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Iris glanced at PC Locke. She could tell from the policewoman’s face that she was reading something into the fact that the clothes weren’t there.
“Do you mind if I have another look in Laure’s room?” PC Locke asked.
“Not at all.”
“Thanks.”
Iris returned to the kitchen where Gabriel and PC Ramesh were waiting. Gabriel lifted his head from his hands. “Everything okay?”
“Laure’s clothes aren’t there. The ones she was wearing when she went to Paris,” she added.
“What has that got to do with anything?”
She slumped into the chair next to him. “I don’t know.”
“Christ.”
“Would you like some water?” PC Ramesh asked.
“Please.”
“Gabriel?”
“No thanks.”
PC Ramesh filled a glass from the tap and brought it over to Iris. She sipped it slowly, wishing that PC Locke would hurry up and come back. All she wanted was for her and PC Ramesh to leave before she and Gabriel broke down completely.
She heard footsteps on the stairs and PC Locke came into the kitchen. She was wearing rubber gloves and had a mobile phone in her hand.
“Have either of you seen this phone before?” she asked, holding it up. It had a navy blue cover and there was a white logo on the back.
Iris shook her head. “No.”
Gabriel’s face blanched. “I think it’s Pierre’s,” he said.
47
Gabriel had refused to believe it at first. He just couldn’t get his head around it. But according to the French police, Laure had killed Pierre.
They said that Laure had lied, that Pierre had been at their apartment that day, and she had killed him and that it had been either premeditated—she had gone with the intention of killing him—or that they’d had a row and she had ended up killing him.
Iris had asked PC Locke how Laure could possibly have lifted Pierre’s body and got it into a freezer when she was so slight, and PC Locke told her that it helped that Pierre was also slight; with a lot of lifting and shoving, the French police reckoned it was possible for Laure to have done it. Then there were the clothes Laure wasn’t wearing when she came back that evening. The French police were searching for them, but had acknowledged that they were probably in landfill and would never be found. So now Gabriel and Iris had had to accept it; Laure had killed Pierre.
Memories crowded Gabriel’s mind; the four of them together on the beach in Normandy, Pierre wading into the sea with Laure in his arms and throwing her in, Laure shrieking and kicking her legs; thefour of them at their favorite Parisian restaurant, platters piled high with seafood, Laure and Pierre fighting over the last langoustine; Laure’s head on Pierre’s shoulder as they watched the sunset from the top of a hill in the Dordogne. How could any of them have ever imagined that she would end up killing him? And why? Because hehadfathered a child? Because he’d been cheating on her? Because he’d wanted to make a new life with someone else? Because she wanted to make a new life with someone else? How would they ever know when they were both dead?
Gabriel had asked PC Locke if, in the light of Pierre’s murder, there’d been a revision as to the cause of Laure’s death. She’d looked uncomfortable and said, off the record, that suicide was a possibility. Laure would have known that Pierre’s murder would eventually come to light, because at some point, the police would search their storeroom.
He no longer felt sorry for Laure. She had killed Pierre, and they had wept for her, grieved for her. To him, it was the ultimate betrayal.
48
They walked down the road, talking determinedly among themselves, trying to look nonchalant.
In reality, Iris felt horribly conspicuous. In her mind, the inhabitants of every house between theirs and Esme’s were watching them surreptitiously from behind their curtains, murmuring about them:Ooh, look, they’ve finally come out. But hardly surprising they wanted to shut themselves away. It’s not every day a friend staying with you dies—they’re saying an accident but I’m not so sure—and then, not long after, you hear that the friend’s estranged husband was murdered. I’ve heard that she did it, the wife. But it all seems a bit strange, don’t you think? Sometimes I wonder if there was anything going on—if you know what I mean.The veritable walk of shame.
For a moment, Iris wished she hadn’t given in to Esme’s invitation. But they still hadn’t met Hamish and, during their daily telephone call yesterday, she had told Esme she was worried about Beth, who, since coming home two weeks before, hadn’t ventured out at all. She seemed content to stay close, working alongside Gabriel inthe garden before coming in to help her prepare lunch or dinner. Iris knew Beth was worried about them, just as she was worried about Beth. They were all worried about each other, it seemed.
“Come over tomorrow,” Esme had said. “Please don’t refuse, Iris. Hugh and I would love to see you and Gabriel, and meet Beth. And you need to meet Hamish. And Marcus, Hugh’s son, will be here. It will be good for Beth to meet someone around her own age. You don’t have to stay for long if you don’t want to, but a change of scene will do you good.”
