“I don’t . . . I’m not sure . . . I was at my flat.” I remember that, definitively. “I wasn’t feeling well. I was running a bath.” Severine was in the bath; once again I see the water sheeting off her hair as she sits up. “Caro—oh my God—”
Tom gives a start. “Caro? Caro was there?”
“Yes. She came round. She put something in my wine, I think—”
“Caro put something in your wine.” It’s more of a statement than a question. His voice is tightly controlled, but there’s an anger lurking beneath that somehow puts me in mind of his impressive fury during the poolside debacle in France.
Caro. Caro and Seb. Seb and Alina—“Oh God, Alina; is Alina okay?”
“Rohypnol,” says Dr. Page, ignoring my question. Her tone is crisp, but her face has relaxed. “Rather a large dose, I’m afraid.” Enough to fell an elephant. Tom hasn’t reacted to her words; it dawns on me that this is not news to him. “We had to pump your stomach, and also you had subcranial bleeding so we—”
I cut across her. “Yes, but Alina—is she okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be okay?” Tom asks, but he’s simultaneously pulling his phone out of his pocket. The nurse starts to protest that mobile phones can’t be used in the hospital, but Dr. Page cuts her off with a quick shake of her head.
“Because Caro is obsessed with Seb. Because that’s what this was all about: Severine, everything. All about Seb—”
But Tom is speaking on the phone now. “Alina? Hi, it’s Tom.” I hear a voice replying, but I can’t make out the words. “Yes, I’m in the hospital with her now. She’s woken up, thank God. The doctor says she’s going to be fine.”
“Has Caro been to see her?” I ask him urgently.
He nods at me as he listens for a moment and then says, “No, it definitely wasn’t that.” Wasn’t what? “We’re just figuring out what really happened. Sorry to ask a slightly strange question, but has Caro been to see you?” He listens then shakes his head at me.
“Don’t let her—” I start, but he is nodding at me already, one hand up.
“Look, I’m not sure quite what’s going on right now, but sounds like you’re being a smart girl,” he says approvingly down the phone. “I’ll give you a call when I know more. Let me know when you and Seb are back in town.”
He disconnects and looks at me. “She was feeling pretty rubbish so she’s taken a week off work and she and Seb drove to Cornwall yesterday to stay at her mum’s place. Caro called her a couple of times the night before they left, but Alina thought she was being a bit, well, odd, so she said she didn’t have time to meet before they left.”
I do the maths on the timing; it’s horribly hard work on my aching head, though it occurs to me the painkillers I must be on are probably not helping, either. Alina said Caro called the night before they left, and she also said they left yesterday. So, Caro called her two days ago. And I’ve been out of it for two days. Caro must have left mine and immediately started calling Alina. I wonder what it was that raised alarm bells for Alina, but whatever it was, she’s a smart girl indeed for listening to them. I relax back onto the pillow. Then I remember my puzzlement at Tom’s words. “Wasn’t what?” I ask.
“What?”
“You said no, it wasn’t that. What did you mean?” Once again I notice that Dr. Page and the nurse are thoroughly involved in other things and therefore are actually at full attention. Then it hits me. “Oh. You thought I’d attempted suicide.” I can see on all the faces that I’ve got it right. Something flickers in my memory. “She said you would think that,” I murmur.
“It’s a reasonable assumption for that quantity of drug in your bloodstream,” says Dr. Page with an unapologetic shrug. “I’m astonished you were able to call for help at all.” I look at her, nonplussed. I called for help? Who did I call? But she’s moving on: if I want to be able to hold a conversation on my own terms I had better increase my mental processing speed. “How did it get in your system?”
