A teenage girl missing in the Paris underworld

A young woman in search of her long-lost mother

A female PI on a personal mission

When police drop the case on missing Mathilde Benazet, renegade PI Veronique Cotillard steps in to prove that she can succeed where police inspector Guillaume Leveque and his team have failed…

Alice Weston’s father had always told her that her mother died in childbirth – but now Alice has proof she may be alive and living in Paris. Now her father is dead she has nothing to stay for, it’s time to uncover her family’s long-buried secrets…

As their lives intertwine and the city prepares to celebrate Bastille Day in the shadow of a gathering storm, both Veronique and Alice will face the ghosts of the past – and the monsters in the present.

The Girl in the Shadows

Katherine Debona

KATHERINE DEBONA studied History at Oxford University before working in investment banking. She lives in Kent with her husband and two children.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Copyright

Acknowledgements

My editor, Victoria Oundjian, and everyone at HQ for believing in me and my story.

Tom Bromley, my tutor extraordinaire. Debs, for all her early edits and read-throughs. My fellow students at Faber who helped spot my silly mistakes and buoyed me on in moments of doubt.

My parents, for loving and supporting me whilst I pursued my dreams.

Neil, for allowing me the space and time to write, even when the kids are up at the crack of dawn and driving us mad.

D & S, my two incredible reasons for getting up in the morning.

In memory of Nan. Thank you for teaching me that girls can do anything.

Chapter 1

Mathilde

Paris, France. Before.

‘Death isn’t your only option.’

‘You know what she’s like.’ Spidery lashes fell onto ashen skin, the suggestion of a bruise already beginning to show.

‘Then go to the police.’ His words were accompanied by a bulbous cloud of nicotine that she swatted away, the movement rippling up her arm in an accumulation of pain. He held on to her as they crossed the street, tighter than she would normally allow.

A woman ran past, lean precise movements that Mathilde recognised without needing to look. She knew the woman would turn at the corner and cross the river, would return to this café to sit in the corner as she ordered her staple of coffee and eggs.

‘At least go to the hospital.’ He held the door open for her and she sank into the café’s enveloping warmth.

‘Non. No hospitals. No records, nothing that can be used to find me.’ She sat at an empty table as he went over to the bar, found herself scanning the road outside, seeking out the retreating runner.

She had wanted to speak to her from the very first time. To ask her the story behind her scar, to find out if she too had suffered at the hands of another. But there was never a moment in which she felt able to step into the open, to reveal the truth she had kept hidden for so long.

And now she had to bury the lies even deeper.

He placed a glass mug in front of her. Amber tendrils seeped out into the steaming water as fragrant leaves teased her senses and her stomach complained at its lack of sustenance. She remembered the abandoned supper, her mind taunting her with the image she knew she could never forget.

‘She will look for you.’ He sipped his own drink, lips puckering at the bitter heat.

‘I know.’

‘Then let me protect you.’

‘You’re sweet.’ She dropped her head, tucked a curl behind one ear.

‘But not sweet enough.’

It was too much. The effort of trying to exist was slowly wasting her away. She had to run, to free herself of the endless to and fro, of camouflaging her pain. Pain that had become as commonplace as the setting of the sun.

There was no other way.

‘Take this.’ She removed the locket from around her neck, rubbing it against the ruby clot on her forehead before handing it over.

‘Where should I leave it?’

‘Somewhere it will be found.’

‘And then?’

She dared not answer. A conscience that had been her downfall, a softness she had battled against still preventing her from uttering any untruth.

‘Then go.’ He swiped at the air, polished cufflinks catching the light and dancing over her face.

She stood on legs dragged down by the inevitable. The chair clattered to the floor behind her, but no one turned to watch, the hour too early for any other customers.

‘Be careful,’ she whispered. All too aware of the risk he was going to take, for her.

‘You showed me a kindness I had long since forgotten.’ He cupped her hand between his own, eyes focused on the movement of thumb over her wrist as the solace in his voice offered up a farewell. ‘God will not spare my soul. It is tainted with the cruelty of too many years. But you still have the chance of living, of sharing your gift with the world.’

She took back her hand. ‘I won’t forget you.’

‘You should,’ he said as she opened the door, allowing the morning back in.

One step over the threshold, two steps to the kerb, three steps towards the river, four steps more. The road stretched out ahead, shadows waking as dawn seeped into the sky.

Chapter 2

Veronique

Paris, France. Now.

Without needing to raise her gaze Veronique sensed the waiter approach and she moved her arm to cover the photograph on the table. She heard the change in his footfall, imagined his surprise as he looked from the left side of her face to the right and back again. She tilted her chin and smiled at him, the creases below her left eye intermingling with the deep scar that ran across her cheek, melted muscle and sinew preventing any symmetry across her features.

‘Madame?’ the waiter asked, standing a little too far from the table and eyes fixed on a spot just behind her.

‘C’est ton premier jour,’ she replied, ‘but tomorrow you won’t be new, so I’ll only forgive your mistake this one time.’ Holding her cup out she waited for him to take it. ‘Every morning it is the same. Espresso. Double, with a single shot of mocha and a spoon on the side.’

The waiter leant forward to take her cup, eyes widening as they focused on the uneven stretch of her skin over bone. He was about to return to the bar when she grabbed hold of his wrist, pulling him close.

‘Take a good look,’ she whispered. ‘Most people don’t get this close.’ She turned her left cheek towards him, exposing not only the silver scar that traversed one side of her face, but the milky sheen to her unseeing eye.

Dropping his arm she turned back towards the window, a shadow cutting her in two. At this time of day her scar would be hidden from passers-by as the sun rose over the square.

Veronique listened as he stumbled his way back to the bar, the intonation of his voice telling her what he was saying without the need to understand individual words. She was good at listening, on picking up the nuances in others’ speech, at the subtleties each pitch would bring to the words they were uttering. Years spent spying through doors left ajar and eavesdropping on conversations best left unheard had provided her with an excellent tool to aid her work as a private investigator.

Reaching into her bag Veronique unzipped an internal pocket to retrieve a small notebook. Unwrapping the cord she opened the book to a clean page, easing aside the spine and flattening the sheets underneath her palms. She picked up her fountain pen and began to make notes, her right eye flicking between the police report Christophe had managed to acquire and her own small, rounded script.

Usually she didn’t take this type of case, but there was something about the missing teenager that clawed at her, demanded she take a second look. Examining the photograph supplied to the police by the grieving mother, Veronique listed identifying features: blonde hair – mid-length with a natural curl, hazel eyes, small nose, beauty spot on the chin, six-inch scar running from left clavicle towards her elbow.

The resemblance was coincidental but unsettling. The girl had the same nervous, wide-eyed gaze: a gaze that hinted at a buried fear from which Veronique had been running ever since the night of the fire.

She sat back in her chair, placing the pen on her notebook and clasping her hands in front of her, determined not to bring her fingertips up to her face. She already knew her own scar by heart – had no need to touch it to remember each dip and fall of her tarnished skin, the way it would ache in the mornings if she had lain on the wrong side.

Is that all it was, she wondered? The scar? Or was it more to do with the money? She only needed a few more lucrative cases like this and she would have enough to make the final payment, no more ties to bureaucracy. Then the appartement would be hers, her own little piece of the city, along with stability and the possibility of a future.

There was more. The reminder of someone she was forever trying to forget. The idea of a lost daughter and an anxious mother waiting for her to come home. Something Veronique had never known. Besides, the opportunity to find holes in Guillaume’s investigation, to prove him wrong, was too much to resist.

The waiter returned, laying the coffee cup in front of her with a trembling hand.

‘Merci,’ Veronique said with a small nod, picking up the silver teaspoon in her left hand and stirring the dark, viscous liquid twice anticlockwise. After tapping the spoon on the rim of the cup she placed it on the saucer, curling the index finger of her right hand through the cup’s handle and bringing it to her mouth. She inhaled the bitterness before it made contact with her lips, feeling the heat pass over her tongue and down her throat.

‘Madame?’ the waiter asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

‘Yes, yes, you did well, young pup.’ Veronique waved the young man away as she took another sip of coffee.

‘Excusez-moi, Madame, you like something to eat also?’

‘Are you suggesting that I should eat something?’ Veronique said, leaning her arm over the back of the chair, her silk T-shirt rising up to expose a toned stomach. ‘Or perhaps that I should not?’ A tease tugged at the corners of her mouth, the eyelashes on her good eye dipping to her cheek and back up again. She was fully aware of the effect she had on men, even with only half a face at her disposal.

The waiter’s gaze dropped to the pair of boxing gloves tied around one handle of Veronique’s handbag.

‘Laurent told me you always have the eggs,’ he said, eyes travelling up over her tanned thighs, pausing at the hem of her black lace shorts where the tail of a Celtic tattoo was broken by scar tissue. The waiter looked back up at her face, awaiting a response.

She understood what it was to have people stare at you, both from awe and shock. She had been truly beautiful once, before the fire, but now she was doomed to be a walking contradiction.

‘Nothing today, thank you,’ she said to the waiter, picking up the police file and reading the address of the missing girl, Mathilde Benazet. ‘I have somewhere to be.’

The square outside was busy with people criss-crossing one another as they began their day. Veronique stepped between them, her own footfalls intermingling with the sounds of Paris waking up. A moped sped over cobblestones, flicking up dew that stuck to her bare legs. The scent of the river Seine rose towards her as she looked behind to where the tip of the Eiffel Tower jutted over the rooftops.

Crossing the Solferino bridge, she ran a hand over the thousands of padlocks that had multiplied like germs to encompass the railings. She was intrigued by the sentimentality behind the ritual of locking one piece of metal to another and believing that it would prevent your love from ever breaking. This was only one of many such bridges in Paris, infested with people’s naivety.

Bypassing a group waiting at the lights she ran over the road and into the Jardins des Tuileries. The path was flanked either side by horse chestnut trees, the crunch of gravel underfoot doing little to muffle the growing sound of rush hour around the Louvre. She didn’t need to turn around to see the building, all four storeys rising out of the banks of the Seine, its glass pyramid like a shining beacon at its centre, drawing towards it tourists and locals alike. She wasn’t a huge fan of galleries, of being told which pieces were important enough for her to pay attention to, yet there was something comforting about wandering the halls, listening to muted conversations that bounced off the old masters.

A man passed at a jog, a small dachshund struggling to match his strides. Veronique followed them, watched as the man bent to pick up the dog and continued running towards the fountain at the far end of the park.

Veronique searched the park for a reason as to why Mathilde came here, to this specific park the night she disappeared. Was she meeting someone? Using the park as a cut-through to a different destination? Her digital imprint suggested a life focused on specific areas of the city: her appartement, university and then Montmartre near where she worked. Why then had she headed south, towards the river?

The last place Mathilde had used her credit card was a restaurant three streets away from where she lived, timed at 23.41 on 7th June. Since then there had been no online activity on any of her social network sites, no credit card usage, nothing. The police report claimed the only witness to have seen Mathilde was unreliable but didn’t state on what grounds.

Circling the fountain Veronique headed along the Champs-Élysées, lines of traffic streaming towards the Arc de Triomphe like lemmings. The roof of the Grand Palais caught the morning sun as she passed, the city’s aristocratic history hidden amongst modernity, the streets long since clean of the blood that was spilled.

What had made Guillaume so quick to dismiss the case as nothing more than a runaway? Surely the fact Mathilde had been seen in the early hours of the morning in a park some distance away from her home and place of work warranted further investigation? Or was it because she was legally of adult age and therefore free to come and go as she wished, which pushed her case to the bottom of the pile?

The police had missed something, but at first glance Veronique couldn’t see what that was. Nothing stood out amongst the files and a preliminary online search told her very little about Mathilde Benazet. Interview notes painted a picture of a shy girl, a bit of a recluse. Her tutor said she was a diligent pupil and showed promise but seemed a little distracted recently, which had affected her grades.

The change seemed to occur around the same time she began working at a music café in Montmartre, co-workers stating that she hadn’t missed a single shift in the last six months. Nothing out of the ordinary, most undergraduates went through a phase of choosing a social life over the library, but Mathilde didn’t come across as a party girl.

Veronique crossed over Avenue George V and then turned right, a map of Paris imprinted on her mind. She had walked every street of the city, explored every back corner and could find her way even in the dark. Every district had its own character, its own presence, which was determined as much by the people in it as the buildings. She didn’t like this part of Paris. It was too brash, too garish, with sprawling streets and designer stores, the narrowed gaze of its patrons as you passed.

