Kitabı oxu: «The Girl in the Shadows»

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.’