A Heart Bent Out of Shape (16 page)

‘But you’ll keep investigating? You’ll keep trying?’

‘We’ll do our jobs,
mademoiselle
, which means doing all that we can to solve this case. More than that, you know I cannot promise.’

Hadley blinked quickly. She started to get up then sat back down. ‘Is it okay if I go now?’ she said.

‘Of course, this isn’t a formal interview, you’ve told us everything you know. Thank you for coming in.’

Hadley pulled on her hat and knotted her scarf. She shook hands with the officer, because it felt like the right thing to do. She walked to the door, then turned suddenly.

‘Do the drivers ever come forward?’ she said. ‘I mean, days, weeks later? Do they ever wake up one day, and realise that they can’t live with themselves after all? That they didn’t get away with it, because their conscience, their humanity, their
something
, wouldn’t let them? And do they come to you then, and tell you the truth?’

The officer hesitated. ‘That can happen,’ he said. His voice was flat, and without a trace of anything like hope.

The words
hit and run
echoed down the halls of Les Ormes. Chase and Jenny were in the kitchen when Hadley returned from the police station, and she saw how their eyes flickered with undisguised excitement as she told them. When she spoke of the unoptimistic police and absence of witnesses they squeezed her arm and patted her hand and said that what she really had to do was try and move on. Alone again in her room, outrage threatened to choke her, sobs blistering the back of her throat. She paced back and forth, her head in her hands. On impulse, she grabbed her coat and slammed out of her room.

She walked across campus with a heightened sense of self-consciousness, as though everyone she passed knew her business; her lips still smarted from Joel’s kisses, his stunted goodbye rang in her ears. It was a spiky, cold day, and the sky held the threat of another snowfall. Students moved in dribs and drabs, their mouths hidden by scarves, their hands stuffed into pockets. Conversations were muffled and hurried. Glances were snapped sideways. Inside the main building Hadley loosened her scarf and took her hat off, teasing her hands through her hair. She slipped into the toilets and checked herself in the mirror. The wintry wind had drawn tears from her eyes and her mascara was smudged. She tidied her appearance, combing the ends of her hair and marking her lips with a dash of ruby red. It helped, to paint a face.

Joel’s office was up two flights of stairs, at the very end of the English department corridor. Hadley reached his door and knocked. There was no answer so she knocked again, more insistently.

‘Professor Wilson isn’t here today.’

Hadley turned to find Caroline Dubois standing behind her. She had taken off her glasses and held them loosely in one hand. Hadley noticed that the inside of their arms was violet coloured. She twirled them between her fingers, majorette like.

‘Oh,’ Hadley said. ‘I needed to see him.’

‘He’s unwell,’ Caroline said. ‘His classes were cancelled for the day.’

‘I didn’t know.’

‘How could you?’ Caroline narrowed her pale green eyes. ‘It’s Hadley, isn’t it?’

Hadley hadn’t properly met her before, not even at the welcome drinks, but the department was small. She presumed she was aware of all the exchange students, for there was only a scattering of them.

‘I’m so sorry about your friend,’ Caroline said. ‘Professor Wilson mentioned in the last staff meeting that you might need some extra support. It can be difficult, I know, when you’re a long way from home; it’s easy for things to run out of control. If you ever want to have a cup of tea and a chat, my door is always open.’

Her English was perfect, with only the slightest trace of an accent. It was in fact a gentle, milky voice, imbued with kindness.

‘I love English tea,’ Caroline went on, ‘I have a sister in London who sends me over boxes of it. If you miss the taste of home, you know where to come.’

A few days ago, Hadley might have taken her up on it. She could have imagined herself drinking loose-leafed tea, letting Caroline’s soft voice steep around her. But would she have understood about Jacques? And now, this crime, would she have been moved to do anything about it? Somehow Hadley thought not. Her feelings were too irrational and directionless for someone like Caroline Dubois.

‘He has a stomach bug, if that’s not too much detail.’

‘Who?’

‘Professor Wilson.’

‘Oh,’ Hadley said. ‘Oh, right.’

Professor Dubois looked puzzled for a moment. She opened her mouth as if to say something else and then closed it again. She set her glasses back on her nose and laid her hand very gently on Hadley’s arm. It was so light a touch she barely felt it.

‘Remember the tea, Hadley,’ she said, ‘any time.’

