The Girl in the Shadows

‘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.