How much would an apartment like this cost? Lots, that’s all I can guess. Millions? Probably. Fancy rugs on the floor, huge works of modern art on the walls: bright splashes and streaks of color, big bold shapes. There’s one small painting, nearest to me, a woman holding some kind of pot, a window behind her. I spot the signature in the bottom-right corner: Matisse. OK. Holy shit. I don’t know much about art but even I’ve heard of Matisse. And everywhere, displayed on side tables, are little figurines, delicate glass vases. I bet even the smallest would fetch me more than I earned in a whole year in that shitty bar. It would be so easy to slip one—
I’m suddenly aware of feeling watched. I look up and meet a pair of eyes. Painted, not real. A huge portrait: a man sitting in an armchair. Strong jaw and nose, gray at the temples. Kind of handsome, if a little cruel-looking. It’s the mouth, maybe, the curl to it. The funny thing is, he seems familiar. I feel like I’ve seen his face before but I can’t for the life of me think where. Could he be someone a bit famous? A politician, something like that? But I’m not sure why I’d recognize some random politician, let alone a French one: I don’t know anything about that stuff. So it must be from somewhere else. But where on earth—
“My husband, Jacques,” Sophie says, behind me. “He’s away on business at the moment but I’m sure will be . . .” a small hesitation, “eager to meet you.”
He looks powerful. Rich. Obviously rich, just frigging look at the place. “What does he do?”
“He’s in wine,” she says.
So that explains the thousands of bottles of wine in the cellar. The cave must also belong to her and her husband.
Next my eye travels to a strange display on the opposite wall. At first I think it’s some kind of abstract art installation. But on second glance I see it’s a display of old guns. Each with a sharp, knife-like protrusion attached to the end.
Sophie follows my gaze. “From the First World War. Jacques likes to collect antiques.”
“One’s missing,” I say.
“Yes. It’s gone for a repair. They require more upkeep than you might think. Bon,” she says, curtly. “Come through and meet the others.”
We walk toward the bookcase. It’s only now that I become aware of the presence of people behind it. As we skirt round it I see them facing each other on two cream-colored sofas. Mimi, from the fourth floor, and—oh no—Antoine from the first floor. He’s staring at me as though he is exactly as pleased to see me as I am him. Surely he’s the sort of neighbor you just give a wide berth and leave to their own devices? When I look back he’s still staring at me. It feels like something’s crawling down my spine.
It’s such a random grouping of people, nothing in common with each other beyond the fact that they live nearby: weird quiet Mimi, who can only be nineteen or twenty; Antoine, a middle-aged mess; Sophie in her silk and diamonds. What could they have been talking about just now? It didn’t sound like a polite, neighborly conversation. I can feel their eyes on me, feel like they’re all looking at me like I’m an unknown specimen brought into a laboratory. Elle est dangereuse. I’m sure I didn’t mishear.
“Perhaps you would like a glass of wine?” Sophie asks.
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” She lifts the bottle and as the wine glugs out into a glass I see the gold image of the chateau on the front and realize it’s familiar, the match of the bottle I picked up from the cellar downstairs.
I take a long sip of my wine; I need it. I sense three pairs of eyes watching me. They’re the ones with the power in this room, the knowledge; I don’t like it. I feel outnumbered, trapped. And then I think: fuck it. One of them must know something about what happened to Ben. This is my chance.
“I still haven’t heard from Ben,” I say. “You know, I’m really starting to think something must have happened to him.” I want to shock them out of their watchful silence. So I say, “When I went to the police today—”
It happens so quickly, too quickly for me to see how it unfolded. But there’s a sudden commotion and I see that the girl, Mimi, has spilled her glass of wine. The crimson liquid has spattered over the rug, up one leg of the sofa.
No one moves for a second. Maybe, like me, the other two are watching as the dark liquid soaks into the fabric and feeling grateful that it wasn’t them.
The girl’s face is a livid, beetroot red. “Merde,” she says.
“It’s all right,” Sophie says. “Pas de problème.” But her voice is steel.