Veronique checked the address on her phone as she looked up at the pale stone building in front of her. She smoothed her hair from her face – thinking perhaps she should have at least brushed it after her gym session that morning – before ringing the bell above the sign for Apartment 3.

‘Oui?’ came the response over the intercom.

‘Madame Benazet?’ Veronique replied. ‘My name is Veronique Cotillard. We spoke on the phone?’

‘Ah yes, of course. Won’t you come up?’

Veronique pushed against the wrought-iron gate, walking through into a private courtyard. In the centre stood an ornate fountain, the delicate sound of water accompanied by the faint notes of Mozart coming from an open window above her head. A doorway to her right was framed by trailing jasmine, its scent settling on her clothes as she passed through into a lobby with marbled floor and a crystal chandelier hanging from the double-height ceiling.

After walking past the lift Veronique ascended the stairs to the second floor, her footfalls muffled by the striped runner. Pausing outside Apartment 3 she angled her face away from the door before lifting the brass knocker and allowing it to fall against the gleaming mahogany.

‘Madame Benazet.’ Fixing a smile on her face she extended her hand in greeting.

The smile that was returned didn’t quite meet eyes that flickered from one side of Veronique’s face to the other. If Madame Benazet was surprised by the woman standing in her doorway she gave no indication of it.

‘Please,’ she said, gesturing for Veronique to enter, ‘do come in. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad. It can be rather busy at this time of day.’

‘I walked,’ Veronique replied as the door was shut behind her.

‘I see. Please would you remove your shoes and follow me.’

Veronique did as she was asked, following Madame Benazet along a carpeted hallway with photographs lining the walls and into a room screaming for attention. An oversized mirror, deep velvet curtains framing dual-aspect windows and lilies adorning every conceivable surface.

‘Can you tell me a little about Mathilde?’ she asked, sitting on a nearby sofa and sinking into the cushions.

‘What would you like to know?’ Madame Benazet stood by the mirror, repositioning one of the flower arrangements.

‘Something about her character, her favourite food, anything. It doesn’t matter whether or not you think it’s relevant.’

‘What can I tell you about Mathilde?’ A sigh, a stroke of hair, fingertips lingering on a drop diamond earring. ‘She’s a bit of an attention-seeker, a bit melodramatic.’

‘Can you give me an example?’

‘Mathilde is a rather difficult girl, always has been,’ she began, descending onto a wing-backed chair and crossing her legs. ‘Even as a baby she was always the one demanding attention. If only she could have been more like…’

‘Like?’

‘Oh, you know.’ A wave of her manicured hand. ‘I suppose I had an idea of what motherhood was going to be like, but then these things rarely live up to your expectations, do they?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Madame. I don’t have any children.’

‘You know,’ she said, rising from her chair and going over to the sideboard from which she retrieved a decanter and two tumblers, ‘you’re not at all what I was expecting.’ She poured two generous measures and handed one to Veronique.

‘What were you expecting?’ Veronique swirled the dark liquid around the glass before taking a large sip.

‘You’re really rather beautiful.’

‘Is that a problem?’ Veronique knocked back the remaining Cognac and rolled the glass in her palms.

‘Goodness no.’ A shrill laugh followed by a pursing of lips. ‘Just surprising is all. Francoise mentioned your scar.’

‘People usually do.’

‘I only mean that… Oh never mind. I guess I was nervous about this whole thing. Hiring a stranger to come into your home, opening yourself up to scrutiny once more. But Francoise couldn’t recommend you highly enough and what’s important is finding Mathilde, to find out what happened to her.’ She looked directly at Veronique. ‘You do believe me when I say she hasn’t simply run away?’

‘Why would I not believe you, Madame?’

‘Please, call me Christelle. Madame makes me sound so old.’

Walking over to the grand piano at the far corner of the room she picked up one of the framed photographs that lay atop it.

‘You may have noticed that there are no recent photographs of Mathilde in the apartment.’

‘It did strike me as a little peculiar, I must admit.’

‘She made me put them all away.’ Taking a long sip of her own drink Madame Benazet placed the photograph back on the piano and turned to Veronique. ‘Mathilde seems to think all the world is against her. That it’s harder for her than anyone else, but I’ve told her you don’t get something for nothing in this life; you have to work at it. I mean, she takes everything so personally. It’s not as if he was even a serious boyfriend.’

‘Boyfriend?’ Veronique mentally flicked through her notes. There had been no mention of a boyfriend.

‘Ever so handsome, but had that look about him, you know? Bit of a bad boy is Frederic.’

‘And how long were they seeing each other?’

‘Not long, but they had known each other since school. Then he ran off with one of her friends and she fell apart. Can’t say I’m all that surprised. Agnes is one of those creatures who was first in the queue when God was dishing out beauty. Hardly a shock that Frederic’s head was turned.’

‘When was this exactly?’

‘When was what?’

‘The break-up.’

‘Oh months ago. She’s been moping around the apartment ever since. I told her to snap out of it but she did nothing apart from sit in her room, composing depressing songs about how heartbroken she was.’

‘Mathilde writes music? I thought she was studying economics?’

‘She has some crazy idea that she can be a singer, but unfortunately she’s far better at playing than anything else. We had high hopes for her at one stage; her teacher even thought she was good enough to get a scholarship to the Academy, but she lost interest, literally overnight. I tried to change her mind but she wouldn’t listen to me. All that talent,’ Madame sighed. ‘Such a waste. Anyway…’ she smoothed a stray hair from her face ‘…I told her to use the private education we’d paid for and study something with a future instead of walking around with her head in the clouds.’

‘Do you play, Madame?’ Veronique nodded towards the piano.

‘Me? No. Not really my thing. My husband left it behind.’

‘And where is Monsieur now?’

‘At his apartment, I should imagine.’ Madame Benazet finished her drink before pouring herself another measure. She raised the decanter to Veronique who shook her head in refusal. ‘We didn’t keep tabs on one another even before we separated. Why on earth would I want to know who he’s screwing now?’

‘And how did Mathilde feel about her father leaving?’

‘Her father?’

‘Monsieur Benazet.’

‘He’s not her father. Goodness, no.’ Madame Benazet sank back into her seat. ‘Her father and I went our separate ways a long time ago.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘I’m not sure what this has to do with Mathilde.’

‘I’m simply wondering whether she may have tried to contact her father.’

‘What on earth for? He left us when Mathilde was a baby. Simply upped and left, abandoned us you could say.’

‘So Mathilde has had feelings of abandonment for some time?’

Madame Benazet’s eyes narrowed as she looked across at Veronique. ‘What are you implying?’

‘I’m simply trying to understand Mathilde in order to help me with my investigation.’ Veronique glanced around the room, at the precise positioning of everything in it. No trace of a family, no telltale signs that the apartment was anything more than a show home. ‘Anything from her past could provide a clue as to her whereabouts.’

‘I see. Well. She asked about her father when she was younger, but I told her the truth. He doesn’t want anything to do with us and we’re better off without him.’

‘Has she been involved with anyone else besides Frederic?’

‘Not really. Although she did mention her boss a few times, claimed he said that she had potential as a singer. I told her he must have been after something more than songs. She’s far too quick to trust, that girl.’

‘You don’t happen to recall his name?’

‘Valentine Dubois.’

Veronique nodded to herself. The eyewitness just so happened to be called Valentine and Jardins des Tuileries was a long way from the bar he owned in Montmartre. ‘Can you tell me about the necklace Mathilde was wearing the day she disappeared.’

‘What about it?’

‘How do you know she was wearing it? In your statement to the police you said Mathilde left early that morning, before you awoke.’

‘It was missing from my jewellery box.’

‘So you never saw her wearing it?’

‘No, I just assumed…’

‘So it’s possible that you have simply mislaid it?’

Madame Benazet shifted in her seat. ‘I trust that you can be discreet, that whatever I tell you stays between us. Client confidentiality and all that?’

‘What else has she taken?’

A wry smile. ‘Nothing important. Some money here, a trinket or two there. She thinks I didn’t notice.’

‘Why didn’t you mention this to the police?’

‘I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.’

Which is exactly why you came to me, Veronique thought to herself. That way no one need know the truth unless Madame Benazet chose to tell them.

Rising from her position on the sofa she placed the tumbler on the glass-topped table beside her, next to another photograph of Madame with her arms draped around a man in a tuxedo.

‘Do you mind if I have a look in Mathilde’s room?’

‘Of course, but I should tell you that it’s been cleaned since she left. I couldn’t stand the state of it a moment longer. Even with the door closed it bothered me every time I walked past so I asked the housekeeper to sort it out.’

‘Whereabouts is it?’

‘Third door on your left. Should I wait here?’

‘If you don’t mind, Madame; thank you.’

Veronique made her way back down the corridor and opened the door to Mathilde’s room. Her nose wrinkled against the scent of polish, which did little to mask the underlying odour of marijuana. If Madame didn’t know about her daughter’s little drug habit she was more naive than Veronique imagined.

The room was otherwise nondescript. Bed stripped bare of sheets, the duvet folded at one end. Cream walls adorned with various posters, mainly Renaissance art and folk musicians. Other than Joni Mitchell she didn’t recognise any of the names.

The desk was piled high with notebooks in a myriad of colours and designs. Flicking through the first couple there was nothing to set off any warning bells, just a keen desire to fit in and be noticed, much like every other young person in France. There was a bare patch on the wall next to a bookshelf. It was a shade darker than the rest and only the corner of a photograph remained, as if torn from its position. Given the prolific nature of social media and youth’s current obsession with cataloguing every moment of their lives, Veronique wondered what had driven Mathilde to obliterate hers.

Turning to leave the room her eye fell upon a guitar propped up against a wardrobe.

Madame Benazet looked up as she returned to the living room.

‘Why didn’t she take her guitar?’ Veronique asked.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘If she was going to run away, why didn’t she take her guitar?’

‘I don’t know. It’s never crossed my mind before.’

Based on what Veronique had seen Mathilde was a girl who loved music, to the point of obsession judging by the amount of notebooks filled with song lyrics in her room. As if music was the one thing she could cling to, rely upon.

‘I’ll take the case, Madame. But I’ll need a retainer.’

‘Of course.’ She opened a drawer in the bureau next to her, taking out a chequebook and pen.

‘If you could make it out to cash,’ Veronique replied, picking up her bag. ‘I’ll give you an update in a few days.’

‘May I ask how you intend to approach this?’ Madame walked with Veronique to the front door, watching as she bent down to retrieve her shoes.

Veronique paused. Until she had gone back over all the police files, combed through the pile of paperwork and reread all the interviews conducted thus far, she wasn’t sure where she would begin. ‘Frederic,’ she said.

‘You’re going to speak to him?’

‘Of course, Madame; this is new information that the police were not made aware of. I promise you that I am very good at what I do and if there is anything, anything at all that gives an indication as to Mathilde’s whereabouts I will let you know.’

‘Very well.’ Madame handed over the cheque. ‘I’ve added in a little extra. Call it a golden handshake if you will. I trust that’s not an issue?’

‘Not at all, Madame.’ Veronique folded the cheque in half and opened the door. ‘Everyone needs a reason to get up in the morning.’

Chapter 3

Alice

Alice sat on the 5.40 a.m. Eurostar from London to Paris. Her Lonely Planet guide lay on the table in front of her, Post-it notes sticking out at every angle. Next to it was a French edition of Alice in Wonderland. The cover’s stitched lettering was worn away from years of stroking the name her father had given her, in memory of a mother who read it out loud whilst pregnant. Tucked inside the first page was a letter from her father, her name written on the envelope in his neat, black script.

Ever since his death she couldn’t bring herself to read his farewell.

She pushed both books away, staring out of the rain-lashed window and wondering about the face reflected back at her. There were deep circles underneath her eyes, highlighted by the paleness of her skin that refused to tan even when subjected to two weeks on the beach. Her hair was thick and unruly, scraped back into a ponytail that sharpened the angles of her cheeks, the fullness of her mouth.

She had examined every detail of her face in the mirror countless times before, looking for clues, looking for her mother. And now there was a chance to find her, because her father had lied. She was alive. Her mother was alive.

***

Alice had watched them approach, two by two in some kind of banal nod to Noah’s ark.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ The same trite apology, always accompanied by a drop of the eyes, a momentary touch of hand somewhere about her person.

