listen, and whatever you do, don’t answer a damn question without me present. I wonder if Tom has taken legal advice, too. Modan stretches out his long arms and tweaks at one of his cuffs before answering. “If you wish you can certainly have a lawyer present, though you are not under arrest. Of course.” He spreads his palms. “This is just, ah, fact-finding, non? And of course you all want to be helpful, cooperative. Waiting for lawyers . . .”—he rolls his eyes expressively—“well, it is rather a waste of time.” I can’t help admiring his performance even as the intent chills me.
“Still,” says
Tom robustly. “Obviously, I can’t speak for everyone, but I think I’d rather take legal advice at this point.” In phrasing it like that—I can’t speak for everyone—he is somehow speaking for us, as if he’s created a group mentality by the mere suggestion that there could be one. He stands, pushing his chair back abruptly with the action. “And if we’re not under arrest, then of course we’re free to go at any point, correct?”
And just like that, he has wrested the power from Modan and the meeting is over.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
We loiter outside the police station, a reluctant group—unwilling to depart, but equally unwilling to engage in conversation.
Lara breaks the silence. “It’s real now, isn’t it?” she says, almost as if she’s talking to herself. “We can’t pretend this isn’t serious anymore. I can’t . . .” She trails off.
Seb speaks into the void she’s created. “Anyone know a good lawyer?” He aims for a joking tone and directs the question toward Caro and me, but he looks anything but playful. It seems to me I can see straight through to the skeleton beneath his surface; the muscle and skin and tissue are just window dressing draped on the bones of him. He might unravel at any moment.
“Criminal law’s not really my area,” I reply. I try to inject some humor myself: “Though if you’re looking for a good corporate lawyer I’m absolutely the person to talk to.” Nobody bothers to honor my effort with even a smile.
Caro is already back on her BlackBerry. She speaks without looking up. “I’m sure my dad will be able to come up with someone. Or your dad,” she adds as an afterthought.
Seb grimaces. “Yeah, really looking forward to that conversation.” Tom glances across with a sympathetic twist of his mouth. Seb’s father’s influence has clearly not waned over the years.
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