My message to Harenglish is now a week old and he still hasn’t responded.
He isn’t online, but there is something in my inbox, something new.
Largos86. I click on his profile and see that he’s younger than me – he claims to
be thirty-one, though if anything he doesn’t even look as old as that – and is attractive,
with curly hair, cut short. I imagine he could be a model, or an actor, though I
remind myself he’ll have chosen one of the more flattering photos of himself. If
he were in the drama I’ve just switched off he’d be playing a kindly doctor, or a
lover. He’s too attractive to be the husband. I open his message.
‘Hi,’ it says. ‘I’d love to talk. You remind me of someone.’
I flinch; it’s like being punched. I remind you of someone . For an instant there’s
only one thing, one person , he can mean. I’d deliberately chosen my profile photo
to be one that looks like Kate, after all.
I have to know. Beneath his message is a link, an invitation to a private chat. Largos86
knows I’m online. I click on accept, then type.
– Hi. Who do I remind you of?
His reply comes almost instantaneously.
– Someone I liked a lot.
Liked, I think. Past tense. Someone who isn’t around any more, one way or another.
– But let’s not talk about her. How’re you?
No! It’s her I want to talk about.
– Good, I say.
A moment later he replies:
– I’m Lukas. Fancy a chat?
I stop. Since I’ve been going online I’ve learned it’s unusual for someone to give
away their name so quickly. I wonder if he’s lying.
– I’m Jayne.
I pause.
– Where are you?
– In Milan. How about you?
I think of his first message. You remind me of someone.
I want to find out if he might’ve talked to Kate. I decide to tell a lie of my own.
– I’m in Paris.
– A beautiful place!
– How do you know the city?
– I work there. Occasionally.
My skin prickles with sweat. I try to take a breath but there’s no oxygen in the
room.
Could he have chatted to my sister, even met her? Could it be him who killed her?
It seems unlikely; he looks too innocent, too trustworthy. Yet I know I’m basing
that impression on nothing, just a feeling, and feelings can be misleading.
What to do? I’m shaking, I can’t take in any air. I want to end the chat, but then
I’ll never know.
– Really? I say. How often?
– Oh, not that often. A couple of times a year.
I want to ask if he was there in February, but I can’t risk it. I have to be careful.
If he did know Kate and has something to hide then he might work out I’m on to him.
I have to keep this light, breezy. If things become sexual there’ll be no way of
finding anything out, nothing I can do but end the conversation as quickly as possible.
I want to look for clues, but I can’t let things tip over.
– Where do you stay when you’re over here?
I wait. A message flashes. I can’t decide whether I want him to tell me he has a
flat in the nineteenth, or that his office put him up in a hotel near Ourcq Métro,
or not. If they do and he does, then it’s him. I’m sure of it. Hugh and I can tell
the police what I’ve found. I can move on.
But if he doesn’t? What then? I still won’t know.
His message arrives.
– I’m not there often. I tend to stay in hotels.
– Where?
– It varies. Usually pretty central. Or else I stay near Gare du Nord.
I don’t need to pull up a map of Paris to know that Gare du Nord is nowhere near
the area Kate’s body was found. I’m curiously relieved.
– Why do you ask?
– No reason.
– You think maybe it’s near you?
He’s added a smiley face. I wonder if the flirting has moved to the next level. Part
of me wants to end it, but another part of me doesn’t. He might be lying.
I hesitate for a moment, then type:
– I’m in the north-east. The nearest Métro is Ourcq.
It’s a risk. If it’s him he’ll know I’m linked to Kate. It can’t be a coincidence.
But what will he do? Just
He isn’t online, but there is something in my inbox, something new.
Largos86. I click on his profile and see that he’s younger than me – he claims to
be thirty-one, though if anything he doesn’t even look as old as that – and is attractive,
with curly hair, cut short. I imagine he could be a model, or an actor, though I
remind myself he’ll have chosen one of the more flattering photos of himself. If
he were in the drama I’ve just switched off he’d be playing a kindly doctor, or a
lover. He’s too attractive to be the husband. I open his message.
‘Hi,’ it says. ‘I’d love to talk. You remind me of someone.’
I flinch; it’s like being punched. I remind you of someone . For an instant there’s
only one thing, one person , he can mean. I’d deliberately chosen my profile photo
to be one that looks like Kate, after all.
I have to know. Beneath his message is a link, an invitation to a private chat. Largos86
knows I’m online. I click on accept, then type.
– Hi. Who do I remind you of?
His reply comes almost instantaneously.
– Someone I liked a lot.
Liked, I think. Past tense. Someone who isn’t around any more, one way or another.
– But let’s not talk about her. How’re you?
No! It’s her I want to talk about.
– Good, I say.
A moment later he replies:
– I’m Lukas. Fancy a chat?
I stop. Since I’ve been going online I’ve learned it’s unusual for someone to give
away their name so quickly. I wonder if he’s lying.
– I’m Jayne.
I pause.
– Where are you?
– In Milan. How about you?
I think of his first message. You remind me of someone.
I want to find out if he might’ve talked to Kate. I decide to tell a lie of my own.
– I’m in Paris.
– A beautiful place!
– How do you know the city?
– I work there. Occasionally.
My skin prickles with sweat. I try to take a breath but there’s no oxygen in the
room.
Could he have chatted to my sister, even met her? Could it be him who killed her?
It seems unlikely; he looks too innocent, too trustworthy. Yet I know I’m basing
that impression on nothing, just a feeling, and feelings can be misleading.
What to do? I’m shaking, I can’t take in any air. I want to end the chat, but then
I’ll never know.
– Really? I say. How often?
– Oh, not that often. A couple of times a year.
I want to ask if he was there in February, but I can’t risk it. I have to be careful.
If he did know Kate and has something to hide then he might work out I’m on to him.
I have to keep this light, breezy. If things become sexual there’ll be no way of
finding anything out, nothing I can do but end the conversation as quickly as possible.
I want to look for clues, but I can’t let things tip over.
– Where do you stay when you’re over here?
I wait. A message flashes. I can’t decide whether I want him to tell me he has a
flat in the nineteenth, or that his office put him up in a hotel near Ourcq Métro,
or not. If they do and he does, then it’s him. I’m sure of it. Hugh and I can tell
the police what I’ve found. I can move on.
But if he doesn’t? What then? I still won’t know.
His message arrives.
– I’m not there often. I tend to stay in hotels.
– Where?
– It varies. Usually pretty central. Or else I stay near Gare du Nord.
I don’t need to pull up a map of Paris to know that Gare du Nord is nowhere near
the area Kate’s body was found. I’m curiously relieved.
– Why do you ask?
– No reason.
– You think maybe it’s near you?
He’s added a smiley face. I wonder if the flirting has moved to the next level. Part
of me wants to end it, but another part of me doesn’t. He might be lying.
I hesitate for a moment, then type:
– I’m in the north-east. The nearest Métro is Ourcq.
It’s a risk. If it’s him he’ll know I’m linked to Kate. It can’t be a coincidence.
But what will he do? Just
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