.
is exactly why you came to me, Veronique thought to herself. That way no one need know the truth unless Madame Benazet chose to tell them.
Rising from her position on the sofa she placed the tumbler on the glass-topped table beside her, next to another photograph of Madame with her arms draped around a man in a tuxedo.
‘Do you mind if I have a look in Mathilde’s room?’
‘Of course, but I should tell you that it’s been cleaned since she left. I couldn’t stand the state of it a moment longer. Even with the door closed it bothered me every time I walked past so I asked the housekeeper to sort it out.’
‘Whereabouts is it?’
‘Third door on your left. Should I wait here?’
‘If you don’t mind, Madame; thank you.’
Veronique made her way back down the corridor and opened the door to Mathilde’s room. Her nose wrinkled against the scent of polish, which did little to mask the underlying odour of marijuana. If Madame didn’t know about her daughter’s little drug habit she was more naive than Veronique imagined.
The room was otherwise nondescript. Bed stripped bare of sheets, the duvet folded at one end. Cream walls adorned with various posters, mainly Renaissance art and folk musicians. Other than Joni Mitchell she didn’t recognise any of the names.
The desk was piled high with notebooks in a myriad of colours and designs. Flicking through the first couple there was nothing to set off any warning bells, just a keen desire to fit in and be noticed, much like every other young person in France. There was a bare patch on the wall next to a bookshelf. It was a shade darker than the rest and only the corner of a photograph remained, as if torn from its position. Given the prolific nature of social media and youth’s current obsession with cataloguing every moment of their lives, Veronique wondered what had driven Mathilde to obliterate hers.
Turning to leave the room her eye fell upon a guitar propped up against a wardrobe.
Madame Benazet looked up as she returned to the living room.
‘Why didn’t she take her guitar?’ Veronique asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘If she was going to run away, why didn’t she take her guitar?’
‘I don’t know. It’s never crossed my mind before.’
Based on what Veronique had seen Mathilde was a girl who loved music, to the point of obsession judging by the amount of notebooks filled with song lyrics in her room. As if music was the one thing she could cling to, rely upon.
‘I’ll take the case, Madame. But I’ll need a retainer.’
‘Of course.’ She opened a drawer in the bureau next to her, taking out a chequebook and pen.
‘If you could make it out to cash,’ Veronique replied, picking up her bag. ‘I’ll give you an update in a few days.’
‘May I ask how you intend to approach this?’ Madame walked with Veronique to the front door, watching as she bent down to retrieve her shoes.
Veronique paused. Until she had gone back over all the police files, combed through the pile of paperwork and reread all the interviews conducted thus far, she wasn’t sure where she would begin. ‘Frederic,’ she said.
‘You’re going to speak to him?’
‘Of course, Madame; this is new information that the police were not made aware of. I promise you that I am very good at what I do and if there is anything, anything at all that gives an indication as to Mathilde’s whereabouts I will let you know.’
‘Very well.’ Madame handed over the cheque. ‘I’ve added in a little extra. Call it a golden handshake if you will. I trust that’s not an issue?’
‘Not at all, Madame.’ Veronique folded the cheque in half and opened the door. ‘Everyone needs a reason to get up in the morning.’
Alice
Alice sat on the 5.40 a.m. Eurostar from London to Paris. Her Lonely Planet guide lay on the table in front of her, Post-it notes sticking out at every angle. Next to it was a French edition of Alice in Wonderland. The cover’s stitched lettering was worn away from years of stroking the name her father had given her, in memory of a mother who read it out loud whilst pregnant. Tucked inside the first page was a letter from her father, her name written on the envelope in his neat, black script.
Ever since his death she couldn’t bring herself to read his farewell.
She pushed both books away, staring out of the rain-lashed window and wondering about the face reflected back at her. There were deep circles underneath her eyes, highlighted by the paleness of her skin that refused to tan even when subjected to two weeks on the beach. Her hair was thick and unruly, scraped back into a ponytail that sharpened the angles of her cheeks, the fullness of her mouth.
She had examined every detail of her face in the mirror countless times before, looking for clues, looking for her mother. And now there was a chance to find her, because her father had lied. She was alive. Her mother was alive.
***
Alice had watched them approach, two by two in some kind of banal nod to Noah’s ark.
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’ The same trite apology, always accompanied by a drop of the eyes, a momentary touch of hand somewhere about her person.
Then she would reply with a false smile, ‘Thank you.’
What did the words mean? Were they anything more than the vibrations of muscle over bone? No one brave enough to speak the truth, to admit they had no idea what to say to an orphan, even one already grown.
She traced over the surface of the fossil in her palm – indentations on her skin catching the rough texture at one end, then finding comfort as it graduated to smooth. It was her talisman, her lucky charm, given to her by her father on her first day at school.
‘I can’t go in with you, poppet,’ he had said as he crouched down and adjusted the collar of her blouse, ‘but if ever you get nervous, give this a squeeze and know that I’ll be thinking of you.’ He handed over the fossil then, one they had found together during a trip to the coast.
She remembered running the very tip of her finger around its coils, feeling the grooves so well preserved. It fit snug in her hand, a reassurance hidden in the folds of her pinafore, a shared secret between father and child.
The fossil remained in its perpetual state, but as she had grown its necessity receded. Until now. Until today, when she had stood at the front of the school chapel and attempted to summarise her father’s life into a scribble of meaningless sentences.
The line of people trailed up the gravel path, a monotonous snake of greys and blacks, overshadowed by the grizzle of rain that seemed to follow the scent of death, seeking it out and reminding those in mourning that for some the sun would never shine again.
She scanned the faces as they came towards her, the accumulation of her father’s life, friendships and acquaintances gathered over the years. She listened to their accents as they passed on their condolences. Even now, on this day steeped in sorrow, she couldn’t help but wonder if someone connected to her mother would come.
The removal vans were arriving in the morning, which was why Alice forced herself to go into the study. She needed a copy of her birth certificate to send to the school she would be teaching at in Africa, but so far all searches had proven fruitless.
Looking around the room she was haunted by a ghost she could not see. The faded aroma of beeswax that he used to polish his leather chair. The ashtray still clinging on to particles left behind by his pipe, which lay upended next to the dragonfly fossil she had given him one Christmas.