Fifty
SUNDAY EVENING
Cat’s hand shook as she picked up her coffee. She took a sip. It was thick and strong, like the cup that Pigalle had made for her earlier. It was helping her stay focused. She placed the cup back on the table in front of her. ‘He’ll deny it, of course.’
‘I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.’ Lydia was scribbling notes. The two of them were alone in the room since Pigalle had left them to confront Paul with the photographs.
Cat took another sip of her coffee. ‘What will happen to him?’
‘I—’ Whatever Lydia was about to say was cut off when the door swung open and Pigalle walked in. He was followed by a furious-looking Paul, and a man that she didn’t recognise.
‘Matthew Dobbs,’ the man said, sitting down next to Lydia. ‘I’m also here from the embassy.’
‘Hello.’ Cat tried not to look at Paul, but she felt his gaze burning into her.
The lieutenant appeared a moment later, carrying extra chairs. Pigalle and the lieutenant spent a bit of time rearranging things so that they could all sit around the table – pulling it out from the wall and placing a chair at the end, where they gestured for Paul to sit.
She was separated from him by Lydia and Matthew, who had now squeezed in beside her – and opposite them, the two policemen sat down. They were stony-faced now.
Like everyone, Cat assumed they just wanted this dealt with without any further delay.
She felt her stomach churn. Those butterflies in her chest again. This was it. She had to get this right, or she wasn’t going to be walking out of this station today.
Pigalle switched on the recorder and said a few words about who was present. Then he fixed his gaze on Cat. ‘Madame Baxendale,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain these to us.’ He slid the photographs across the table towards her, but she didn’t look at them.
‘These are photographs that I found on our shared Cloud. They show Paul with a woman . . . a work colleague. Her name is Samantha Jones—’
‘We were messing about. She’s a friend.’
‘Please be quiet, Monsieur Baxendale.’ Pigalle was still watching Cat as he spoke. ‘Please. Carry on.’
‘Well . . .’ Cat’s voice started shaking. ‘You can see what’s going on here. She doesn’t look happy about it. She doesn’t look like she’s messing about with a friend.’ Cat cleared her throat. ‘In her statement to the HR department, and to the police, she said Paul grabbed her, forced her—’
‘This is fucking bullshit!’ Paul stood up quickly, knocking the table forward. They all jumped back. The lieutenant stood, facing Paul.
‘Monsieur, you need to calm down. You are not under arrest. We are trying to establish the situation. Now please. Sit down.’
Cat hadn’t realised before how physically intimidating the lieutenant could be. Earlier, he’d been all smiles and shrugs – and she realised she’d underestimated him. Pigalle too. These were no fools. She took a deep breath, trying to keep herself calm.
‘The point is,’ Cat said, her voice steady now. ‘This just proves what kind of man he is.’ She glanced at Paul. His mouth was set in a hard line. His fingers gripping the table. It was clearly taking great restraint for him to keep quiet. ‘The truth is . . . he came on to Ginny. While we were on the hike.’ She stared down at the table, managing to squeeze a tear out before she raised her eyes again. ‘She rebuffed him.’ She paused. Bit her lip. ‘And then he pushed her.’
‘You fucking lying bitch!’ Paul was up out of his seat, flipping the table over. He grabbed her by the throat and they both fell back on to the floor with a thud. She felt the breath go out of her. She raised her hands, grabbed hold of his, trying to pry them off her neck. His face was bearing down on her, and he was swearing, blasting a diatribe of pure hatred. Globules of spit landed on her face.
Cat felt like she was about to pass out, then just as quickly as it had started, the pressure was off, as Paul was yanked away from her. She put her hands to her throat, started coughing. And real tears, now. Shock, mostly. But for a moment, she had really thought she might die. She couldn’t quite believe he had it in him.
Lydia and Matthew helped her to her feet, as she tried to block out the sounds of Paul being dragged out of the room by the policemen. A door slammed. But she could still hear muffled sounds of shouting, in English and French. It occurred to her that that Paul might suffer at the hands of the police for what he had done, but she realised quickly that she really didn’t care.