Modan nods grimly. “Closed.” I can see it irks him. “I know who was responsible, but there is nothing I can do without evidence.” Evidence. He says it heavily, emphatically, in his French accent, whilst holding my gaze. Evidence. It feels like he is challenging me.
“I know who was responsible too, and it wasn’t me.”
“Ah, but you misunderstand me,” he says, shaking his head. “I have never thought it was you.” I stare at him. “Well, not for a long time, at least,” he amends, and I find a bark of laughter escaping me. He grins back at me, sly humor in those clever eyes.
“Really? Why not?” asks Tom, with what sounds like academic interest.
“Because she drove, of course,” he says to Tom, as if it was self-evident. “All the way back.”
Tom and I exchange glances, not comprehending. “But no one else was insured,” I say blankly.
“Exactement. You wouldn’t bend the rules, not even for that. I could not . . . make it fit. I could not believe you killed her on purpose. And if you had killed her, by accident, you would have called les gendarmes, the police, the ambulance; it is not in your nature to deceive. Et voilà. It could not be you.” Tom and I share another glance, slightly dazed. Even PC Stone seems a little taken aback by this remarkably unscientific explanation.
“I suppose instinct is part of your job,” says Tom after a moment. It sounds like he is trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
“True,” admits PC Stone, though he, too, still seems thrown.
“It is very much in Caro’s nature to deceive,” Tom presses. Caro. So this is how it will be. Caro will get what she wants. Perhaps not immediately, but she plays a long game. Sooner or later, Alina will be swept aside in some as-yet unknown way, and then Caro will have Seb, partnership at Haft & Weil and a field clear of rivals. I can just imagine her now, whispering to Seb about how poor, deranged Kate tried to kill herself and blame it on her. And not just whispering to Seb, come to think of it. So desperately sad about Kate. She obviously had some kind of breakdown; she overdosed and blamed it on me, can you imagine? I mean, the police even investigated her claim, but of course there was no truth to it, so they had to drop it. Poor girl. In that moment my stomach drops as I realize my business is over. There is no return from this. It doesn’t matter that the police are dropping the Severine case; Caro will never cease in her rumormongering. I look at Tom, and by the bleakness in his expression I can see he’s drawn the same conclusion.
Modan nods heavily. “We found cocaine in the auto, the Jag. Down in the, ah, the seams—seams, yes?—of the driver’s seat. I think she was in love with Seb; I think she has always been in love with him. I think she was delighted when Kate and Seb had a fight; she thought it was her turn, n’est-ce pas?” Ordinarily a man of gestures, he is unusually still, allowing his words the space to have maximum impact. “It must have enraged her beyond reason to find him taking up with Severine. I expect it was just chance, that she happened to be in the Jag as Severine came by en route to her house, and in her fury Caro lost control . . .” I stare at Modan even as I see it unfold: Severine with her hand to her bloody temple, caught in the headlights of the approaching, accelerating Jag. “But she would have immediately realized that she couldn’t allow the police to be called with the drugs in her system. Even if she wasn’t charged for murder, it would be the end of her legal career. Other than Seb, that has always been the most important thing in her life.” I continue to stare at him, slightly disturbed by his ability to casually condense a whole person to two main ambitions. But he’s right: partnership at Haft & Weil and Seb are at the root of everything. “So she disposed of the body.”
“By herself?” asks Tom softly.
Modan knows what he is asking. “I don’t know for sure,” he says, equally softly, “but I would think she must have had help.”
Tom nods, looking at the floor. Modan’s gaze rests on him for a moment, and then he continues. “The car has damage to the undercarriage, but it is impossible to tell how long that has been there. And we can’t prove Miss Horridge was in the car, even with the cocaine. We can’t even prove Severine died as a result of a . . . how you say . . . hit-and-run.” He spreads his hands, his mouth twisted in regret. “We are too late to prove anything.”
“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, mo
stly; 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.
“It’s useless.” Even to me, I sound hollow.
“Not at all,” says Modan, seeming oddly pleased. I suddenly realize even PC Stone is almost smiling. “We hear two people, two women, speaking. If we can hear this much, the technicians will be able to do a great deal with this, oui?” PC Stone nods in agreement, then Modan turns back to me. “Bravo, Madame.” Madame. It gives me a jolt. I am madame now, whereas Severine will always be the mademoiselle next door. It takes the edge off the swelling hope that perhaps all is not lost after all.
“Though, I have to say,” interjects the British policeman, somewhat reluctantly, his face returning to its usual granite, “it’s not strictly legal to record a conversation without permission.”
“It was an accident,” offers Tom, deadpan. “She often has the Dictaphone in her pocket, and it’s quite easy to knock it on.” I nod furiously, despite the fact that I only use the Dictaphone perhaps once or twice a month.
“Is that so?” says PC Stone dryly. He looks at Modan.
“An accident,” says Modan, his eyes gleaming. He spreads his hands wide. “A happy accident. These things happen, oui?”
“I suppose they do,” says his colleague reluctantly, though I can see a corner of his mouth twitching as he climbs to his feet. “Right, we’d better get that to the technicians. No promises, but I’m hopeful . . . if we can just at least prove she was there . . .” Tom and I watch them depart, looking even more like a comedy duo now that there is a lightness to their mood.
“It won’t work, you know,” says Tom gently. I turn to him with eyebrows raised. The bleakness hasn’t left his eyes. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up. They might arrest her, but they won’t nail her for it.”
