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Before she had time to put her phone away, it binged:
Really?
Reply:
Of course.
Bing.
Okay. I’m packing .?.?.
Reply:
Send me flight details.
Bing.
Give me five minutes.
Edith slipped her phone back into the inside pocket of her voluminous leather bag, thinking to herself what a beautiful morning it was and wondering if she still had time to look for that Louis XIV chair.
At the Commissariat de Police du 12e Arrondissement
Mireille shifted her bottom farther back into the hard plastic seat and tried, again, to ease the pain in her hip. She was fidgety with anxiety, about her bag, about missing her train, and most of all about what Antoine would say when he heard about all this. The young officer from the train station brought coffee in a paper cup, but she was hungry. She had been too shocked by the prices at Le Train Bleu to eat anything more than a piece of bread with mirabelle jam.
The door swung open, and the young officer came in, accompanied by a well-built, curly-haired woman, who strode directly over to Mireille with her right hand outstretched.
‘Commissaire Cloutier,’ she introduced herself with a firm squeeze that gave Mireille concern for her joints. Moving the yellow hat out of her way, the commissaire sat down in the adjacent plastic chair. She held aloft a plastic evidence bag, inside which was a brown leather wallet.
‘Est-ce que ce portefeuille vous appartient, madame?’
Mireille shook her head. The wallet in question was most definitely not hers. Commissaire Cloutier tutted and nodded, a response that made Mireille shift again in her uncomfortable seat.
‘Bah, je pensais pas. Alors, Madame Delassus.’ The commissaire sighed and seemed to begin again. ‘J’ai de bonnes et de mauvaises nouvelles.’ She had good news and bad.
Mireille’s bag had been retrieved from a bin in the station, but it seemed that her wallet was gone. The character in the navy-blue suit had been apprehended, but there was no hard evidence against him.
Mireille was overcome by a wave of panic as she realised that she didn’t know how she would get home.
‘Nous paierons votre billet, madame. Ne vous inquiétez pas.’ She wasn’t to worry, said the commissaire, patting her hand; they would pay for her ticket.
‘Et la jeune fille?’ asked Mireille.
She had been grilled about her interaction with the girl. The police seemed to believe the young Ukrainian was somehow involved. She had the opportunity, they said. It was obvious. But it didn’t make sense to Mireille. The girl could very well have robbed her blind the previous morning, had she been so inclined.
‘Peut-elle partir?’
‘Non,’ replied the commissaire. ‘Elle nous aide dans notre enquête.’ She was helping them with their inquiry. Mireille wondered what that meant. Also, continued Commissaire Cloutier, the girl was a minor and could therefore only be released into the care of a parent or guardian. So far, the girl had been unable to contact any appropriate person.
Poor child, thought Mireille, but her mind switched again to her bag. She needed to know if the letter was gone.
‘Puis-je avoir mon sac?’
The smooth-faced young policeman handed it over, and they left her alone again.
Mireille wrapped her arms around the bag. She rubbed the familiar swell of its belly, then drew her hand away as she felt something sticky on it. She sighed. Better not to think about what else had been in the bin with Rémy’s bag. She took her handkerchief from the pocket of her cardigan and patiently rubbed away the filth. When, eventually, she was satisfied, she opened the catch on the bag and looked inside. Everything seemed to be there, except for her money. The card with Edith’s phone number was still there, tucked into the inside pocket. Perhaps she should telephone her daughter, but that might spoil what had been a perfect day.
Mireille felt the consolation of a renewed surge of pride. How well she looked, her daughter, and how polished. Mireille would have recognised her, would have known her for her own, even without that preposterous sunflower. The girl had her father’s eyes and his charming smile.Girl, mind you, was hardly the correct word: she was celebrating her fifty-seventh birthday. Too many years lost.
