there’s nothing more important than what you’re doing now. No one expects you to come in when you’ve got Sylvia to look after. How is
she?’
There was a sigh at the end of the line, followed by silence. For a moment, Morel believed he could hear Vincent crying. He felt powerless. This wasn’t something he was equipped to deal
with.
‘Tell me what I can do to help,’ he said.
‘That’s the thing,’ Vincent said, his voice unrecognizable. ‘There’s nothing you or anyone can do. We’re alone in this.’ He then seemed to make an
effort to speak. ‘She’s running out of time. We’re looking at days, maybe a week if we’re lucky. They’re telling me she should be hospitalized but she really wants to
be at home for the little time she’s got.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m so sorry, Vincent. And the girls?’
‘The girls are heartbroken.’
‘Look, I’ll drop in later, I—’
‘Thanks, but please don’t,’ Vincent said.
Morel waited. Wondering whether he should insist.
‘Sure, I understand,’ he said finally. ‘Just take as much time as you need. You know we’ll do anything to make this easier for you.’
After he hung up, Morel looked up to see Jean, Marco and Lila standing there. For a while, no one said anything.
T WELVE
When Lila opened her eyes and saw it was just after 6 a.m., she felt cheated. What was the point of having a day off if you couldn’t sleep in? What were you supposed to
do at 6 a.m.? Especially if you were waking up alone.
She’d been out late, dancing at a Cuban club where, with the right dose of alcohol and dim lighting, she could convince herself that she moved like a Latin goddess. For close to an hour
she’d been trapped in the arms of a sweaty Argentinian who’d flicked his fingers and paced around her with the intensity of a matador facing off a bull. It had been a laugh. She’d
come home dripping with sweat, feeling like she’d managed to shake off the disquieting image of Isabelle Dufour’s corpse. That hideous make-up and the cheap wig. Coupled with the
virginal nightdress and clean white sheets, it added up in Lila’s mind to a form of sexual violation as brutal as rape.
She couldn’t articulate this clearly. Which was why she hadn’t shared her thoughts with Morel or anyone else.
If only she’d brought the quick-footed Argentinian home. Around about now she might be getting a healthy dose of attention. The sort that might help her go back to sleep. Alone, though,
there wasn’t a hope in hell she would. She was buzzing, feeling like she did sometimes coming out of a club in the early hours of the morning, high from the pumping noise and closeness of
bodies, her stomach clamouring for food.
Only it was hours ago she had got home and now she really should be fast asleep. Something had nudged her and woken her up despite her intense tiredness. What was it? Like an urgent reminder in
her ear. Something to do with Isabelle Dufour.
She got up to go to the toilet and brush her teeth. In the dead-end street below a Chinese man, one of the workers at the Happy Dumpling restaurant, was dragging a rubbish bin. He seemed to be
making a point of going slowly, making sure that everyone in the street would hear it. He unlocked the rear entrance to the restaurant and disappeared inside, taking the bin with him. A skeletal
cat followed at a watchful distance and sat on its haunches, waiting for scraps.
‘Forget it, pal. You’re wasting your time,’ Lila said out loud. ‘People are having a hard time of it these days. There’s no room for charity.’
She thought about getting back in bed but she needed to eat something. She could barely remember what she’d had the night before but she was fairly confident none of it included solids. In
the fridge she found a family-sized pot of strawberry yoghurt past its expiry date and she sat at the table with the pot and a spoon. One of two teaspoons in her drawer and a parting gift from the
former
she?’
There was a sigh at the end of the line, followed by silence. For a moment, Morel believed he could hear Vincent crying. He felt powerless. This wasn’t something he was equipped to deal
with.
‘Tell me what I can do to help,’ he said.
‘That’s the thing,’ Vincent said, his voice unrecognizable. ‘There’s nothing you or anyone can do. We’re alone in this.’ He then seemed to make an
effort to speak. ‘She’s running out of time. We’re looking at days, maybe a week if we’re lucky. They’re telling me she should be hospitalized but she really wants to
be at home for the little time she’s got.’
‘Bloody hell, I’m so sorry, Vincent. And the girls?’
‘The girls are heartbroken.’
‘Look, I’ll drop in later, I—’
‘Thanks, but please don’t,’ Vincent said.
Morel waited. Wondering whether he should insist.
‘Sure, I understand,’ he said finally. ‘Just take as much time as you need. You know we’ll do anything to make this easier for you.’
After he hung up, Morel looked up to see Jean, Marco and Lila standing there. For a while, no one said anything.
T WELVE
When Lila opened her eyes and saw it was just after 6 a.m., she felt cheated. What was the point of having a day off if you couldn’t sleep in? What were you supposed to
do at 6 a.m.? Especially if you were waking up alone.
She’d been out late, dancing at a Cuban club where, with the right dose of alcohol and dim lighting, she could convince herself that she moved like a Latin goddess. For close to an hour
she’d been trapped in the arms of a sweaty Argentinian who’d flicked his fingers and paced around her with the intensity of a matador facing off a bull. It had been a laugh. She’d
come home dripping with sweat, feeling like she’d managed to shake off the disquieting image of Isabelle Dufour’s corpse. That hideous make-up and the cheap wig. Coupled with the
virginal nightdress and clean white sheets, it added up in Lila’s mind to a form of sexual violation as brutal as rape.
She couldn’t articulate this clearly. Which was why she hadn’t shared her thoughts with Morel or anyone else.
If only she’d brought the quick-footed Argentinian home. Around about now she might be getting a healthy dose of attention. The sort that might help her go back to sleep. Alone, though,
there wasn’t a hope in hell she would. She was buzzing, feeling like she did sometimes coming out of a club in the early hours of the morning, high from the pumping noise and closeness of
bodies, her stomach clamouring for food.
Only it was hours ago she had got home and now she really should be fast asleep. Something had nudged her and woken her up despite her intense tiredness. What was it? Like an urgent reminder in
her ear. Something to do with Isabelle Dufour.
She got up to go to the toilet and brush her teeth. In the dead-end street below a Chinese man, one of the workers at the Happy Dumpling restaurant, was dragging a rubbish bin. He seemed to be
making a point of going slowly, making sure that everyone in the street would hear it. He unlocked the rear entrance to the restaurant and disappeared inside, taking the bin with him. A skeletal
cat followed at a watchful distance and sat on its haunches, waiting for scraps.
‘Forget it, pal. You’re wasting your time,’ Lila said out loud. ‘People are having a hard time of it these days. There’s no room for charity.’
She thought about getting back in bed but she needed to eat something. She could barely remember what she’d had the night before but she was fairly confident none of it included solids. In
the fridge she found a family-sized pot of strawberry yoghurt past its expiry date and she sat at the table with the pot and a spoon. One of two teaspoons in her drawer and a parting gift from the
former
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