CHAPTER TWENTY

I’m waking up.

This is . . . unexpected.

And painful. Oh my God, this is painful. My head, my throat, my stomach, my eyes, but most of all my head, my head, my head . . . It pounds as if the ebb and flow of the blood within it is a violent storm raging against the shore of my brain. Where is that cool, calm ivory sea to lay my hot, aching temple against?

Perhaps I make a movement as I try to open my eyes, because I hear a voice, a woman, but no one familiar: “Kate? Kate, are you with us?” And then light rushes in, swirling around until my brain gets control of it and forces it into blocks of colors and shades: I’m in a room. A pale room, nowhere I know, but it’s instantly recognizable as a hospital.

A plump woman in dark blue scrubs is leaning over me, still saying my name, but I look past her, looking around for Severine, but she’s not there; I can’t see her anywhere, and now I really start to panic. She wouldn’t leave me, I know she wouldn’t leave me; what does it mean that she’s not here?

“Kate? No, shhh, just lie still . . . It’s all right, you’re all right. You’re in a hospital.” She turns as someone enters the room, but I can’t see who it is—is it Severine? But no, that can’t be right, though I can’t quite remember why that can’t be right . . . “She’s just come round,” she says to them. She turns back to me. “Kate, do you know who this is?”

And then he’s right beside me, reaching for my hand, and the panic dissolves. “Tom.” My voice is more of a croak; nonetheless the relief on his face is staggering.

“You’re back,” he says simply, and lays a hand against my face. I want to move into it, but I’m unsure of my body, of what it can and can’t do. As the nurse suggested, lying still seems safest.

“Was I away?” I croak out. He looks awful. He hasn’t shaved in days, and it’s possible he hasn’t slept, either. I have the feeling I’ve been dropped onstage in the middle of a play without a script or any knowledge of the first act. How did I get here?

“Yes. You’ve been . . . away . . . for two days.” He takes a shuddering breath and starts to say something, but the nurse cuts him off.

“Let’s get you a drink of water and then I just need to check a few things, Kate.” She brings the bed a little more upright, holds some water to my lips and starts to flash lights in my eyes, all the while asking me questions. What’s my name? When was I born? What year is it? Do I know where I am? With each answer the words come easier, as if the route from my brain to my mouth is clearing.

“Did I hit my head then?” I ask suddenly, recognizing the questions as more than information gathering, and then I remember—or do I? The memories are inconstant, jumbled, the colors too strange. “I did, didn’t I . . . I think . . .”

“Yes, you gave your head rather a thwack, I’m afraid. We’ve been quite worried about you.” This is from someone new. I turn my head a little, gritting my teeth against the wave of pain that accompanies the movement, and find the source: a tall woman in her early forties, dark hair scraped back into an elegant bun, standing in the doorway with a faint smile in place. She’s in scrubs, too, but she wears the cloak of her authority over them, further underlined by her enormous diamond studs: you wouldn’t expect to see those on a low-paid nurse. “Welcome back. I’m Dr. Page.” She steps into the room and picks up the chart, scanning it quickly. “And you, I rather think, are going to be fine, after a lot of rest. What do you remember?” she asks, but there’s something in her face that doesn’t quite match the casual tone. My eyes fall on the nurse. She’s busying herself so completely with changing a drip that she must be listening intently. Even Tom has a little tension in his face. Again I have the feeling that I’m missing the script.

“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 the 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.

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, 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.

“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.