Then she would reply with a false smile, ‘Thank you.’

What did the words mean? Were they anything more than the vibrations of muscle over bone? No one brave enough to speak the truth, to admit they had no idea what to say to an orphan, even one already grown.

She traced over the surface of the fossil in her palm – indentations on her skin catching the rough texture at one end, then finding comfort as it graduated to smooth. It was her talisman, her lucky charm, given to her by her father on her first day at school.

‘I can’t go in with you, poppet,’ he had said as he crouched down and adjusted the collar of her blouse, ‘but if ever you get nervous, give this a squeeze and know that I’ll be thinking of you.’ He handed over the fossil then, one they had found together during a trip to the coast.

She remembered running the very tip of her finger around its coils, feeling the grooves so well preserved. It fit snug in her hand, a reassurance hidden in the folds of her pinafore, a shared secret between father and child.

The fossil remained in its perpetual state, but as she had grown its necessity receded. Until now. Until today, when she had stood at the front of the school chapel and attempted to summarise her father’s life into a scribble of meaningless sentences.

The line of people trailed up the gravel path, a monotonous snake of greys and blacks, overshadowed by the grizzle of rain that seemed to follow the scent of death, seeking it out and reminding those in mourning that for some the sun would never shine again.

She scanned the faces as they came towards her, the accumulation of her father’s life, friendships and acquaintances gathered over the years. She listened to their accents as they passed on their condolences. Even now, on this day steeped in sorrow, she couldn’t help but wonder if someone connected to her mother would come.

The removal vans were arriving in the morning, which was why Alice forced herself to go into the study. She needed a copy of her birth certificate to send to the school she would be teaching at in Africa, but so far all searches had proven fruitless.

Looking around the room she was haunted by a ghost she could not see. The faded aroma of beeswax that he used to polish his leather chair. The ashtray still clinging on to particles left behind by his pipe, which lay upended next to the dragonfly fossil she had given him one Christmas. Sunlight filtered through the windows, catching layers of dust in its descent to the rug, the track of his thoughtful pacing evident where parts had been worn threadbare.

She still remembered the trepidation she felt as a child, knocking on the polished wood and waiting for permission to enter. It was her father’s private domain, where he spent the majority of his time when not at school. But it held no clue as to the man he was, contained no remnants from his past. Alice had learnt to accept this, that her father was not a sentimental man. This was not to say he did not provide for her, indeed he gave her the very best of everything. But what she longed for, now more than ever, was to know something about him, about the man he used to be before.

Before. It all came down to before. Before he died. Before the diagnosis of an inoperable brain tumour. Before the move from a beloved home in County Durham. Before his wife died giving birth to their only child.

At first Alice found nothing more than folders full of receipts and utility bills, shelves full of books and a filing cabinet detailing the academic grades of every child in the school for the past sixteen years. Her own name sat between two others, just letters typed on a page.

Then she came across the box, stuffed at the back of the bottom drawer under a pile of periodicals. A small shoebox that had once contained a pair of her school plimsolls. Tucked inside were souvenirs of her childhood, each wrapped up in tissue paper. A baby tooth, a lock of hair. A tiny pair of pink, patent shoes, the thin laces still tied in a bow. Alice’s stomach constricted at the affection her father had struggled to show whilst alive.

At the bottom of the box was a plain, white envelope. The paper was soft with a hole on one corner and the glue had never been licked. Slipping her fingers inside Alice pulled out a photograph of a woman holding a young child, a girl. The woman’s hair was tied back in a chignon, lilac-grey eyes smiling at the camera. It was her mother.

Looking again at the photograph Alice took in the way her mother’s thumb rested on the child’s cheek, fingers curled protectively around her head. The girl was gazing up at her mother with one chubby hand grasping a pearl necklace nestled in the V at the base of her neck. Alice noticed that the child was wearing a red smock coat and pink patent shoes – the same shoes that now sat in a box atop her father’s desk. The child in the photograph was her. It was Alice.

Bile flooded her throat and stars appeared at the edge of her vision as she leant against the desk.

Her mother had died in childbirth. So who was the woman in this photograph? In all the photographs her father had ever shown her? Was it her mother, or someone else? But they had the same almond-shaped eyes, the same pronounced Cupid’s bow and full bottom lip. If this really was her mother, what did that mean?

Flipping the photograph over she was met by her father’s neat, black script.

‘Paris, 1997.’

So Alice would have been at least one, perhaps closer to two years old when the picture was taken. Was her mother alive? Or had she died at a later date? But then why would her father lie to her? Why say she was dead? Why on earth would he pretend that Alice had never known her mother, never laid eyes on her face? Then out of the depths of her mind came a darker, guilty question. Why did Alice not remember her?

She remembered what he had told her. Springtime in Paris, two students overladen with books as they rushed to escape a sudden downpour. A young woman tripping over her own feet, her father stopping to collect the papers she had dropped. Raindrops suspended on the edge of long, dark lashes as he removed black-rimmed glasses.

Her smile, the way it tugged at the very centre of his heart, and he knew in that moment he was lost to her.

She used to cuddle that memory, one of so few her father was willing to share. The perfection of it enchanted her, carried her through lonely nights and empty days of longing.

But if she wasn’t dead, where was she? Was anything he had ever told her true, or just stories designed to placate a child’s endless questions?

Alice ran her eye along the shelves, reaching high for the first in a long line of albums stood in chronological order. She flipped over the pages, searching the photographs for anything she might have missed.

Her parents stood outside a church, squinting into the sunlight: her father’s face barely containing his unequivocal happiness, her mother holding a small bouquet of peonies.

Her father stood underneath the legs of the Eiffel Tower, arms spread wide and cigarette dangling from his lips.

The silhouette of her mother looking out of an open window at the rooftops of Paris, one hand cradling the stretch of fabric pulled tight over a swollen stomach.

She knew each and every one off by heart – the images melted into her mind through fingertips that would brush over the glossy surfaces, hoping that one iota of her mother would somehow come back to her.

Then the album’s memories changed to pictures of her as a baby. Swaddled in her father’s arms, his weary face and awe-struck eyes turned to the camera. Strapped in a high chair with the remains of a meal smeared over her face, in her hair, on the wall behind. Another of her sat in the middle of brightly coloured building blocks, arms reaching out for the photographer, a jagged line held together by Steri-Strips on the side of her skull, peeping out from amongst tufts of blonde hair.

Like a little bulldozer, her father would say, barrelling straight through things instead of going around. Alice wound her fingers through her hair, seeking out the tiny thread of scar tissue, only one of several that decorated her skin like milky tattoos, a permanent reminder of childhood accidents.

Putting the album to one side she began to pull other files from the shelves, tearing out records of a lifetime spent together but nothing bringing her any closer to the truth. Tax returns, medical records and her father’s employment contract see-sawed through the air to land in a haphazard circle on the floor around where she stood.

She thought back to Barnard Castle, to the gothic architecture and a grumpy tomcat that would run into the kitchen at the first sign of rain. Was there anyone who remembered their arrival from Paris? She could picture the hazy outline of faces: a woman with furious ginger hair and glasses strung on plastic beads around her neck. A man who carried with him the scent of burnt toast and the constant expression of one who had woken only to forget where he was supposed to be.

But nothing about Paris. Nothing about her mother.

What was the point of rifling through his belongings looking for answers that he was unable to give?

She sank to the floor, clutching the photograph to her chest. There was no one to ask. Her father, like her, had been an only child – his parents long since dead and buried. He never spoke of her mother or her family so Alice had no clue, not one bloody clue as to what had really happened.

***

The photograph lay in the pages of the guidebook in front of her, one full of questions. She opened the guide book, easing apart the pages and feeling the creak along the spine. A map of Paris lay before her, the river at its centre like a serpent that curved through the streets, twists and turns reminiscent of the Thames in London.

She remembered a trip she and her father had made to the town of Donaueschingen in the Black Forest, where the source of the Danube rose in turquoise bubbles after a journey through strata of chalk and gravel. The tradition was to throw a coin over your shoulder and make a wish. Alice had complied, the whispered desire passing over lips, a repetition of every time she blew out the candles on her birthday cake.

Bring my mother back to me.

After a lunch of schnitzel and kartoffelsalat her father had wiped the froth of beer from his moustache and drawn a map of Europe on a paper napkin, a ragged line representing the river Danube as it passed through Vienna, Budapest and out to the Black Sea.

‘Where does it come from?’ she asked through mouthfuls of Schwarzwald Kirsch Kuchen, cherry juice sticking to her tongue in the same way as the unfamiliar words had when she ordered her dessert.

‘From everywhere and nowhere at all,’ her father replied, stretching his arms high and wide. ‘The constant change of our planet prevents us from ever knowing all of its secrets.’

He had always encouraged her inquisitiveness, allowed her to pull apart each new intrigue, forever ready with answers to all the questions in her mind.

But never about her mother.

Alice thought of the diaries she would write as a child: naive observations interspersed with wonderings about her mother. About the clothes she wore, the foods she ate and the house in which she lived. There was a drawing on the inside cover of each book, added to and amended each year, but in essence the same. Whitewashed walls, pitched roof, blue shutters and a room under the eaves complete with window seat piled high with cushions. A view over Paris and the knowledge that downstairs, perhaps in the kitchen preparing supper, or maybe pruning roses in the garden, was her mother.

This drawing was an invisible lifeline to a childhood lost – one she had yearned for and perfected over the years. She had even gone to the school library, sought out a map of Paris and chosen the street on which her version of herself, an imaginary twin, lived. South of the river, next to a small park where her mother would watch as she played.

But none of this was real and now the cacophony of streets on the map in front of her promised nothing, gave no clue as to her mother’s whereabouts.

It was a new challenge, a new puzzle to figure out. Anything to stop the whispered imaginings in her mind.

‘Where on earth am I supposed to start?’ she asked, her eyes following the outline of the river Seine as it cut the city in two.

Chapter 4

Veronique

Veronique danced around the room, her feet bare, the only sound a soft thwack as her boxing glove made contact with the leather bag. The sky hung heavy outside, dawn seeping through the leaded windowpanes and casting shadows across the polished wooden floor. She didn’t have long before her solitude would be interrupted.

Perspiration gathered at the base of her neck, a line running in between her shoulder blades as she circled the bag. There was comfort in the rise and fall of her ribcage as her body pumped oxygen to her aching muscles – the familiar repetition of movements allowing her brain to relax, to process.

There was something about Christelle Benazet that didn’t quite fit. Veronique had expected a grieving mother, finding instead a mask so cleverly painted that she was unable to see past the layers of Botox and mascara. Was she really unaware of her daughter’s habitual drug use, or was this conveniently ignored? Veronique understood the pull drugs could have, how easy it was to slip inside their darkness. Was this what had happened to Mathilde?

A light came on in the corridor outside and she turned to see Christophe pushing the glass door ajar, dressed head to toe in skin-tight Lycra.

‘You want some company?’ he asked, easing off biker boots and woolly socks to reveal bright pink toenails.

Veronique nodded towards his feet.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s the only make-up I can get away with in the lab.’

She smiled, wiping the back of her arm across her forehead as Christophe scooped up two pads and slipped them over his wrists.

‘Not too hard, remember.’ His eyes found the mirror on the wall behind as he adjusted his bleached-blonde quiff. ‘And stay clear of my face. I’ve got a date tonight.’

‘Who’s the poor soul this time?’

‘I take offence.’ Christophe’s hands flew upward as Veronique struck out with a right hook. ‘I am nothing but chivalrous to all of my dates.’

‘That’s my point.’ Veronique landed a one-two, gloves returning to position as she hopped backward. ‘There’s so many it’s a wonder you can ever tell the difference.’

‘This one’s a lawyer on secondment from Italy for six months. He’s got cheekbones to die for.’

‘I thought you had a pact to steer clear of lawyers? Something about it being against your moral code? Legs.’ She indicated for him to lower the pads before bringing her right knee up and then spinning full circle to strike out with her foot.

‘Sometimes it’s necessary to make exceptions. Stretch your boundaries, explore other territories.’

‘Meaning you want to see inside his pants.’

He raised his hands as Veronique came towards him. ‘That too. But there’s no reason we can’t enjoy a nice dinner first, especially if he’s paying. So did you take the case?’

‘I did.’ Two jabs, followed by an uppercut.

‘But?’

