“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.”