I’m not sure if she doesn’t believe me or she’s just being thorough. “Caro brought wine,” I say evenly, though perhaps not as evenly as intended. My voice isn’t quite working as normal, and my throat seems to close up even more when I think of what happened, or might have happened . . . What did happen? “I wasn’t in the room when she opened it and poured me a glass. I didn’t try to kill myself; I wouldn’t do that. Ever. Plus I wouldn’t even have a clue how to get hold of Rohypnol.” A half memory triggers: you really should put a security code on your iPhone. That same iPhone on the floor, the colors on the screen swimming too vividly . . .
“That’s a serious accusation,” Dr. Page says carefully.
“It was a serious attempt to kill me,” I reply, not nearly as evenly.
She nods, though more as if she’s weighing things up than as a sign of agreement. “Look, I’m not trying to influence you in any way, but you should be aware that Rohypnol does rather scramble your memories.” Tom is very still. I can’t tell what he’s thinking as he focuses on the good doctor. “To be frank, it makes you an unreliable witness in the eyes of the law. Are you sure you want to take this to the police?”
Do I? I look inside myself, for the cold, hard fear I remember, for the fury I want to be there, for the Kate I wanted to be, but I’m not sure where any of those are. A longing for Severine washes over me, to once again see my beautiful, inscrutable ghost. But she isn’t here. Caro took her from me; twice, as it turns out, and on that realization I finally find a bright, shining edge of steel. Tom looks at my face. “If Caro was prepared to do this,” he says quietly, almost in a growl, “is there something else she’s done?” Bless him for his quick understanding: he’s already joined the dots. I wonder if he’d half made the links already. But he’s looking at me gravely, a stillness in his face as he awaits confirmation. I nod silently, and he breathes out slowly, the stillness eroded into bleak disappointment edged with anger.
“I want to take this to the police,” I say, as emphatically as I’m currently capable of sounding.
“Okay,” sighs Dr. Page. “We’ll get everything in order from the medical side.” She looks at Tom and me, and her eyes soften. “For the record, your man here never believed you tried to kill yourself,” she says, a half smile on her face. “He told anyone who would listen that they were wrong. Same for your friend Lara.” I look at Tom again, who has at some point taken my hand once more, though it doesn’t quite feel like mine yet; I look at those eyes that are all his, above that wonderful nose, and I’m suddenly afraid I may burst into tears. “Now may I actually tell you about your medical condition?” asks the doctor wryly.
I smile and nod, and she launches into an explanation that involves some quite terrifyingly dramatic medical terms that I choose to mostly ignore because against all odds, the upshot seems to be that I’m actually here and I’m fine, or I’m going to be, and Tom is holding my hand, a hand that becomes a little more mine with every stroke of his thumb. Time is a ribbon, and there is more of that ribbon ahead for me. Despite the drugs Dr. Page has just explained I’m being pumped with, it’s dawning on me slowly what almost happened to me, what was almost taken from me, and suddenly the tears that threatened begin to spill down my cheeks.
“Don’t worry,” says Dr. Page kindly. “This is not an unusual reaction to the drugs.”
“I think,” says Tom grimly, “it’s more of a reaction to attempted murder,” but his hand is gentle as he places it against my face again. This time I turn into it, and my head doesn’t thump too hard at the movement.
“Alors, attempted murder?” a familiar voice drawls from the doorway. “I think that is something I should hear about, non?” Modan. He’s not wearing a suit, but nonetheless he is still impeccably dressed, in casual jeans, a shirt and a pullover—the same sort of outfit that millions of men choose every day, but somehow his screams French sophistication. Or perhaps that comes from
the way he positions his lanky frame against the doorway and raises one eyebrow.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” I say wearily. I am in fact excessively exhausted all of a sudden. Surely he won’t arrest me in my hospital bed? “You really find your way everywhere, don’t you?”
“True, but today I thought I was just the bag carrier,” Modan replies, raising one hand with a self-deprecating smile. I recognize Lara’s tan handbag dangling from it; hostilities must have ceased. “Lara is just in the bathroom. Though maybe I need to change roles, non?”
“Maybe, but not yet,” says Dr. Page firmly. “This patient needs some more sleep. As soon as your friend Lara has said hello it’s time for a sedative.”