“Why do you say that?”
He sighs. “Because she’s Caro. She’ll get the best legal representation money can buy; her dad will make sure of that. You’d need physical evidence and a sworn confession to convict her; nothing less will do. And they don’t have the first, and I’m pretty sure, even after the police do their technical wizardry, that tape won’t amount to a sworn confession. I could be wrong, but . . .”
I stare at him while I think it through. Did she actually confess? It’s hard to pick through my fragmented memory. Enough to fell an elephant. So she did confess, but will the tape have caught it? Where was she standing when she said that? Where was I? I don’t remember; it’s slipped through a crack. “So that’s it. You think she gets away with it.” He nods unhappily. I try to fit the pieces together myself, to come up with a different answer, but I can’t. The injustice hollows me out. I ought to want to rail at something, or someone, but who or what? “So she gets away with it and I get left with nothing,” I say dully at last.
“Well,” he says, taking my hand and staring at it intently. “Not exactly nothing, I hope.” He looks up, and the intensity in his gaze steals my breath. “It tore me in pieces to see you in here. I can’t imagine what the hell I’ve been playing at, waiting on the sidelines all these years. I don’t intend to wait a single second more.”
I stare at him. Tom, my Tom, the Tom I should have always known he was. “All these years?”
“All these years.” There’s a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
“But you’ve slept with Lara!” I don’t know why I’m throwing up obstacles given that I adore this man.
He rolls his eyes. “I was twenty-one and my cousin was sleeping with my dream girl. Sure, I was madly, unbelievably jealous, but that didn’t make me a monk. And anyway, you’ve slept with my cousin, many times. That’ll be much harder to explain round the family table at Christmas.”
“We haven’t even slept together yet,” I muse thoughtfully.
He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I’d love to remedy that immediately, but the nursing staff might not be so keen on the idea. But our first kiss held definite promise . . .” He holds my gaze, and something moves between us, a current that thickens the air into something solid enough to lean into. “So,” he whispers, in a low murmur that takes me right back to that dark, delicious corridor, “are you in?”
“I’m in,” I whisper, and then he’s kissing me, and I find I am feeling very much better indeed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Time passes. I can’t keep it or save it or mark it—the ribbon slips through my fingers regardless. And time shows that Tom is right, of course: the Dictaphone tape is cleaned up, but not all of it is audible. Crucially, not the part where Caro confessed to dumping roofies in my wine, if that confession truly happened at all, though it remains fixed in my memory. Despite the lack of confession, the police question Caro, and they even find her drug dealer (the unexpected casualty in all of this, as his is the only actual arrest); they leave no stone unturned. It is my repeated and most fervent wish that this investigation has completely annihilated any chances of Caro making partner this time round; surely, even more than the Severine investigation, it must be diverting her attention from that process? But in the face of the finest legal representation money can buy (Tom was right on that, too), the decision is made not to prosecute.
By that point, I am back at work—hollow cheeked but clear-eyed, with most of my cracks papered over. Paul did an admirable job of holding the Channing Associates fort in my absence by the remarkably sensible solution of promoting Julie to work alongside him and hiring a temporary secretary. Julie, it turns out, loves the role, and I can’t bring myself to demote her, so now I am up a head count with zero prospect of raising any new contracts given the impending tidal wave of gossip that is no doubt beginning to circulate. We are diligently working out the contracts we do have, but every time I talk with Paul I find myself imagining scales behind his eyes, weighing up the best time to jump. Still, I’m actually relieved to have Julie in place; the first few weeks back at work are incredibly exhausting, and I barely pull my weight. Neither of them quite understand what happened, though
I suspect Tom may have told Paul more than I realize; anyway, in communications to clients Paul wisely blamed my hospitalization on an accidental blow to the head and left the rest well alone.
The Haft & Weil contract hasn’t been revoked, to my surprise. Paul picked it up in my absence, liaising with someone other than Caro due to the need for her to focus on the partnership selection process (official line only, I hope); I have made no move to regain control of it. Therefore it’s a complete surprise to find Gordon Farrow waiting by my office front door when I step outside one lunchtime to get a sandwich; I grind to a halt halfway down the steps.
“Hello,” he says diffidently when I make no sound. “I don’t suppose you expected to see me.”
“No,” I reply warily. “I didn’t.”
“Can I buy you a coffee?” It’s very much a question; he shows no expectation of a positive response. Perhaps that’s why I nod.
“There’s a café this way where we can get a sandwich, too, if you haven’t eaten.”
I glance at him as we walk along. He looks like he always does, a nondescript man in all respects. He must be appraising me, too, as he says, “I’m glad to see you looking so well. How do you feel?”
“Tired,” I say, yawning messily on cue. “Head injuries can do that, apparently.”
We find a table in the café and settle down, each of us hiding behind the menu. It’s not the same café as the one where Lara and I experienced the bird incident, but I still find myself glancing at the window and almost exclaim aloud when I see Severine sauntering by in her black shift dress. She turns her head and eyes me coolly, then continues down the pavement outside, away from the café. What does it mean, that she is back? Is she staying, or is this her version of good-bye? “I’m so pleased you agreed to meet with me,” Gordon says abruptly, putting down the menu. I drag my attention back to him, resisting the urge to crane my neck to see if she has really gone. “I wasn’t sure you would. I should have known you wouldn’t blame me for any . . . difficulties . . . between you and Caro—”
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