Hadley retraced her steps down the corridor. She felt Caroline watching her, but when she turned she’d disappeared back inside her office, and this time the door was shut fast. Hadley took out her jotter from her bag and tore off a page so that she could scribble a note. She thought of last night’s bad Chinese food, and how Joel had carried on eating when she had stopped. Illness was plausible. But what if he was just embarrassed, and going to great lengths to avoid her? After they had kissed he had barely been able to look at her, and the sense that they had done something wrong had stayed with them all the way back to Lausanne. If he only knew what had happened to Kristina, that another dark line had been drawn, he surely wouldn’t care about anything else. She decided on simplicity, in case someone else found and read it.
Sorry you’re ill, Joel. When you’re back – which is now, I guess, as you’re reading this – can we talk? It’s urgent. Not about what you think. Thank you. Hadley.
She marked it with a kiss then changed her mind, scribbling it out. She tore another page of her jotter and wrote the whole thing again, in cold, hard capitals this time. She took it to his pigeon-hole and tucked it right at the back of the space, between a sheaf of essays and internal mail. Then she did the only other thing she could think of. She went to the
Hôtel
Le Nouveau Monde
.

seventeen

‘
I’d quite given up,’ Hugo Bézier said
,
as soon as he saw
her.

He gestured to the empty chair across from him and she hesitated.

‘You don’t mind?’

‘The very opposite,’ he said.

She slipped into the seat.

‘I thought perhaps you had found your man Jacques and run away with him,’ he said, smiling at her over the top of his coffee cup. ‘I’m delighted to see that you’re here, of course. That you stayed, as I knew you would. And fought, I think, too, for you look tired. How are you,
ma chérie
?’

She pressed her fingers to her eyes and took a breath.

‘Hadley, what’s wrong?’

‘There’s been a development,’ she said, using the police officer’s words.

‘What kind of a development?’

She stopped before she spoke. She held the words for a moment longer, and they felt as unreal as ever, as though she was reading aloud a passage from a book in class, or a line from a newspaper. She told him about laying flowers on Rue des Mirages, the appearance of Lisette and their broken exchange, and finally her trip to the police station, where the terrible fact was already known, but there was so little promise of progress.

‘Everything’s changed,’ said Hadley, ‘and yet nothing has. How can that be? After the police I wanted to tell someone who would know what to do, someone who’d really care, so I went to see my . . .’

Hugo laid a hand on her arm to still her. ‘I’m glad you came to me,’ he said.

‘No, I mean . . .’ She started to correct him then stopped. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘A hit and run, and a self-acknowledged unreliable witness. Good God.’

‘Lisette was there, but she wasn’t there, Hugo. She didn’t really see anything, and even if she did, she can’t remember. It’s useless. I can’t believe the police didn’t realise there was a car from the beginning. And I can’t understand what coward . . .’ her words tailed off.

Hugo pursed his lips, taking in a little air. ‘Very few of us know how we would react in an extreme situation,’ he said, evenly.

‘You wouldn’t stop? If you hit someone? You’d just drive off, as though it never happened?’

‘I very much doubt it would be as though it never happened. For anyone. But, me? I can’t say. I like to think I’d stop, but how can I say?’

‘That’s a terrible thing to admit to,’ Hadley said.

‘Better, surely, than not admitting to it?’ he countered. ‘If I know them at all, the police won’t be able to find the driver who hit your friend. Forgive me, again, for what you probably see as quite brutal honesty.’

‘Is this your idea of helping, Hugo?’

He seemed to reset himself. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘Now tell me, things have of course changed, and changed significantly, but since we last met, have you made any progress? With finding Jacques? With any of it?’

‘I’m stuck. So is Joel. He . . .’ She stumbled as she said his name, then righted herself. ‘He thinks we should stop looking. He said that if Jacques wanted to be found then he could be. I actually hadn’t thought of it like that. I thought it was all one way.’

‘Joel?’

‘My professor. He’s been helping me.’

‘And here I was thinking that I was the only man of distinguished years in your life.’

‘He’s not that old, Hugo,’ she said.

Hugo straightened his tie at the neck. He coughed stiffly.

‘Did you think about an advertisement in the local newspaper, perhaps, appealing for a Jacques to come forward?’

She shook her head, for that felt too dramatic, like an authority’s call for information. She imagined her Les Ormes telephone number printed in smudged newsprint and a picture of Kristina, that
last smile
again.

‘It would seem like a trick,’ she said, ‘as though there was a suspicion that he was involved. So you think I should carry on, then? That I shouldn’t give up on Jacques?’