“You are very lucky to be here,” says Modan, advancing diffidently into the room. His voice is serious, and for once the mouth bracketed between those deep lines is sober. “In my career I have seen . . . alors, more than enough overdoses. It is . . . it is an unbelievable pleasure to see you with us again.”
His simple, genuine words catch at my throat. All I can do is nod. When I find my voice again I ask, “How . . . how am I here? How did I get help?”
“You called me,” says Tom simply. “On your iPhone. Voice activated, probably; I never thought I would have cause to say this, but thank the Lord for Siri. I thought you were calling about the flowers . . .” Flowers. A pocketful of dark secrets. Something tugs in my brain, then slides away. “You didn’t really say anything except something that sounded maybe like . . . help.” He’s silent for a moment. There’s a bleakness in his expression that frightens me to see. “It didn’t sound much like you at all.” There’s something odd in his voice, a touch of puzzlement as he remembers. “I almost could have sworn it was . . .”
“Who?” I ask, though I know the answer; I believe I know who my savior was. But the moment has passed; Tom shakes his head.
“Anyway, I called Lara since I knew she had a key, and she called Modan.” He nods appreciatively in the direction of the Frenchman; there seems to have been some manly bonding between the two that I have missed. “They both went straight over there and found you and called the ambulance. I got there about ten minutes after them, and the ambulance was only a few minutes after me—”
“Wait,” I say suddenly. My jumbled brain has reminded me that I have something important to say. “Modan, Caro killed Severine. She was in the Jag, taking cocaine; she went to the bus depot to pretend to be Severine; with a scarf on her hair you wouldn’t even know she’s blond . . .” Modan is staring at me sharply, halfway through pulling a chair across to the bedside. “You have to believe me.”
Modan nods seriously. “Then you will have to tell me everything.”
“But not right now,” interjects Dr. Page sharply. “As I said—”
“You’re awake!” Lara has spilled into the room, and in an instant the mood has lifted, despite the tears that bracket her laughter, because she is once again the sunshine girl and she takes it with her wherever she goes. Lara is Lara, and Tom is Tom, and I’ve yet to learn what Modan is, but time is a ribbon, and there is more of that ribbon for me, so perhaps I will find out.
* * *
—
My head is not broken, but still there are cracks. Cracks in my memory, cracks in my understanding, cracks in my experience of time; fractures that allow things to bleed in, and others to slip out. At times a sly beast of exhaustion pads unnoticed through the openings to leap lightly onto my shoulders; then it digs in its claws and drags me to the floor. My next few days consist of infrequent periods of wakening that sink abruptly and dramatically into an oblivion that is so deep and complete that I’m both scared by it and powerless to resist.
Somewhere in those days the police talk to me. I’m not clear on how many times. Modan appears to be running point, despite overtly deferring to a local granite-hewn officer (do they mine all British policemen from the same quarry?) whose doubtful expression is, I have to hope, habitual rather than specific to this case. By this case, I mean Caro’s poisoning of me—nobody is talking to me about Caro’s murder of Severine, which I don’t understand and can never quite seem to get a straight answer on. Modan and his British colleague come to talk with me, they go away, they come again; or perhaps it is me that leaves and returns.
Lara comes, too, bringing magazines I can’t read because the words crawl around the page, but she also brings chocolate and grapes and flowers and herself. I hear the full story of my rescue; she paints a picture that has Modan glittering in the forefront, and I can’t help thinking that my near-death is almost entirely responsible for the resurrection of their romance. “Honestly,” she says in a half-awed tone, “he was brilliant. I was totally beside myself, but he knew exactly what to do. Really, you should have been there.”
“Well,” I say drolly, “I was, actually.”
Her face sobers instantly. “God, I know. I know. You know what I meant.”
“I’m sorry.” I reach for her hand remorsefully, and we share a smile that’s a little wobbly on her side. “And then? Modan?”
