tenants, a couple of American students who’d moved back to the States. They’d also left three plates, two bowls, two forks and a knife.
There was no coffee left, Lila remembered. Great. Six o’clock on a Saturday morning and no coffee. She turned to the crossword book on the table and tried to pick up where she had left
off. But her mind kept drifting. She remembered Anne Dufour’s face, closed, alert, as though trying to identify distant sounds.
Morel had told her not to make it personal, as if it was something she could choose. She knew to trust her instinct. Anne Dufour was scared. She had the helpless air of a woman left with no
options. Lila wished they could get her on her own. She might open up then.
Jacques Dufour was not a nice man. Lila didn’t pick him as a murderer, but she wanted to dig deeper into his life. A man like that was bound to have dirty secrets. Who knows, she thought.
I might get lucky. If I could nail him somehow, it might help shift the balance of things in the Dufour household. Maybe Anne Dufour would start smiling again, once in a while.
She could still see his face. Vain. Cruel. Convinced of his own power and superiority. How had he behaved towards his mother, Lila wondered. Had Isabelle Dufour spoilt her son? Was she
responsible for the fact he was such an arse-hole? Was any mother responsible for the way their children turned out? Lila thought of Isabelle Dufour’s apartment and wondered. She remembered
every object, every painting and rug in that house, the same way she could list everything she had seen at Jacques Dufour’s lavish home.
According to the concierge, he had visited his mother four times in eight years. Lila could picture him, pacing the apartment, looking at his watch and trying not to look bored.
‘Jacques Dufour. It’s people like you that make the world a shitty place,’ she said to herself. She got up and dropped the yoghurt pot into an overflowing rubbish bin and the
spoon into the sink. A dirty plate sat in it from two days earlier when she’d warmed up a ready-made lasagne.
She looked at her crossword clue again. In the street below she heard a single plaintive miaow, then another. Soon it became a series of calls, an ongoing lament that made Lila feel like someone
was scraping the inside of her skull with sharp claws. She looked at the ceiling. Cobwebs of dust hung from the corners. She needed to vacuum the place sometime.
‘I need to get out of here,’ she said to the walls. The thing that had nudged her was back, a memory that hovered in the back of her mind. Maybe if she talked to Morel, she would
remember. She picked up the phone and tried his mobile number. It rang eight times before going to a recorded message.
‘Morel. Pick up the phone. It’s important.’
She hung up and swore. Where the hell was he?
She dialled his number again. No answer.
‘Shit.’ Lila hung up. She took her pyjamas off and pulled on a grey T-shirt and a pair of jeans. She would get coffee first, then go to the pool and swim a few lengths. Think
carefully about what she remembered about the Dufours. Maybe it was nothing.
Though that seemed improbable, Lila thought as she jogged down the stairs. Her beating heart told her that she was on to something.
The swimming pool was busier than she’d hoped. While the desk attendant scanned her card, she saw through the glass people swimming two or three to each lane. She’d
hoped for a lane to herself, where she could pound the water till exhaustion overcame her. This was the only way she knew how to exercise, by reaching her limit then surpassing it, until there was
no feeling left.
Once she had changed into her blue one-piece swimsuit she looked for a lane that was not as busy as the others. She picked one that had just a single swimmer, a man with a powerful back and
strong arms whose butterfly stroke came across as a warning for others to keep away.
Perfect, she thought. This was someone unused to
There was no coffee left, Lila remembered. Great. Six o’clock on a Saturday morning and no coffee. She turned to the crossword book on the table and tried to pick up where she had left
off. But her mind kept drifting. She remembered Anne Dufour’s face, closed, alert, as though trying to identify distant sounds.
Morel had told her not to make it personal, as if it was something she could choose. She knew to trust her instinct. Anne Dufour was scared. She had the helpless air of a woman left with no
options. Lila wished they could get her on her own. She might open up then.
Jacques Dufour was not a nice man. Lila didn’t pick him as a murderer, but she wanted to dig deeper into his life. A man like that was bound to have dirty secrets. Who knows, she thought.
I might get lucky. If I could nail him somehow, it might help shift the balance of things in the Dufour household. Maybe Anne Dufour would start smiling again, once in a while.
She could still see his face. Vain. Cruel. Convinced of his own power and superiority. How had he behaved towards his mother, Lila wondered. Had Isabelle Dufour spoilt her son? Was she
responsible for the fact he was such an arse-hole? Was any mother responsible for the way their children turned out? Lila thought of Isabelle Dufour’s apartment and wondered. She remembered
every object, every painting and rug in that house, the same way she could list everything she had seen at Jacques Dufour’s lavish home.
According to the concierge, he had visited his mother four times in eight years. Lila could picture him, pacing the apartment, looking at his watch and trying not to look bored.
‘Jacques Dufour. It’s people like you that make the world a shitty place,’ she said to herself. She got up and dropped the yoghurt pot into an overflowing rubbish bin and the
spoon into the sink. A dirty plate sat in it from two days earlier when she’d warmed up a ready-made lasagne.
She looked at her crossword clue again. In the street below she heard a single plaintive miaow, then another. Soon it became a series of calls, an ongoing lament that made Lila feel like someone
was scraping the inside of her skull with sharp claws. She looked at the ceiling. Cobwebs of dust hung from the corners. She needed to vacuum the place sometime.
‘I need to get out of here,’ she said to the walls. The thing that had nudged her was back, a memory that hovered in the back of her mind. Maybe if she talked to Morel, she would
remember. She picked up the phone and tried his mobile number. It rang eight times before going to a recorded message.
‘Morel. Pick up the phone. It’s important.’
She hung up and swore. Where the hell was he?
She dialled his number again. No answer.
‘Shit.’ Lila hung up. She took her pyjamas off and pulled on a grey T-shirt and a pair of jeans. She would get coffee first, then go to the pool and swim a few lengths. Think
carefully about what she remembered about the Dufours. Maybe it was nothing.
Though that seemed improbable, Lila thought as she jogged down the stairs. Her beating heart told her that she was on to something.
The swimming pool was busier than she’d hoped. While the desk attendant scanned her card, she saw through the glass people swimming two or three to each lane. She’d
hoped for a lane to herself, where she could pound the water till exhaustion overcame her. This was the only way she knew how to exercise, by reaching her limit then surpassing it, until there was
no feeling left.
Once she had changed into her blue one-piece swimsuit she looked for a lane that was not as busy as the others. She picked one that had just a single swimmer, a man with a powerful back and
strong arms whose butterfly stroke came across as a warning for others to keep away.
Perfect, she thought. This was someone unused to
Similar Books
