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‘Detective Sergeant Rob Monaghan. Met.’
The police. That set Lara even more on edge.
Lara rubbed a hand over her face to focus.
‘How can I help you, Sergeant?’
‘Do you know a Sandrine Legard, Ms. Stone?’
Now she was wide awake.
‘Ms. Stone?’
‘Yes, Sandrine’s a friend,’ said Lara, the air in the houseboat suddenly stale and overly warm.
‘May I ask when you last saw her?’ asked the policeman.
‘I saw her tonight. What… what’s this about, Sergeant
?’ she said, a sense of dread swelling. ‘Is Sandrine okay?’
But she knew the answer even before the words were out and when the policeman paused before answering, it was all the confirmation she needed.
‘A body has been found outside a building in Marylebone,’ he said. Lara’s heart was thudding now.
‘A body? Where exactly? Are you telling me it’s Sandrine?’
Her words poured out, not giving the policeman time to answer.
Panic filled her chest. ‘Sergeant. Tell me, what’s going on? Is Sandrine… dead?’
‘Are you her next of kin?’
‘I’m her best friend.’
Another pause.
‘We’re trying to trace Ms. Legard’s next of kin,’ said Monaghan.
Lara tried to swallow, decoding his words in her head. So they’d identified her, now they needed an official confirmation.
‘We retrieved your number from Ms. Legard’s mobile phone. Your number was the last she called.’
The last she called, Lara’s inner voice parroted. The last she ever called.
‘Ms. Stone? Can you tell us who is Sandrine’s next of kin?’
‘Her parents live in Corsica,’ stuttered Lara. ‘She works for Le Figaro, a newspaper. In Paris.’
‘I wonder if you’d mind coming down to…’
Lara was already reaching for her bag.
‘What’s the address? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Hyde Park Corner was empty as she gunned the bike’s engine, bending low over the tank and leaning into the bend, roaring up onto Park Lane, the darkness of the trees to her left, blurred lights to her right. Lara remembered meeting Sandrine for tea at The Dorchester when they had been students, giggling and a little squiffy, discussing running out on the bill they could ill-afford. Could she really be dead? Not Sandrine. Lara couldn’t make the idea compute. ’Drine was so full of life, so – vital. It had to be a mistake. Had to.
She dodged around Marble Arch, overtaking a lone cab as she powered into Edgware Road, before crossing into the maze of Marylebone. Lara was a skilled and experienced motorcyclist; it was how she had got around London for years, but it was hard to concentrate and keep full control of the bike when her head was sweating beneath her helmet and her palms felt clammy in her leather gloves.