She blushes. “Well, once we knew you were out of immediate danger, he took me home. It must have been about six in the morning. He grabbed croissants from that bakery on the corner by my flat; you know the one? It opens really early . . . Anyway, we had croissants and then he tucked me up in bed and he was going to leave, but I didn’t want to be alone so he stayed and he didn’t try anything, he was just totally taking care of me, and well . . . it’s gone from there really.” The giddiness is in her eyes and her voice again; it creates a glow that lights up her very skin. “He’s going to apply for a post with this international liaison department that’s based in London—it’s kind of like Interpol, I think. It’s a move he was thinking about anyway, but there’s an opening coming up. Anyway,” she says with a meaningful look, “what about you and Tom?”
I find I’m blushing, too. Tom is here, somewhere; he has just nipped out to get coffee for Lara. Tom is here, Tom is almost always here, to the point where yesterday I asked him if he still had a job. He gently pointed out it was Sunday, but that makes today Monday (It does, doesn’t it? Yes, it does), and he’s still here, holding my hand, dropping kisses on my (unwashed) hair, yet we’ve never talked about what that means. I’m saved from having to answer Lara’s question by the return of the man himself, armed with three coffees, though we all know I will fall asleep before I can drink mine.
Finally Modan and the British policeman come to see me with serious expressions that, head injury notwithstanding, I can interpret without them even having to open their mouths.
“You’re not charging her,” I say flatly, though they’ve yet to take a seat. I’m sitting up in bed in my private room (thank God I didn’t scrimp on health cover when I set up my own company). Tom, who was idly flicking through the sports section of a newspaper on a chair beside me, rises to meet Modan with what I can only describe as a man-hug. I keep meaning to ask about that, but I haven’t; another thing that has slipped through a crack.
“Well,” says PC Stone, whose name isn’t Stone, and who isn’t a PC, either; he’s probably a DI or something, but neither of those details will stick for me. “No, we’re not.” He spreads his hands wide, but the gesture is blunt and choppy; it lacks Modan’s elegant sweep. Then he hitches his trouser legs to settle in a chair and leans forward, elbows on knees, his broad, thick head topped with short gingerish bristles jutting forward like a bull preparing to charge; it would take more than a sea of white tiles to put a dent into that skull. Modan remains standing, seemingly just to emphasize the differences between the two: the stocky Brit and the beanpole Frenchman, one direct and no-nonsense, the other deviously charming. It’s actually a pretty effective mix. “The thing is, it’s just a he said, she said.” Surely a she said, she said? But he’s still talking; I must concentrate or I will lose track. “There’s no evidence she was even at your flat. No fingerprints on t
he wine bottle.”
“Not even Kate’s?” asks Tom meaningfully.
“Not even Kate’s. Which, yes, is strange, but it doesn’t prove a case against Miss Horridge. The date Kate’s phone was updated with the dealer’s number matches the date of her party, but that hardly proves anything.” He scratches at his stubble, his frustrated dissatisfaction clear.
“You’re not charging her,” I repeat.
Modan, silent up till now, steps forward, his expression earnest. “What can we do? There’s no evidence.”
“There isn’t any evidence on Severine’s murder, but you still seemed to be trying hard to pin it on me,” I say tartly.
Modan blows out a breath. “I’m afraid you are behind the times. The case has been closed.”
I stare at him. “You’ve arrested Caro?” I wait for a wave of relief, but it doesn’t come.
He shakes his head. “Non. There is not enough evidence on that also. But the investigation has been closed. It is . . . politically unpopular, shall we say, but that is how it is.”
“Closed? Over?” Over . . . No more threat of arrest—but Lara’s words come back to me. It’s never really over. Even if they consign it to the cold case pile, it could still come alive again. Can it be truly over without a conviction? I find myself looking for Severine again, before I remember that she isn’t here anymore.
The French Girl Page 27