Veronique dropped her arms. ‘I don’t know. The mother isn’t what I expected.’

‘What were you expecting?’

Veronique shrugged. ‘Something more?’

‘Everyone has secrets; just because you don’t trust anyone that’s not to say she’s hiding something from you. Again?’

‘No, I’m done.’ Pulling at one glove’s Velcro wristband with her teeth she allowed Christophe to pull one hand free, then the next. The straps binding her fingers were wet, drops of sweat collecting at her feet as she unwound them. ‘But that’s just it, she has been hiding something, something significant. First of all there was a boyfriend.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mathilde recently had a nasty break-up. Secondly, she’s been stealing from her mother. Possibly to help fund a casual drug habit.’

‘I thought you said the mother was rich.’

‘She is.’ Veronique placed her legs in a V and dropped her head to the floor, stretching out her hamstrings. ‘Or at least her surroundings would suggest that she is.’

Christophe sat down cross-legged in front of her. ‘So why would Mathilde need to steal from her mother? Surely she had some kind of allowance?’

Veronique lifted her head to look at him, then bent over again. ‘Fair point, but in my experience rich kids are very good at hiding the true cost of their lifestyle from their parents. Besides, how do we know the mother gave her an allowance? Maybe it’s the husband’s money.’

‘Mathilde’s father?’

‘Non.’ She stood, balancing on one foot as she took hold of her ankle. ‘This is soon to be ex-husband number two.’

‘What happened to husband number one?’ Christophe watched as Veronique pulled backward on her leg, straightening it out behind her and hinging forward so that her body formed a perfect T.

‘No idea, but they split when Mathilde was just a baby and apparently have had no contact ever since, so I can’t imagine she’s run off to Daddy, but we can’t rule it out.’ She came back to standing. ‘For now I want to concentrate on the drugs. Just weed, as far as I can tell, but that’s not to say she hasn’t experimented further.’

‘I can ask at the clinic whether anyone recognises Mathilde’s photograph, see if they know who might have been supplying her?’

‘It’s worth a shot, but first I want to rule out everyone in her immediate social circle.’

‘Boyfriend?’

‘It’s a possibility. Either that or someone from the bar where she worked. I’m heading to the ex’s apartment after I’ve finished here.’

‘I thought you had an appointment this morning?’

Veronique turned away from Christophe. ‘I haven’t decided if that’s the right way to go.’

‘What’s to decide? It’s just a preliminary meeting.’

‘I don’t like people asking questions about my past.’ She picked up her bag and walked towards the door.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Christophe said as he followed her into the changing rooms.

‘You can’t say that.’ Veronique rolled her leggings over her thighs and peeled off her sports bra. ‘You weren’t there.’ Her scar stretched all the way from cheek to thigh, a frosty glow against flushed skin. She stepped past Christophe into the shower, closing her eyes as hot droplets covered her body.

‘At some point you have to let it go.’

‘I can’t.’ She picked up a loofah and began to massage her body in slow, repetitive circles, beginning at her ankles then up over the taut muscles on her abdomen, the soft peaks of her breasts and around to the back of her neck.

‘It was twenty years ago. It has no reflection on who you are now.’

‘It has everything to do with who I am now.’ She scrubbed at the backs of her hands and the webs of her fingers, like a surgeon preparing to enter the operating theatre, paying particular attention to the space under her nails.

‘You can’t keep punishing yourself every time you look in the mirror. I only wish you could see what I see.’

Veronique began to rub shampoo into her scalp, the air filling with the scent of lavender.

‘You’re sweet, but unfortunately first impressions count.’ She tilted her head back, a long trail of soap snaking down her spine. ‘Then there’s always the issue of my mother.’

‘What the hell has this got to do with your mother?’

‘Genetics.’

‘Oh for goodness’ sake, not this again.’ He held out a towel. ‘That’s like saying you wouldn’t have a child with me in case I pass on my gay gene.’ Veronique didn’t respond. ‘Wait, is that what you’re saying?’

‘No, no, of course not; I love you dearly but you and I both know that you’re not exactly crying out to be a father.’ Wrapping the towel around her she wrung water from her hair. ‘Besides, do I really need to explain to you the genetic implications when you don’t know your family history?’

‘You’re not a sociopath.’

‘You don’t know that. I must have inherited something from her. How else would you explain what I did?’

‘I know that you are harder on yourself than you need to be and there’s no harm in finding out your options.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’ She patted her skin dry, starting with her face and moving down her body in the reverse order to which she had cleansed herself. ‘What if it’s not possible or I’ve left it too late?’

‘You won’t know if you don’t go.’ Christophe’s phone beeped and he slid his thumb over the screen, frowning as he read the message.

Christophe’s eyes flicked up to meet Veronique’s. ‘They’ve found a necklace.’

‘Mathilde’s necklace?’

‘You know I can’t tell you.’

‘Where?’

Christophe paused before turning the screen towards her. ‘This didn’t come from me, okay? I’m still in trouble with Guillaume over last time.’

***

Veronique waited for a taxi to pass before crossing the street, snippets of conversation filtering through the air as she walked towards Café Charbon. The tables on the pavement outside were busy with people, several couples huddling over tables, their hands curled around wine glasses and feet entwined.

She planted a kiss on the bouncer’s cheek, slipping a €20 note into his hand and stepping inside the bar. It was stickier inside than out, despite the air-conditioning unit working at full capacity. Her eyes worked the room as she weaved through the crowd, oblivious to the lingering gazes as she passed.

She made her way further into the café, past groups squashed into worn banquettes and others bumping into each other as they danced around the tables. At the very back of the room was a pool table. A girl leaned against the wall, skirt hitched high and chest thrust forward as fingers twirled around a lock of golden hair. A man stood at one end of the table, swigging his beer directly from the bottle as he stared at the girl. But her courting display was not aimed at him.

Even without the photograph found on Mathilde’s Facebook page, Veronique would have recognised Frederic. Dark hair falling over deep-set eyes, two-day-old stubble framing a square jaw. With a cigarette hanging from his lips he leant over the table, gripping the cue with thick, tanned fingers. Striking the cue ball he watched as it clipped the edge of the number 8, sending it into the corner pocket. He grinned as he stood, pointing the cue at his friend.

‘Et encore une fois?’ he asked, drawing on his cigarette.

‘Do you play women?’

Frederic turned, eyes caressing her from head to toe. His mouth pulled up at one corner as he blew smoke towards the ceiling.

‘I thought he was lying.’ He perched on the table, resting the cue between his legs. ‘My flatmate told me a beautiful Phantom had come looking for me this morning, but I did not believe it to be true.’

‘As you can see, I do not wear a mask.’ Veronique plucked the cigarette from his lips and dropped it on the floor next to the toe of her leopard-skin ankle boots.

‘What is it that you want?’ he asked, grinding out the cigarette butt.

Veronique leaned closer, resting her hand on his knee. ‘What is it that you sell?’

Frederic cupped her face with his hand, turning it one way then the next. ‘How did you find me?’

Veronique batted his hand away and inserted a coin in the side of the table. She pushed against the mechanism, releasing the balls into the den. Taking two in each hand she positioned them within the plastic triangle on the green felt of the table and walked over to the wall to retrieve a cue from the rack. Frederic watched as she rubbed at its tip with blue chalk.

‘If you stop asking questions then perhaps we can play.’ She gestured for him to take first shot.

‘Please, ladies first,’ he replied, taking a sip of beer.

‘Frederic?’ The blonde sidled over, rubbing up against him like a cat. ‘You promised that would be the last game. Let’s go back to my place.’

Frederic stood up, shrugging her away. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said, handing her his empty bottle. The girl stood for a moment, the half-light in the bar doing little to disguise the blush spreading across her face. She followed his eyes to Veronique, saw the clench of his jaw as she bent forward, exposing her décolletage. The girl slammed the bottle down onto the table, cursing at him as she left.

‘I don’t think your girlfriend is best pleased with me.’ Veronique slid the cue through the thumb and forefinger of her left hand, sending the balls scattering across the table.

‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ Frederic said, walking round behind Veronique, brushing against her bare shoulder. He looked over at his friend, who shook his head and made his way back towards the bar.

‘But Mathilde was.’ She felt the pause of his hand before he moved it away. She turned to face him, finding mistrust in his eyes as he took another cigarette from its packet and looked around in search of a lighter. ‘Here,’ she said, easing her hand into his front pocket and retrieving a Zippo. She opened it with a flick of her wrist, running her thumb against the metal wheel to release a spark.

Frederic bent his head to the flame, sucking poison into his lungs before snatching the lighter back.

‘So you’re police?’

‘Non.’

‘Then what do you want?’

‘To find Mathilde. I understand the two of you were close.’

Frederic sneered. ‘She was never my girlfriend. It only happened the once and I told her it was a mistake, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Followed me everywhere, turning up at my apartment, saying we were meant to be together and all kinds of shit.’

Veronique leant on the table. ‘Then what gave her the impression you two were together?’

‘I don’t know; it was a mistake.’

‘Yes, you said that already. Was Agnes a mistake as well?’

‘What’s she got to do with this?’

Veronique sighed. ‘Her best friend. Surely even you appreciated the cruelty?’

‘Best friend?’ Frederic laughed. ‘Lady, I don’t know who’s been giving you your information but Agnes and Mathilde weren’t friends. Agnes couldn’t stand her, said she was a social climber, a leech.’

‘When did you last see her?’

‘Mathilde? The night before she went missing.’

‘Did you speak to her?’

Frederic shook his head. ‘Non. She came to my apartment, standing outside and banging on the door. No doubt off her face…’

‘She was high?’ Perhaps marijuana wasn’t the only release Mathilde had been dabbling with. She would ask Christophe to check at the clinic, pass Mathilde’s photograph around and see if anyone recognised her.

‘Not always, but towards the end, more and more. That girl is seriously messed up, but it’s not my fault she ran off.’

‘That well may be, but I’m sure the police would be interested to find out who was supplying her.’

‘You’re way off. You should go talk to the people she works with. Bunch of losers dealing in all sorts, not just drugs.’

‘So you never gave her anything?’

He came closer. ‘I only ever give women what they want.’

Veronique moved away from the table. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t date boys.’

‘Really?’ Frederic grabbed her hand, forcing it against his crotch. ‘You think I’m a boy?’

Veronique tilted her head to look up at him and smiled. The hand that was curled around his groin squeezed, gently at first but with increasing pressure.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she whispered, releasing her grip.

He drew on his cigarette, flicking it past her head whilst his other arm shot out, grabbing at her neck and pushing her back onto the table. Pressing his mouth against hers he forced her lips apart with his tongue. She returned his kiss, hearing him moan as the hand around her throat travelled down towards her chest.

She bit down hard on his bottom lip and he shot backward, bringing fingers up to his mouth as she eased herself off the table.

The back of his hand struck against her cheek.

‘So you like things rough?’ he snarled at her.

‘You have no idea,’ she replied, curling her hand into a fist as she shifted her weight onto her back leg, leaning her whole body into the uppercut that made contact with the bottom of his nose.

‘You crazy bitch!’ he roared as blood spurted from his nostrils. He lunged at her but she dodged under his arm, spinning around and punching into his kidney as he fell against the table.

He shot round, one hand gripping the end of a pool cue. Veronique faced him, her own hands raised.

‘Is that such a good idea?’ She nodded towards the bar, where a dozen or so people were turned in their direction.

Frederic’s eyes flickered towards his friend who was returning from the bar. He made as if to lower his arm then swung out, lips curled back in a snarl. She tried to duck but the cue caught her across the shoulder, tipping her off balance. She turned her face to see him raise the cue again.

‘Jesus, Frederic, what are you doing?’ His friend grabbed on to Frederic’s arm, pulling him away from Veronique.

‘Casse-toi!’ Frederic struggled against the other man, bloody spittle collecting at the corner of his mouth.

Two barmen appeared on either side of Frederic and together they dragged him through the crowd of people, his angered cries calling back to her.

‘You okay?’

Veronique looked over at Frederic’s friend, opening her mouth wide and touching her fingertips to her cheek. She could already sense the beginnings of a bruise.

‘Oui, I have had far worse.’

‘I feel like I should apologise for my friend.’

Veronique smiled. ‘I get the impression you have to do that a lot.’

He shrugged, offering her a beer.

‘Non, merci.’ She shook her head. ‘But thank you for stepping in when you did.’

