No. He left me a voicenote giving me directions, for Christ’s sake. And even if he did have to leave for some reason, why isn’t he answering any of my calls or texts?
I keep coming back to the broken chain of his St. Christopher. The bloodstains on the cat’s fur. How none of Ben’s neighbors seem prepared to give me the time of day—more than that, seem actively hostile. How it just feels like something here is wrong.
I search Ben’s social media. At some point he seems to have deleted all his socials except Instagram. How have I only just realized this? No Facebook, no Twitter. His Instagram profile picture is the cat, which right now is sitting on its haunches on the desk, watching me through narrowed eyes. There isn’t a single photo left on his grid. I suppose it’s just like Ben, master of reinvention, to have got rid of all his old stuff. But there’s something about the disappearance of all his content that gives me the creeps. Almost like someone’s tried to erase him. I send him a DM, all the same. Ben, if you see this: answer your phone!
My mobile buzzes: You have only 50MB of Roaming Data remaining. To buy more, follow this link . . .
Shit. I can’t even get by on the cheapest plan.
I sit down on the sofa. As I do I realize I’ve sat on Ben’s wallet, I must have tossed it here earlier. I open it and pull out the business card stuck in the front. Theo Mendelson, Paris editor, Guardian. And scribbled on the card: PITCH STORY TO HIM! Someone Ben’s working for, maybe, someone he might have been in touch with recently? There’s a number listed. I call but it rings out so I fire off a quick text:
Hi. It’s about my brother Ben Daniels. Trying to find him. Can you help?
I put the phone down. I just heard something odd.
I sit very still, listening hard, trying to work out what the noise is. It sounds like footsteps passing down a flight of stairs. Except the sound isn’t coming from in front of me, from the landing and the staircase beyond the apartment’s entrance. It’s behind my head. I stand up from the sofa and study the wall. And it’s now, looking properly, that I see something there. I run my hands over the faded silk wall covering. There’s a break, a gap in the fabric, running horizontally above my head and vertically down. I step back and take in the shape of it. It’s cleverly hidden, and the sofa’s pushed in front of it, so you wouldn’t notice it at all unless you were looking pretty closely. But I think it’s a door.
Sophie
Penthouse
Back in the apartment I reach into my handbag—black leather Celine, ferociously expensive, extremely discreet, a gift from Jacques—take out my wallet and am almost surprised to find the note hasn’t burnt a hole through the leather. I cannot believe I was so clumsy as to drop it earlier. I am never normally clumsy.
Double the next time, bitch.
It arrived yesterday morning. The latest in the series. Well. It has no hold over me now. I rip it into tiny pieces and scatter them into the fireplace. I pull the tasseled cord set into the wall and flames roar into life, instantly incinerating the paper. Then I walk quickly through the apartment, past the floor-to-ceiling windows with their view out over Paris, along the hallway hung with its trio of Gerhard Richter abstracts, my heels tapping briefly over the parquet then silenced on the silk of the antique Persian runner.
In the kitchen I open the pastel box from the boulangerie. Inside is a quiche Lorraine, studded with lardons of bacon, the pastry so crisp it will shatter at the slightest touch. The dairy waft of the cream and egg yolk briefly makes me want to gag. When Jacques is away from home on one of his business trips I usually exist on black coffee and fruit—perhaps the odd piece of dark chocolate broken from a Maison Bonnat bar.
I did not feel like going out. I felt like hiding in here away from the world. But I am a regular customer and it is important to stick to the usual routines.
A couple of minutes later, I open the door to the apartment again and wait a few moments listening, looking down the staircase, making sure no one’s there. You cannot do anything in this building without half-expecting the concierge to appear from some dark corner as if formed from the shadows themselves. But for once it isn’t her that I’m concerned about. It’s this newcomer, this stranger.
When I am certain I am alone, I walk across the landing to the wooden stairs that lead up to the old chambres de bonne. I am the only one in the building with a key to these old rooms. Even the concierge’s access to the public spaces of this building ends here.
I fasten Benoit to the bottom rung of the wooden steps with his leash. He wears a matching set in blue leather from Hermès: both of us, with our expensive Hermès collars. He’ll bark if he sees anyone.