“I asked to speak to someone higher up,” Nick says as he comes over. “That way we’ll actually be listened to. He’s just calling through now.”
“Oh, great,” I say. Thank God for Nick and his fluent French and his posh boy hustle. I know if I’d walked in here I’d have been fobbed off again—or, worse, bottled it and left before I’d spoken to anyone.
The receptionist stands and beckons us through into the station. I swallow my unease about heading farther into this place. He leads us down a corridor into an office with a plaque that reads Commissaire Blanchot on the door and a man—in his late fifties at a guess—sitting behind a huge desk. He looks up. A bristle of short gray hair, a big square face, small dark eyes. He stands and shakes Nick’s hand then turns to me, looks me up and down, and sweeps a hand at the two chairs in front of his desk. “Asseyez vous.”
Clearly Nick pulled some strings: the office and Blanchot’s air of importance tell me he’s some sort of bigwig. But there’s something about the guy I don’t like. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the pitbull face, maybe it’s to do with the way he looked at me just now. It doesn’t matter, I remind myself. I don’t have to like him. All I need is for him to do his job properly, to find my brother. And I’m not so blind that I can’t see I might be bringing my own baggage to all of this.
Nick starts speaking to Blanchot in French. I can barely pick up a word they’re saying. I catch Ben’s name, I think, and a couple of times they glance in my direction.
“Sorry,” Nick turns back to me. “I realize we were talking pretty fast. I wanted to get everything in. Could you follow any of it? He doesn’t speak much English, I’m afraid.”
I shake my head. “It wouldn’t have made much difference if you’d gone slowly.”
“Don’t worry: I’ll explain. I’ve laid out the whole situation to him. And basically we’re coming up against what I was telling you about before: the ‘right to disappear.’ But I’m trying to convince him that this is something more than that. That you—that we—are really worried about Ben.”
“You’ve told him about the notebook?” I ask. “And what happened last night?”
Nick nods. “Yes, I went through all that.”
“How about the voicenote?” I hold up my phone. “I have it right here, I could play it.”
“That’s a great idea.” Nick says something to Commissaire Blanchot, then turns to me and nods. “He’d like to listen to it.”
I hand over the phone. I don’t like the way the guy snatches it from me. He’s just doing his job, Jess, I tell myself. He plays the voicenote through some kind of loudspeaker and, once again, I hear my brother’s voice like I’ve never heard it before. “What the fuck?” And then the sound. That strange groan.
I look over at Nick. He’s gone white. He seems to be having the same reaction as I did: it tells me my gut feeling was right.
Blanchot turns it off and nods at Nick. Because I don’t speak French, or I’m a woman—or both—it feels like I barely exist to him.
I prod Nick. “He has to do something now, yes?”
Nick swallows, then seems to pull himself together. He asks the guy a question, turns back to me. “Yes. I think that’s helped. It gives us a good case.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see Blanchot watching the two of us, his expression blank.
And then suddenly it’s all over and they’re shaking hands again and Nick is saying: “Merci, Commissaire Blanchot” and I say “Merci” too and Blanchot smiles at me and I try to ignore the uneasiness that I know is probably less to do with this guy than everything he represents. Then we’re being shown back out into the corridor and Blanchot’s door is closing.
“How do you think it went?” I ask Nick, as we walk out of the front door of the station. “Did he take it seriously?”
He nods. “Yes, eventually. I think the voicenote clinched it.” He says, his voice hoarse. He still looks pale and sickened by what he just heard, on the voicenote. “And don’t worry—I’ve given myself as a contact, not you. As soon as I hear anything I’ll let you know.”
For a moment, back out on the street, Nick stops and stands stock-still. I watch as he covers his eyes with his hand and takes a long, shaky breath. And I think: here is someone else who cares about Ben. Maybe I’m not quite as alone in this as I thought.