Leaving the swell of revellers behind Veronique walked outside and checked her phone. Still no news from Christophe. By refusing to respond to any of her messages throughout the day she was certain that not only did the necklace belong to Mathilde, but the police had found something more as well. She needed to speak to him, to find out where the investigation was headed, because all she had come up with so far were more questions.

Frederic was a bully, and a violent one at that. But what he’d said about Mathilde, about her and Agnes not being friends, made her think that there was another side to Mathilde’s life she hadn’t yet touched upon. A darker, more dangerous side that had nothing to do with Frederic and everything to do with whoever was supplying her.

If Christophe wasn’t going to talk to her then she would have to go to the crime scene herself. If she left now she could squeeze in a few hours’ sleep and still get to the park before it opened.

Looking down the street in the hope of a vacant taxi, Veronique noticed the girl from the bar, huddled in a doorway. She shook her head; there was no point in trying to talk to her. But then again she was partly responsible for the girl’s pain, something she had no desire to pass on to the undeserving.

‘Hey,’ she called out as she crossed the pavement. The girl snapped her head up in response. Her navy-blue eyes were ringed with smeared mascara, her lips chewed.

‘Go away,’ she sniffed, flicking a cigarette butt into the gutter and slouching against the wall.

Veronique sighed. ‘Look, I know you probably won’t believe me, but guys like Frederic aren’t worth the effort.’

‘Seems like you found that out the hard way.’

‘That was work, nothing personal.’

‘Whatever.’ She put a fresh cigarette in her mouth, cupping her hands around the tip as she tried to light it.

‘Those things will kill you.’

‘Who are you, my mother?’

Veronique laughed, one short burst of irony. ‘Frederic thinks he’s untouchable, that his good looks and charm will give him everything he dreams of. But in ten years’ time he will still be coming to this bar every Friday night, clinging on to the youth that is slowly slipping away. Do you really want to spend your life following a man who will never love you in return?’

The girl stared at her.

‘You know what, you’re right, you’re not my responsibility and I have better things to do with my time.’ She looked again at the girl, recognising in her expression some of the naivety she used to carry around.

Before him. Before it all went horribly wrong.

‘Just be careful, okay?’ she said, laying a hand on the girl’s arm before turning away and crossing the street, heels clicking against cobblestones as she disappeared into the night.

Chapter 5

Alice

Evening was settling on the city and the streets were busy with people easing themselves out of work and into the weekend. The bar opposite her apartment was filling up. Alice’s image reflected back from a dozen pairs of sunglasses as she passed the tables outside.

The barman raised his head as she walked towards him.

‘Oui?’ he asked, setting down the glass he was pretending to polish.

‘Avez-vous une bouteille de champagne?’

‘Champagne?’

‘Oui, champagne. Je suis censé célébrer.’

‘You’re supposed to be celebrating?’

Alice pulled her hair away from her neck with one hand and fanned her face with the other. ‘I don’t suppose you have any Bollinger?’

‘That’s an expensive bottle for someone celebrating alone.’

Alice shrugged, searching the wall of bottles behind the bar. ‘My father’s buying.’

‘Your father?’ The barman looked beyond Alice to the street outside.

‘Oh don’t worry, he’s not here, but I feel that I should include him in this in some way. After all, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.’

‘And why are you here, in Paris? A beautiful young woman shouldn’t be alone in Paris.’

Alice met his eye, half a smile on her lips. ‘Just the champagne, please.’

The barman watched her for a moment then stood. ‘Okay, but we only have Laurent-Perrier. Is that good?’

‘Absolutely,’ she replied. ‘Any chance I can borrow a glass as well?’

***

Alice opened the window, pushing aside the wooden shutters and allowing the warmth of the air to seep into the dusty room. She dangled her legs over the lip of the windowsill, sneaking bare toes in between iron railings that saved her from a four-storey fall to the pavement below. Reaching back into the room she picked up her glass of champagne, raising it in mock toast before taking a long sip. The text she had received earlier from her friend Emily still circled her mind.

You got a first!!! I always knew you could do it. Your dad would be so proud. Hope the search is going well. Call me x

Would her father be proud of her if he knew she had spent the day searching for clues to uncover the lies he’d told? Would he congratulate her as she looked into the face of every middle-aged woman she passed, hoping to miraculously bump into her mother? Or would he sigh and stroke his beard, leaving the room without uttering a word?

She scrolled through her other messages, most of which were from Stefan, each of them near identical. They were all about how he was missing her, how she was hurting him, how he was beside himself all alone. Nothing about her, asking why she was in Paris and not on her way to Africa as planned. Did it ever occur to him that once, just once, life might be about something other than him?

Her fingertips found the chain around her neck, slipping down to the angel figurine that rested against her breastbone. It was one of the few gifts she had ever received from Stefan. He bought it for her after seeing a postcard of two cherubs and exclaiming that was what their daughter would look like. This had followed a particularly heated argument about his wife.

Not for the first time Alice had announced she wouldn’t see him any more, that she’d had enough of skulking in libraries and sneaking from his room in the early hours so as not to be caught by prying eyes. The fact his wife still lived in Stockholm, that their marriage was now merely one of convenience, did nothing to quell Stefan’s resolution that he could not be seen with another woman, let alone one he was supposed to be mentoring.

Alice’s father wasn’t the only one who had secrets. Stefan wasn’t technically a professor, rather a graduate teacher who was assisting Professor Mitchell, but still. It was against the rules and Alice didn’t do against the rules. At least, that’s what people were supposed to think.

To the outside world she was the girl who never put a foot wrong. She came home straight from school, got good grades, even joined the debate team and never questioned why. She didn’t have a boyfriend because her father considered it a distraction, but also none of the boys at school managed to catch her interest. Then she went to university and a whole new world opened up.

On a cold Tuesday morning at the end of her first term, Stefan stopped Alice as she was leaving a lecture and asked if she wanted to go for coffee in order to discuss that week’s essay.

Sitting opposite one another in the cramped café – his smooth, tanned hands curled around a cappuccino – he asked innocuous questions about the course and whether Alice had a preference for English or French literature. She told him that in fact Nabokov’s Lolita was her all-time favourite, whilst she imagined those fingers trailing down her spine.

‘I saw you the other day,’ he said, head bent forward and dark blonde hair falling over his brow. ‘In the faculty library.’

‘Oh?’ Alice replied, blowing into her tea.

‘Why did you do it?’

‘Do what?’ Placing the cup on the table she met his gaze. Technically she had done nothing wrong, but the university frowned upon students swapping their work, said it only encouraged plagiarism. Alice knew that even if the other student chose to copy her essay, she could feign ignorance, claim she had no idea that’s what they wanted it for; but putting yourself under scrutiny wouldn’t be the smartest move.

He smiled. Alice smiled back.

‘You know, I could report you. Get you into all sorts of trouble.’

‘But you won’t.’ Resting her chin on her hand she noticed his eyes lingered on her mouth.

‘No, I won’t.’

Alice reached out her hand to steal a lump of sugar from the bowl between them, dipping it into his coffee and watching the slow spread of brown over white. Bringing it to her lips she sucked at the bitter juices followed by a kick of sweetness.

‘Where’s your room?’ she asked.

The angel necklace he gave her was from the shop opposite the library. It was his way of reeling Alice back in, reminding her that he was fully aware of her own dirty little secret. And she was powerless to resist. For all her common sense, despite everything her father had taught her, she couldn’t walk away from the one person who broke her heart every time they kissed. Every time he smiled, his face creasing against the pillow. Every time he whispered against her ear whilst they made love, hidden away from the world in his attic room.

Alice tried to convince herself it was nothing, just an affair. A clandestine affair that could be stopped at any time. She flicked through the hundreds of photographs on her phone, pausing at a closeup of his face in profile, a stolen moment during a lecture one morning. Her finger hovered over the delete button.

It had been over a fortnight now since they had spoken, nearly a month since they had lain encircling one another. Alice knew it would end when she left the city. She had promised her father it would end. His disapproval when he found out was almost as painful as learning of his diagnosis. Things changed in that moment and he began to distance himself, as if he were ashamed of her in some way.

***

‘You have to end it.’ Her father sat forward, allowed Alice to place another pillow behind him.

Roles reversed, she now the carer instead of the child. She knew how much he loathed being indebted to anyone, hated how the medication made him physically weak, especially when his mind was still raging.

‘Why?’

‘Because people are beginning to talk.’ He winced as he lay back, the pain that was never vocalised now etched all over his clean-shaven face. ‘It’s been going on for too long, Alice, and you deserve better.’

‘Define better.’ She couldn’t help it, toying with him even though she knew he was right, even though he was sick. She was so used to him fighting her battles alongside her that it irritated when he pointed out her mistakes.

‘Just because they’re no longer living together doesn’t mean there isn’t something between them. Don’t be the reason for ending a marriage.’

‘What would you know about marriage?’

‘More than you.’ His eyes closed and she understood the conversation to be over.

***

When he died part of her was desperate for Stefan, for the familiar comfort of him, but it was impossible to speak to someone with a ready-made family waiting back in Sweden whenever he wanted. And now? Now more than ever she yearned for space, a never-ending stream of space stretching out between them too far for him to claw her back to his bed. She avoided his calls, deleted his messages without listening to them – afraid at the fragility of her heart and what it would mean if she allowed herself to hear even one utterance, one exhalation of breath that she longed to feel against her skin.

***

Alice looked across the street to the bar. She didn’t need to hear what anyone was saying; the pitch of their voices, the scent of the air, it was full of clues, telling her where she was in the world. It was yet another thing her father had taught her, taking her to different cities and impressing on her the importance to understand a culture from personal experience. He said it was necessary to taste the atmosphere, to wrap yourself up in the feel of a place in order to truly know it.

He encouraged her to find her own truths: what made each city special to her. She did so by taking photographs. Her father would often turn around to find she had wandered over to take a picture of a dog tied to a lamp post, waiting for his owner to return. Or an abandoned newspaper next to an empty coffee cup in a café. He would smile then, watching as she collected memories in the things that made her take a second look.

For her eighteenth birthday they had travelled to Venice where he bought her a vintage Leica from a shop hidden in amongst the multitude of tourist traps. The walls were covered in photographs taken by the shop’s patron, hair slicked back from a face lined with stories. He had smiled at her choice of camera, telling her that a true photographer could capture a moment without the need for a filter or Photoshop.

Together she and her father had explored the Weihnachtsmarkt in Berlin, Alice being led by her senses from one sugar-laden stall to the next as her father sipped on a gluhwein. He showed her how the sunset cast a different light over the river in Budapest than it did on the sea in Barcelona. He taught her about ancient people in Rome, Cairo, even Yucatán. But he never brought her to Paris.

One of the few things Alice had always known about her mother was that she was French. It was how her father explained her natural ability to learn the language, but he steadfastly refused to set foot in Paris, despite her protestations, saying that he had no desire to revisit the city that had brought him so much sorrow. At the time Alice believed he was referring to her mother’s death, but now she wondered if it was something else that had made him run from the past.

Her phone beeped with another text. Swinging her legs into the room she put her glass down on a small side table, next to her Leica that was safely strapped into its case. She bent over the bed to read the text message.

Call me. Please. I’m going crazy without you.

Straightening up she went over to the compact en suite tucked away in the corner of the room and slid open the door. Turning on the tap she watched the water circling round the plughole, descending into darkness. She held her wrists under the steady flow, staring at her flushed reflection and waiting for her blood to cool.

How was it that he had this effect on her, even hundreds of miles away? She could imagine him bent over his phone, brow furrowed, as he tapped in a message. Was he in their café? Making notes as he finished off his usual order of smoked salmon on rye with a triple espresso? Or was he nursing a pint of bitter in the Turf, tucked away in the corner table by the bar and reading a copy of the Swedish newspaper Svenska Dagbladet?

Stop it, she told herself, slamming her hands against the porcelain sink. You made a decision to leave, to cut all ties. A frightened face looked back at her. But what if he knew everything? Would that make him run to me, or back to her?

Her phone began to ring and she clasped her hands over her ears, willing the noise to stop. She sank onto the bed and lay back against the soft covers, noticing a spider busy making a web around the light fitting on the ceiling. She traced the delicate lines through the air with her fingers and was rewarded with a memory of walking across the school lawn one autumnal morning. Her father had shown her the symmetry in the webs that were entangled in the holly bushes that flanked the main entrance, dewdrops hanging from every thread.

