The Girl in the Shadows

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 (#u7aaf70d3-75c5-5b1a-8fe8-4f5bd9e35db5)

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.’