Tristan was smirking at her now. ‘Ginny was just telling us how you shagged that Frank bloke in a nightclub toilet. Classy, Cat. Very classy.’ He shifted in his seat. ‘Sounds like you have a thing for toilets.’
Ginny’s face was triumphant. Cat said nothing. Let Ginny have her moment. It was hardly a shocking story – it just seemed so because they all thought she was the straight-laced, sensible one. None of them knew that the real scandal was that Frank had been married, and in a so-called position of power as her tutor. She could reveal that, and they could have something to really get their teeth into.
But now was not the time.
Because she was too busy wondering what to do about the fact that, under the table, out of sight of the others and with that same ridiculous smirk on his face, Tristan was running his foot up the inside of her thigh. Did he want to be caught? She was frozen in place, unable to shake him off without drawing attention to what he was doing. But as much as she wanted to kill him right now, she was grateful to him for the distraction.
Twelve
SUNDAY MORNING
Pigalle stands behind the front counter, watching the woman as she paces back and forth across the waiting area of the police station. The space is sparsely furnished, with only a couple of padded bench seats in the far corner. On the wall to his right is a large fish tank in an alcove. This was his own attempt at making the waiting area more interesting, although as he watches now, he thinks perhaps it gives off the wrong message. In the tank, small orange fish circle aimlessly. In the room, the woman does the same.
The man is sitting on one of the seats, tending to his wounds with equipment from a first-aid kit that Pigalle provided earlier. He wanted to take them both to hospital, urging the man that he needed help; but the man refused after the woman made it clear that he wasn’t to leave this place.
‘We must stick to the plan,’ she’d said.
And neither of them offered any means of identification, not even their names. Pigalle can’t force them to reveal who they are, although he is of course deeply suspicious of them now. They asked for help, and yet they refuse to help themselves.
This is un signal d’alarme. A red flag, flapping hard.
Whatever their plan is, it is a mess. They must know that now. He knows what they are thinking: they’ve come this far, and they can go further. As far as it takes.
But what are they hiding? Where are their friends? Why will they not speak – and let him get on with his job and back to his day instead of them all hanging around here in silence.
It is infuriating. But Pigalle is a calm man, known for his patience. So he will wait. For now.
He walks out from behind the counter and stops next to the fish tank. A tiny golden seahorse is bobbing close to the front glass. He taps the glass and it turns, swimming away in its curious fashion.
The woman comes to stand beside him. Her face is wrinkled in disgust. She peers at the tank and visibly shudders. ‘I hate them,’ she says. ‘Their weird snouts and googly eyes. The way they float along upright, when all the other sea creatures are horizontal. They creep me out.’
‘You know they are meant to symbolise strength and power,’ Pigalle says. He doesn’t understand how she can hate something so magical.
She shakes her head. ‘They’re a bad omen. Awful things have happened every time I’ve seen one.’ She looks away. ‘My sister used to find my phobia hilarious. She was always buying me seahorse-related gifts. Loved trying to trick me into looking at pictures of them on the internet, by sending links supposedly to other things.’ She pauses, looking like she wants to say more, but stops herself.
This is very interesting, he thinks.
‘Is it your sister that is one of the missing?’ Pigalle asks.
They are interrupted by the man. Pigalle balls his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms. Just when he thought he might be getting somewhere . . .
‘Any chance of some help here?’ The man is groaning as he tries unsuccessfully to wipe away dried blood from the wounds on his chest. From the way he’s holding himself, and his pain when he coughs, Pigalle thinks it likely that he’s broken at least one rib. But as long as he can still breathe, it’s the cuts they need to deal with first. The woman goes over to him and takes the box of alcohol wipes from his hand. Takes one out, rips open the packet.
Pigalle observes.
‘This is going to hurt,’ she says. There is some glee in her tone.
The man’s mouth curls into a half-smile. ‘I think a little sting while you patch me up is the least of my worries, don’t you?’ He grimaces as she applies the wipe, although she is seemingly being gentle. The man’s chest is a mess. Pigalle still can’t work out why they are refusing to go to the hospital.