Standing up she crossed back to the window, draining her glass and leaning over the railings to watch someone exit the bar. A woman looked both ways down the street. As her head turned Alice’s eye was drawn to something on her face. Holding up her phone she took a couple of photographs, zooming in on the woman as she walked over to a girl who was smoking in the shadows.

Alice reached over and retrieved her Leica, unbuckling the straps and easing the weight of the camera into her palm. Sliding off the lens cap she checked the settings and peered through the viewfinder. She was too high up to catch any of their conversation, but the woman’s movements seemed to suggest penance, one hand resting on the girl’s arm. Then a rise and fall of her shoulders, a sigh, before she turned and walked away, the click of her stilettos echoing off the cobbled street.

Alice followed the woman with her lens, the light from a street lamp illuminating the flush on her cheek before she slipped round the corner and was gone.

Alice walked over to the far side of the room where she had pinned up a map of the city. Next to this were dozens of photographs: some new, some old. She touched her fingertips to one of her and her friends taken at her twentieth birthday party last summer. They were grinning at the camera with sticky lips and tanned arms.

Another was of her father, head tilted back to watch the fireworks from the window of the Great Hall at school. Around him were dotted memories of people and places, links to Alice’s past that pulled at her whenever she looked at them. In the centre was the one she had discovered of her and her mother, an image now so engrained on Alice’s mind that she saw it every time she closed her eyes.

She was going about this in completely the wrong way.

Think, came her father’s voice. Use your head, not your heart.

Picking up a notepad and pen Alice began to circle points on the map.

Chapter 6

Veronique

Veronique curled her fingers around the crossbar at the top of the railing and pulled herself upward. The muscles in her back and shoulders tightened as she placed her foot in between the next two spikes then lifted her other leg over to drop to the gravel below.

Crouching low she swept the park with her good eye. The moon throbbed in the clear night sky, rich in its fullness and illuminating the ground. She made towards the line of trees at the side of the path, skipping under their canopy to conceal any giveaway shadows.

Black, iron street lamps stood on either side of the path like an upright railroad track, directing Veronique’s eye towards the fountain. It was still, the pumps turned off overnight, and the police tape had been removed as the investigation in this area was deemed complete.

Costume has been cleaned of red paint, Christophe texted in the early hours. Someone also left a wig behind in the wind section of the orchestra, which has been vacated.

Veronique bemoaned his attempt to communicate in code. Even using his mobile within police headquarters was a sackable offence, let alone if he was caught passing on information to an outsider. Sometimes she questioned whether having him as her informant was such a good idea, but his access level was worth the risk.

According to Christophe’s message, no body had been found, but DNA taken from blood on the necklace and a few strands of hair caught in the fountain’s pipes gave a clear indication that Mathilde had been here.

A car’s brakes cut through the shroud of silence and a creature in the tree above hissed its objection at Veronique.

Approaching the fountain she scoured for the patrolling night watchman and his unpredictable Alsatian. Time wasn’t about to wait for her to set her own pace so she slipped off her trainers and stepped into the water, registering its bitterness as the chill spread over her skin.

The fountain had been drained, its water already replaced in an attempt to hide the truth once the park was reopened. A PR stunt designed to cover up the fact the police had potentially ignored a murder, which made her own investigation all the more difficult.

Draining the fountain was a mistake in her mind. In so doing the police could have wiped away something that lay hidden in the debris at the bottom. But they were looking for physical evidence, not subtle clues. Once the press got hold of the story there was a danger of it turning into a full-scale murder hunt.

Guillaume would be under a lot of scrutiny, forced to explain how his task force dismissed the claims of a mother that her daughter hadn’t simply run away. He would be doing everything in his power to find Mathilde and fast, so Veronique needed to stay one step ahead of him if she were to win.

Is that all this was: a desire to prove him wrong? To prove that her methods, no matter how ruthless, were more effective than ticking every box, following every lead to the point of exhaustion? That what happened to Pascal wasn’t his fault and he needed to stop trying to make up for it every day of his life?

She should go and see Pascal. Ever since she and Guillaume broke up she had been avoiding him, refusing to visit due to her workload and ignoring all attempts by the family to contact her. It wasn’t Pascal’s fault. But she needed to cut all ties; it was the only way she could cope with the chasm that opened up in her the day Guillaume left.

Reaching the statue at the fountain’s centre she bent down, easing her arm into the water and feeling for the opening of the pipes where Mathilde’s hair had been found. The pumps being idle allowed her to push her hand inside of the pipe, wiping around the inside with her fingertips as she searched for any scrap of a clue.

Pulling her hand out she tugged at her sleeve, fabric clinging to wet skin as she looked around, deciding where next to go. The presence of hair alone would not have made the police take notice, but coupled with the blood found on the missing necklace they were compelled to investigate further.

As she turned to walk back through the water its surface rippled, disturbed by a movement nearby. A low rumble emerged from underneath and behind her, the vibrations too subtle to feel in her own body but visible as they spread out in circles towards the edge of the fountain. A droplet landed on her shoulder, followed by several more and she looked skyward as the pipes sucked water into their belly and propelled it up and over her.

Squatting down she shoved her arm back into the water, feeling the pull against her hand. She stood, staring into the water and watching it swirl around her legs. The fountain could not have been turned on if a body was here, otherwise the force from the pipes would have pressed skull against the metal’s edge, hair becoming further entangled and leaving traces of skin or blood.

She checked her watch. It was just before 6 a.m. The park closed at 11 p.m., giving seven hours in which to move the body. But how? The park was surrounded on three sides by eight-foot-high fencing and the only open exit was by the Place de la Concorde where someone dragging a body would be noticed no matter what time of day or night. Which meant either Mathilde was hidden in the park somewhere or she was still alive.

The water lapped in a false tide around her calves as she returned to the fountain’s edge and stepped over its ledge. The soles of her feet stuck to the damp earth, leaving behind two clear imprints. Next to them, facing away from the stone was another, fainter footprint. The edges weren’t clean, but Veronique could identify the outline of a heel and five toes, the second of which was longer than the first. It was the same footprint she had often seen on her bathroom floor as its owner dried himself with an oversized towel.

‘I should have known he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.’

Veronique turned to see a besuited man sitting on a bench not ten feet away, lacing up black brogues.

‘Who?’

‘Don’t pretend to be stupid.’ He rose from the bench, sipping from a polystyrene cup. ‘It doesn’t suit you. Christophe can’t afford another stain on his record and you know it. He’s a phenomenal forensics expert, one of the best we have, and yet due to some misplaced loyalty towards you his career is constantly being put on hold.’

‘Shouldn’t you be at the station, Guillaume?’

‘Shouldn’t you be running along the riverbanks rather than scaling fences?’ He walked towards her.

‘Touché.’ She smiled, trying to ignore the suggestive aroma of tea tree that accompanied him as he drew close. Did the amber glass bottle still sit on his window ledge? Did he think of her when he rubbed the ointment into the persistent psoriasis at the edge of his scalp? How many more weeks until he would need to replenish his supply, to retrace steps taken together upon their chance discovery of an apothecary shop hidden behind their favourite restaurant? The wooden drawers hiding treasures used over the centuries to treat ailments even modern medicine could not cure.

‘What happened to your face?’ A raised hand, her step away in response.

‘Nothing, just a boxing accident.’

‘Now why do I find that hard to believe?’

‘Believe what you want. It’s hardly your concern any more.’

A twitch, his eyes shifting. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘You shouldn’t have dropped the case.’

‘Stop goading me, Veronique. You’re way over the line here and you know it.’

‘Did you find a body?’

Even in the half-light of dawn she saw the shadows underneath his eyes, shadows that hadn’t been there a few months ago. Was it Pascal? Had something happened to him?

‘You know I can’t tell you.’ He turned his head, showing her the temptation of hair that curled against the nape of his neck.

‘Does the mother know?’

‘So that’s the connection.’ He faced her. ‘Why this case? It doesn’t fall within your usual remit. What happened? Did all the one per cent disappear to their tax havens for the summer, leaving you without any clients?’

He was taunting her, the tone of his voice like a petulant child’s.

‘Has Madame Benazet been informed of the findings?’

‘Stay out of it, Veronique.’ Guillaume threw his cup into a nearby bin. ‘Don’t force me to fire him.’

‘You don’t have the authority to do that.’

‘No? Set foot on one of my crime scenes again and you’ll find out if that’s true.’ He stared at her for a moment, a thought left hanging. ‘Take the exit by the Musée de l’Orangerie.’ He indicated behind her with a nod of his head. ‘That way you won’t be seen.’ His phone rang and he pressed it to his ear, one quick glance at her permitted before he walked away.

Like a magician he had managed to unravel her careful work of the past months, reaching down inside of her to pull everything back to the surface.

She left the park, crossing the river and heading west along its banks. The top of the Eiffel Tower was like a lighthouse, guiding her as she tried to push all thoughts of Guillaume away.

But no matter what she did, he was there. Whenever she drank her morning coffee, made using a machine he bought her as he didn’t understand how she could spend a fortune each morning at the café down the street. When she browsed the Marché Mouffetard, just as they had most Sunday mornings, never buying anything but part of her hoping he would be there too.

The familiar scent of his aftershave on someone else’s skin, making her turn her head in hope. The feel of his arms around her, drawing her close and blocking out all her nightmares. He was there when she closed her eyes at night, the space in the bed next to her cold because she couldn’t bring herself to cross the invisible line over to his side.

You couldn’t simply brush away the best part of two years. Close the door on all the memories made together and expect them never to come back. She still remembered the first time she saw him, would cling to that picture in her darkest moments and try to recall the exact curve of his lip as he held out his hand to her.

***

‘Guillaume,’ he said with a smile that stretched the full width of his face as he strode across to her. ‘Enchanté.’

‘Veronique,’ she replied, registering the warmth of his palm and how it enveloped hers completely. His grip was assured, eyes the colour of forget-me-nots, and he had a smattering of stubble along his jaw. She was lost in an instant, the sensation of falling through time and seeing herself as an old woman with him sat beside her.

‘Christophe was just telling me about what it is that you do.’ He kept hold of her hand and with reluctance she let go, moving around the table to put a barrier between them. ‘About how you have a knack for finding things, people, and getting them to talk.’

‘Was he now?’ Veronique looked over at Christophe, at the way he was hopping from one foot to the next like a child who needed the toilet. Add to that the two thumbs up he was giving her as he left the office and she had a feeling that she wasn’t here to take Christophe out to lunch. ‘And what is it you do?’

‘I’m a Capitaine for the National Police here in Paris.’

She couldn’t help but widen her eyes.

‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Only that I’m not used to requests from the police.’ Normally they were trying to block her investigations rather than hire her. ‘Christophe hasn’t mentioned you before. I assume you work together – that’s how you know one another?’

‘Non, I have only recently transferred across from the Ministry of the Interior. Christophe and I met here, at the clinic.’

And it all fell into place. The impossibly handsome man Christophe had, with the subtlety of an axe, been dropping into conversation of late. The new Captain who voluntarily gave up his post at the Ministry to help with an on-going narcotics investigation. A man who had also been attending rehabilitation sessions at the clinic with his brother and then asking questions about the increasing number of patients being admitted with similar symptoms.

‘You’re Pascal’s brother, n’est-ce-pas?’ Veronique asked, the shroud that came across the Captain’s features too apparent to miss.

‘I am.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In a way it’s him I wanted to speak to you about. Specifically the drugs he was taking when he overdosed.’

‘Ecstasy?’

‘Yes. No doubt you are aware that there have been several cases in recent months of young people overdosing from MDMA laced with lethal quantities of methamphetamine.’

‘It’s been all over the news.’

‘What hasn’t been in the news is that we suspect each batch is coming from a single supplier. One who is bringing the drugs in from outside of France and mixing them here, in Paris.’

‘Based on what evidence?’

He broke eye contact for the first time since she walked into the room. ‘That’s confidential.’

‘With all due respect, Capitaine, if you’re asking for my help you’re going to have to give me more than that.’

The look on his face – one that she would come to recognise without the need for words – it was an internal process, a weighing up of the odds and potential risks involved, a process she never would be able to understand or empathise with. Especially when it involved family.

Guillaume’s brother ended up in a coma after taking what he thought was a pure ecstasy pill on a night out. He was only seventeen years old and under the care of his older brother whilst their parents were at a wedding in Toulouse. The end result was that Pascal now required round-the-clock care, his future wiped out through one bad decision. A decision that Guillaume felt responsible for.

If the same thing had happened to Christophe, Veronique didn’t know what she would have done, what lengths she would go to in order to find, and obliterate, the people responsible.

But Guillaume was a veritable knight in shining armour. His mistake that night, allowing Pascal to go out even though he had a test at school the next day, was the driving force behind all subsequent decisions. He would not allow himself to make any more errors in judgement, and that meant following the rules to their absolute limit.

It was something they argued about, over and over. His refusal to go with her, to punish the drug dealers in a way far more appropriate than prison. He’d stopped her then, just as he’d tried to stop her every time since.

***

Coming to a halt she rested her palm against the wall, its bricks soaking up heat from the threatening sun. She leaned against the door, waiting for her heartbeat to return to a more normal level as a wet nose found her shin. She bent down to ruffle behind the dog’s ears.

‘Bonjour, Barney.’

‘Barney! Allez!’ An elderly woman shuffled across the small courtyard, waving at the dog.

‘Delphine, how are you today?’ Veronique enquired as Barney continued to jump at her like a small child, desperate for attention.

‘Pas mal, pas mal,’ Delphine replied between heavy breaths and Veronique couldn’t help but notice the yellow tinge to her skin.

‘Have you been outside lately?’

She avoided Veronique’s eyes. ‘Now and then,’ she said, walking back to an armchair positioned in an open doorway. She sank into its battered cushions, swollen ankles spilling out of stained ruby slippers.

‘And what does the doctor say?’ Veronique reached inside the door and poured Madame a glass of chilled lemonade from the turquoise ceramic jug set on a narrow table in the hallway. She took it with shaking hands, chapped lips sucking the liquid into her mouth.

‘What do they know? Barely old enough to write their own name and yet they want to pump me full of drugs I can’t even pronounce.’

‘Has your son been to visit this week? I thought he was going to take you to the house near La Rochelle?’

‘He is busy with his work. I understand he will come another time.’

More likely busy with another woman, Veronique thought. He probably lay in bed at night, imagining the size of his bank balance once the cancer destroyed what was left of his mother.

‘Why don’t I take Barney for a run tomorrow?’ she offered, squeezing Delphine’s hand.

Delphine smiled in response. ‘Yes, he would like that. Tires him out for the rest of the day.’

‘And perhaps later we can go for a walk to the bistro. Some of their home cooking would do you the world of good.’

‘Peut-être.’ She smiled, sorrow clouding her eyes. ‘But for now you have a visitor.’

Veronique looked up towards the small balcon on the top floor of the building where the shadow of a man could be seen.

***

‘Remind me to ask for your key back,’ she said as she opened the door to her appartement and walked through to the open-plan living area. Christophe was sitting at the wrought-iron table out on the small balcon, plucking tomatoes from a nearby plant and popping them into his mouth like sweets.

‘Why is it that your fridge is empty and yet you have an entire farm out here?’ Christophe replied as she bent to kiss him on both cheeks.

Veronique stole a tomato for herself, the skin warm against her lips. ‘I like being able to eat something I’ve grown myself. That way I know it’s not full of pesticides or things grown in labs.’

‘Like me, you mean?’

‘You’re the perfect experiment gone wrong.’ She smiled, going back inside and through to the bedroom. Shrugging out of her running gear she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. ‘I bumped into Guillaume.’

Christophe’s head appeared around the doorway. ‘Really? Is he still tall, dark and ever so handsome?’

‘Tired.’ Veronique ducked her head under the stream of cool water then picked up a loofah and began to massage her ankles, then continued up the length of her body to finish at the back of her neck.

‘The stress of being Mr Perfect is obviously getting to him.’ Christophe opened the mirrored cupboard above the sink and began to apply mascara to feathery lashes. ‘What did he want?’

‘He caught me at the park.’ She scrubbed at her hands.

Christophe pushed back from the sink to stare at her. ‘He was there? Merde. What did he say?’

‘That he knows it was you who told me.’ Stepping out of the shower she reached for a towel on the rail opposite, her hand lingering on the soft cotton.

‘So what? He can’t prove it.’

‘You need to be more careful.’ She dried herself from the face down, following the line of her scar.

‘I was careful.’

‘Christophe, if anyone gets their hands on your phone they’ll be able to see who and what you have been messaging so I hope you really have deleted everything, including any back-ups. You can’t afford another warning and I’d hate for you to lose your job. You love it there, surrounded by other like-minded science geeks.’

‘I’ll ignore that. Science is the key to everything and you know it. Did you find anything?’

Veronique went back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Two rails of clothing, one pale and the other dark, arranged by fabric and then season. The drawers contained both her lace underwear and workout gear, all folded and stored away amongst layers of tissue paper. At the bottom stood row upon row of stacked boxes, each labelled with a Polaroid photograph of the shoes contained therein.

Her eye fell on a box pushed to the back. Inside was the sweatshirt Guillaume had left behind, fire engine red with bleached stitching and bare patches bleeding out from the elbows. Like a favourite teddy she had cocooned her frame in the soft cotton, wishing she could tattoo the memory of him onto her skin.

You asked him to leave, remember? she told herself, pushing the box out of sight and pulling on a pair of ivory chinos and silk T-shirt the colour of a midnight sky.

‘Nothing specific, but I think she’s still alive. Unless of course you can tell me otherwise? Did Guillaume search the park?’

‘Didn’t you just tell me to be more careful?’

‘Did they find a body?’ Veronique went into the kitchen and poured two cups of muddy coffee, adding a teaspoon of honey to one and handing it to Christophe.

‘Don’t you think I would still be at the park if they had?’

‘So someone either moved the body or she left of her own accord.’

Christophe took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Pretty much, but I’m under strict instructions not to divulge any information to the press.’

‘I’m not press.’

Christophe smiled. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t tell Guillaume about visiting the boyfriend? Nor that he’s the one responsible for the rather alarming bruise on your face that I wasn’t going to mention?’

‘Don’t worry, his broken nose more than makes up for it.’

‘And?’

‘And I don’t think we can rule out the possibility that he had something to do with Mathilde’s disappearance. Frederic is violent, arrogant and thinks he’s untouchable.’

‘Sounds a little like someone else I know, minus the arrogance of course.’

‘I’m never unnecessarily violent.’

‘Who said I was talking about you? I’ve come across plenty of men in my time who accurately fit that description.’

Veronique rolled her eyes. ‘Back to Mathilde. I need to do some more digging, find out about Frederic’s past.’

‘I can do that. George owes me a favour.’

‘Fine, but don’t let him in here. I can’t risk having anything traced back to my IP address, not now we’re being watched. I also need to get to the boss before Guillaume.’

‘Where did the girl work? Perhaps I can meet George there, scout out the place for you, faire d’une pierre deux coups and all that.’

‘A bar near Montmartre.’

Christophe pulled a face. ‘When you say “bar”, do you mean upstairs or behind the curtain?’

‘No idea. All we have is the name of her boss, Valentine Dubois, which just so happens to be the same name as the eyewitness the police were too quick to dismiss. Guillaume is bound to go back and question him, unless I can get there first.’

Christophe looked at her. ‘Promise me this is about the girl and not him.’

‘It’s about the girl. And he wasn’t the only one to blame.’ Veronique’s phone beeped and she slid her thumb across the screen, frowning at the reminder that popped up.

‘All the more reason never to go back there, no matter how good the sex was.’ Christophe peered over her shoulder. ‘You can’t keep avoiding that.’

Veronique tucked the phone in her pocket. ‘Who says I’m avoiding it?’

‘I’ll come with you. Isn’t the clinic on Boulevard Jourdan? I know a girl from the clinic who lives there and used to work in Montmartre. If Mathilde was more than just a barmaid, Giselle might recognise her or at least point us in the right direction.’

Veronique looked at him then drained her coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink before placing it in the dishwasher. ‘Fine. But you’re not coming in with me.’

‘No need to be so shy, darling,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘it’s not as if I haven’t already seen what you’ve got.’

Chapter 7

Veronique

‘I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.’ The doctor sat down opposite Veronique and opened a file.

‘I wasn’t sure myself,’ Veronique replied. ‘It’s good to see you, Mingxia; it’s been too long.’

‘Well I’m glad to see you now.’ Mingxia glanced at her notes, running a finger down the page. ‘I have the blood work back and everything looks normal. Your testosterone levels are still slightly elevated, but nothing to be concerned about so we can proceed as planned.’

‘I’m not comfortable with the idea of an operation.’

‘Of course, but it’s relatively non-invasive. We would keep you in overnight for observation and the risk is minimal.’

‘It’s just that if it doesn’t work…’ Veronique looked over at a board on the wall, full of smiling cherubic faces and letters of thanks from their parents. How many more faces were there telling a different story, of lost hope?

Hope. A single word containing so much possibility. What was it that she hoped for? The confused prayers of a young girl were now so far behind her that Veronique couldn’t recall ever feeling truly hopeful. Her foster father had made sure of that.

Mingxia clasped her hands together. ‘I understand, but I wouldn’t be recommending the procedure if it weren’t the best option for treating polycystic ovary syndrome when all other factors have been ruled out.’

Veronique crossed and uncrossed her legs. ‘About the other option you mentioned…’

‘What does Guillaume think?’

‘We’re not together any longer.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Mingxia removed her glasses and closed the file. ‘I can’t pretend that it would be easy, but I can certainly put you in touch with someone who would be able to give you a better idea of how it all works.’

‘And what about my past?’

‘What about your past?’

‘Does it put me at a disadvantage?’

‘I’ve told you before, I’m not qualified in this area, but a person’s background should have no legal basis on which you could be disqualified from applying. If anything I would think it would put you at an advantage, being able to identify with a child about the care system, explaining how you overcame the difficulties of your upbringing.’

‘Meaning I’d have to go and see a shrink.’ Another person asking questions Veronique herself didn’t know the answers to.

‘A psychological assessment is a legal requirement, yes. But this is the same for everyone.’

How could she teach a child to dream? To wish, to aim for the stars when she herself had never had someone to show her the endless opportunities life had to offer? If only you were willing to take a chance, to risk it all, safe in the knowledge that there would be someone to catch you if you fell.

‘I don’t know how to be a mother.’

Mingxia reached across the table for Veronique’s hand. ‘Does anyone? Mine pushed me as far as she could. Wanted to prove that her own upbringing wouldn’t restrict the ambitions she had for me.’

‘She loved you.’

‘Yes, but as a child I wanted bedtime stories and fairy cakes we’d baked together rather than another teacher. It means that one day I will be different with my own children, because I choose to show them how much I love them. You have that choice too.’ Mingxia looked at the clock on the wall behind Veronique’s head. ‘I’m sorry, but I have a meeting to get to.’

‘I know, I was late. I’m not usually late.’

Mingxia stood and pulled Veronique in for a hug. ‘Don’t be a stranger, Veronique. Just because I’m your doctor doesn’t mean we can’t still be friends.’

‘Thank you, Mingxia.’

She released Veronique, eyes flitting over her scar. ‘Think about what I said before. If you let me carry out the procedure there’s no medical reason why you couldn’t conceive naturally.’

***

The sound of an approaching tram followed Veronique as she crossed the road, sparks catching on overhead cables stretching the length of the boulevard as it sped towards the city.

Christophe was leaning with one foot propped against the railings, all skinny jeans and lurid red high-tops. He held out his arm and she tucked herself safely underneath as they made their way into the park.

‘Remind you of anyone?’ Christophe pointed to a child sat astride the top of a climbing frame, shouting down to others in the sandpit below.

‘You were always too busy burying dolls in the sand and then digging them back up again, saying you were an angel taking them to heaven.’

‘And you were too busy picking fights with the older kids to help me.’

‘No doubt due to my elevated levels of testosterone.’

‘Some would argue I don’t have enough, which is why we make the perfect couple.’ He planted a kiss on her head.

‘Do you know…’ Veronique looked up at him ‘…most people probably think we are a couple.’

‘If I were ever interested in a woman it would be you, ma Chérie. But you’re avoiding the subject.’

Veronique kicked away a stone. ‘Not much to say.’

‘I take it the lovely Mingxia didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear?’

‘I don’t know what I want. That’s half the problem.’

‘The other half being a certain police captain I’m not supposed to talk about?’

Veronique pulled away from him. ‘No, it’s not that. I’m perfectly capable of doing this on my own if necessary, but…’

‘But?’

‘I don’t know.’ She trailed her hand along the railing surrounding the playground. A railing she used to walk along, arms wide to the sky. ‘It’s this place, it holds too many memories.’

‘Not all of them bad.’ Christophe took her hand, leading her in the direction of the lake beyond the trees. ‘We had our fair share of awesome times, did we not?’

‘Yes and for that I will be forever grateful, but it affected us, both of us, perhaps in ways we still don’t understand.’

‘That bastard should pay for what he did to you.’

‘I know.’ Veronique gave his hand a squeeze. ‘But even he doesn’t have the balls to come back and I can’t keep using him as an excuse.’

‘Excuse for what?’

‘Everything? Nothing at all? How else do you explain my situation?’ She stretched her hand out, allowing a child on a scooter to pass underneath their arms.

‘I thought you liked being by yourself?’ Christophe twirled her back against him, draping his arm over her shoulder. ‘Wasn’t that part of the reason you left Guillaume?’

Even she didn’t know the real reason. He asked her why she wouldn’t let him in, refused to share her life with him. But she had never dared to show anyone the real her, the one who lurked in the shadows of her mind, who wanted to rip and tear and bring pain to those who did her wrong. How could he ever understand that part of her, forgive her for what she had done?

‘I guess you get to a certain age and questions begin to surface.’

‘Certain age? Now you’re making me feel old.’ He banged his hip against hers. ‘You’re not even thirty-five!’

‘Medicine doesn’t lie. Past thirty the chances of conceiving fall off considerably. Add to that the PCOS…’

‘I understand the medical odds, but that doesn’t mean it can’t happen.’

‘And who’s to say I even want it to happen or that it should happen? I mean, I’d hardly consider myself ideal mother material. Which way?’

Christophe pointed towards a wooden bridge at the edge of the lake. ‘Define ideal? Neither of us even had a mother and we’ve turned out all right. More than all right I’d say.’

Veronique knew very little about her mother. She was barely out of her teens when she had given birth to Veronique, after which it was as if she had disappeared altogether, which in Veronique’s experience meant she had a very good reason to stay hidden. Why her mother ran in the first place, chose to abandon her child the very moment she was born, Veronique didn’t think she would ever know.

As for her father, he was a ghost, no name on her birth certificate, no clue as to where she came from. It was the complete lack of information that frustrated her more than anything else. Was her impulsiveness, her mistrust of everyone around her, due to circumstance or genetics? Would she still rebel, rock the system and disobey all the rules if she had been raised in a safe, loving household, or was it inherent in her DNA to be an outsider, indifferent to the status quo?

‘Everyone deserves the best possible start in life they can get. How am I supposed to raise a child of my own when I have no idea about what complications are hidden in my blood?’

‘I still think you would be the very best mother any kid could possibly get.’

Veronique picked up two sticks, handing one to Christophe. Together they went to the side and threw them into the water below.

Christophe leant over the railing. ‘You know that only works on moving water.’

‘I have to go and see a psychiatrist.’

‘Why?’ He looked over at her and she thought back to another time: a time when they would escape to this park, away from whatever was waiting for them back at the foster home.

‘Standard procedure if I want to be considered for adoption.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘Because we were part of the system, every time we went to see the doctor it had to be recorded and filed away. Every single time. I can’t hide that part of my life.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘Wasn’t it? Do you know how often I ask myself why I went back there? How is it that one decision, one stupid decision, can haunt you for the rest of your life?’

Christophe drew her to him, resting his head atop hers. ‘Is that why you took this case?’

‘Perhaps.’ She stepped back and walked down the other side of the bridge. ‘I’m not really sure, but I can’t help thinking about what made Mathilde run away in the first place. Can it really have been because of a boy? And why the drugs? What was it in her life that made her start using?’

‘There doesn’t always have to be a reason.’ Christophe linked arms with her again. ‘I’ve seen it over and over again. One time leads to the next, which leads to the next. People think they have it under control until they wake up one morning and the only thing they can think about is how to get their next hit.’

‘Is that what happened to Giselle?’

Christophe shook his head. ‘I think it started as a way to block out the men, then it took hold and she was lost for a very long time. Heroin is a very quick way of falling into a pit that’s often far too slippery to climb out from.’

Veronique thought about the face that plagued her own dreams. What she did at first to try and block it out. Too many underground haunts where they didn’t ask for ID and served alcohol to anyone who could pay. About the priest who visited her and Christophe at the next foster house they were shunted to, just players on a board, his sermons about forgiveness sliding off her like oil on water.

Then one damp winter morning she walked past an alleyway, a strip of light stretching out from an open garage door. She could hear the repetitive sound of breath being forced from lungs, accompanied by a soft thwack and creak of metal. Curiosity led her down that path, had her watch from underneath a nearby awning as a middle-aged man no bigger than her, with skin the colour of caramel and dressed in nothing but cut-off shorts, twirled around a boxing bag suspended from the ceiling.

It was as if she were watching a ballet as the man moved around the bag, pre-empting its swing back and forth then hitting it with hands bound tight, the sinews on his arms and legs telling her of his strength. The air around him misted with exertion, his focus never wavered, and she was transfixed.

‘You come in, or just watch?’ he asked, his eyes never leaving their target.

It took her a little over a fortnight to pluck up the courage to go in. To come out from the shadows and show him her scars. He asked no questions, offered up no sympathy, instead giving her two coiled bandages and instructing her to wrap them tight, to make sure she protected her hands.

For the next few years she met with him every day before school. That was one of his conditions for training her; she was to complete her education, after which she could come back and work for him.

‘What do you do?’ she finally got round to asking.

‘The same as you,’ he replied, a gap-toothed grin on his wrinkled face. ‘Whatever I need to survive.’

His name was Chenglei and he was from Hong Kong. He had travelled to Paris with his family as a young boy and now lived with his daughter, her husband and their child: a girl of twelve called Mingxia who would grow up to be both Veronique’s doctor and friend. Chenglei died two days after his sixty-fourth birthday and a week before Veronique turned eighteen. Veronique remembered him for his kindness, his compassion, and for trying to pull her out of the darkness.

***

Exiting the other side of the park they descended a set of stairs, walking the length of a street lined with parked cars and overflowing bins. Water flowed along the gutters, carrying litter to a street cleaner stood at the junction. Ahead of them was a twelve-storey apartment building that stretched a block in each direction.

Washing lines hung from rusted balcons, their orange awnings speckled with mildew. The lower storeys were obscured by maple trees that did little to disguise the cracked plaster and boarded-up windows. A small group of men congregated on a concrete wall, passing secrets between palms and sipping from glass bottles.

‘Is this it?’ Veronique asked.

Christophe nodded. ‘Probably best you let me do the talking.’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a time and a place for your style of interrogation – now isn’t one of them.’

Two of the men looked up as Veronique and Christophe approached, the taller getting up from the wall and sloping in their direction.

‘Vous cherchez quelque chose?’ The smell of rotten teeth escaped from behind the man’s cracked lips. His eyes rested on Veronique’s scar and then darted to the street behind her.

‘Not today,’ Christophe replied. ‘Giselle Marsac. Does she still live here?’

‘Never heard of her.’ He took a step closer to Veronique. ‘Can I interest you in anything, my pretty? Ain’t got nothing to fix that face of yours, mind, but there are ways to help with the pain.’

‘I don’t have a problem with pain,’ she replied, meeting his gaze.

‘You’re sure about Giselle?’ Christophe took out a €20 note and raised one hand to his chest. ‘Redhead. About so high.’

‘How do I know you’re not police?’ The man stared at the money, bloodied fingers scratching at a sore on his sunken cheek.

‘Do we look like police?’ Christophe took out another €20, holding both notes out in front of him.

The man snatched at the money, like a rabid monkey stealing a nut. ‘Tenth floor.’ He inclined his head to the building behind. ‘Pink door, can’t miss it.’

***

As she climbed the stairs Veronique covered her nose to try and block out the stench of festering decay. The walls were littered with graffiti, twisted shapes and dark eyes following them as they ascended.

At the tenth floor they split up, Christophe turning left and she right. Bare light bulbs hung from the ceiling and the floor was sticky underfoot. Sounds permeated the walls: the cry of a newborn, the bark of a dog, as Veronique passed by unmarked doors.

Something else. A scent that pushed against the recesses of her mind. Burnt matches.

The rapid beat of her heart in her chest, pulse throbbing as she sucked in air through her mouth, tasting smoke that she could not see. Shadows crept over her, pushing into her skin as she leant against the wall.

The heat. She would never forget the heat, how it filled her every pore, tearing them open. Her scar pulsed with the memory, bleached light behind closed eyes, one of which now remained for ever in the dark.

‘Over here.’

She lifted her head, the silhouette of Christophe saving her from her nightmares.

He knocked against a door – three clean, hollow notes echoing along the corridor towards her.

He knocked again.

‘Casse-toi!’ came the muted insult from within. Veronique began to kick the bottom of the door with rhythmic repetition, adding in the beat of her fist until it was interrupted by the sound of a lock being slid backward.

The door opened a crack, allowing a shaft of sunlight to illuminate stained floor tiles.

‘What do you want?’ Heavily kohled eyes stared at Veronique from under a long fringe, dark shadows against marbled skin.

‘Giselle?’ Christophe came around Veronique.

‘Christophe?’ The girl’s head tilted upward. ‘Is that you?’

‘Oui, c’est moi. Can we come in?’

‘Of course.’ She opened the door wider, light from the curtainless window showcasing her jutting collarbones and slight frame. She stood a little straighter as Christophe passed, a softness to her otherwise gaunt features that Veronique recognised as affection.

‘We’ve missed you at the clinic,’ Christophe said, peering out of the window to the pavement below. The sill was covered in a thick layer of grime, on top of which rested an ashtray and empty syringe.

‘That’s not mine,’ Giselle said. Fine hairs stood up on her forearms, wrists so slight they made Veronique think of newborn babies in hospital with their plastic name tags.

‘We were hoping you could help us with something.’

Giselle snapped her head round to stare at Veronique. ‘I didn’t do nothing.’

‘No one’s accusing you of anything.’ Veronique held her hands up as she took a step closer.

‘A girl’s gone missing,’ Christophe said.

‘What girl?’

‘Mathilde Benazet.’ Veronique showed Giselle a photograph of Mathilde. ‘Apparently she worked for Valentine.’

‘I’d stay away from him if I were you.’ Giselle shrank towards the makeshift kitchen in one corner of the room, fingers finding a scrap of tin foil on top of the counter and smoothing away tiny creases. ‘Valentine is like a demon, tempting the angels from above and dragging them down into the same filthy pit he’s dug out for himself below Montmartre.’

‘All the more reason we need to find Mathilde.’ Christophe rested a hand on her shoulder and she sank under its weight. ‘Have you seen her?’

‘I can’t go back there, Christophe.’ Giselle shook her head, staring up at him with bloodshot eyes. ‘Please don’t make me go back.’

‘I don’t want you going back there either.’ Christophe took the photograph from Veronique and handed it to Giselle. ‘Can you take a look for me, tell me if you remember her?’

Giselle wiped the back of her hand across her nose and went to stand by the window. ‘Someone do that to you?’ She eyed Veronique’s scar in the reflection of a mirror hanging lopsided on the wall next to her, a crack running from one corner to its centre.

‘Fire.’ Veronique expelled the word like an insult, dirty on her tongue.

‘Fire can be beautiful. As is everything the devil decides to create. No,’ she said, dropping the photograph on the windowsill.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Giselle crossed her arms over her chest.

‘How often have you been using?’ The air shifted as she came closer.

Giselle glanced at the syringe. ‘I told you that wasn’t mine.’

‘Maybe not, but the track marks on your arms tell a different story.’

‘Get out!’ she roared, picking up a filthy cup and throwing it across the room at Veronique. ‘You think you’re better than me? You think you know what it is really like in this city? You know nothing; you are a fool.’

‘Giselle, please.’ Christophe came between the two women. ‘We never meant to insult you.’

‘I said get out!’ Giselle pushed against his chest, unable to make him move.

‘We’re going.’ Veronique tugged at his arm.

Christophe took some notes from his wallet and laid them on the countertop. ‘Get yourself something decent to eat.’ He looked back at Giselle, at the shadow of a girl who once was. ‘If you ever need any help, you know where to find me.’