‘Never give up, Hadley. And the police, you feel you’ve exhausted all avenues with them?’

‘For now. And even though they won’t admit it I’m afraid they’re feeling the same way.’

‘You mustn’t be deterred. I can see your professor’s point, of course I can, but that’s no reason for you to stop looking for Jacques. He can still come to you, at any moment, that doesn’t change. Listen, what would you say if I were to get you a list?’

‘What kind of a list?’

‘I have a friend in the force still. An old boy, but one of the good ones. I can ask him to generate a list. Young men falling within a certain age, in Geneva, with the first name of Jacques.’

She set down her cup with a crack.

‘You could get that for me?’

‘Yes, I’m sure I could.’

‘Hugo, could you really do that? Are you . . . were you . . . a policeman? I thought you said you were a writer.’

He laughed, and it was a well-practised sort of laugh, as though she had told a joke he’d heard a good many times before but never ceased to find amusing.

‘Once upon a time I wrote detective fiction. A good deal of it, too. I always rather enjoyed the research element. I cultivated some great friendships, in the name of authenticity.’

‘And you know people there still?’

‘One or two. Most have gone out to pasture; to the golf fields of the Algarve or the San Diego coast. People say the Swiss don’t like to leave Switzerland but I would say the opposite for old detectives. Perhaps they’ve seen too much beneath the perfect surface. Beyond the neutrality.’ He gave a low chuckle. ‘Or some have simply died too, of course. An occupational hazard, for us old-timers.’

She knew, without having read a word of his work, that he would have been a good writer for this much was obvious: he chose what to tell and when to tell it, and by quiet tricks, politely proffered handkerchiefs and offers of assistance, he kept you coming back for more.

‘Could you do it?’ she said.

‘I will certainly try.’

He pressed her for any other information that she might have on Jacques, however vague. She saw him write down
under 45, decent job, city dweller, childless
in spidery writing. He told her to come again in a few days.

‘Hugo, thank you. Really, that’s amazing. I had no idea you could be so . . . helpful.’

‘I’m rather surprising myself. I’m flexing muscles I haven’t used in a long time. Now, we have to begin with the rest.’

‘What rest?’

‘This crime, Hadley. For it is a crime, not an accident, not a careless fall, and solving it, or “working out what happened that night”, as you said to me in the very beginning, is more important now than ever,
n’est-ce pas
? Listen, no one will ever care about this as much as you do. Every single thing that you can think of, you have to try and do. You and only you.’

His voice wavered as he spoke. Hadley saw his dark eyes glisten, and his passion choked her. She glanced away, trying to collect herself.

‘I can’t think,’ said Hadley, ‘I don’t know, I mean, what else is there?’

‘Go back to Rue des Mirages.’

‘And do what? Even if I found her again, I don’t think Lisette can tell me anything else.’

‘And you did well, questioning her like that, getting as much truth as she was able to give. Other people might have walked away from someone like her, Hadley, so see, you’re already fighting, just like I knew you would. Now listen, she might not have been the only one to see the accident. The police will have gone door to door but you should do it for yourself. Someone else may remember something. Someone, Hadley, always knows something.’

‘Can I do that? Can I just go and knock on doors like that?’

‘You can do anything you want to. Anything you can think of, you must do.’

She thought of asking if he would go with her, this old man who seemed so pin-sharp, who knew exactly how to turn impotence to action, but he hadn’t proffered his company, he spoke only of ‘you’ not ‘we’. Hadley thought of Joel and felt a pang of regret. How long would he think the kiss mattered for? Would he be away tomorrow, and the next day? Would he find her note and if he did, would he know how to reach her? She imagined him snarling with regret, pacing in his apartment, a place she had never seen and probably never would. She knew then that she missed him, even if she hadn’t known him well enough or long enough. She missed him.

‘Hugo,’ she said, ‘do you think you’d be willing to come with me? To Rue des
Mirages? I’m afraid to do it on my own; I know you probably think that’s silly. And my French isn’t good enough, either. I wouldn’t know what to say or how to say it.’

Hugo looked pleased. ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he said.

They walked uphill from the waterfront as tiny snowflakes, light and infrequent, danced in front of them. Hadley watched Hugo as he wiped a solitary bead of sweat from his brow with the tip of his handkerchief, his breath quickening.

‘We could have taken a cab, if you’d have preferred,’ she said.

‘No, no, I’m enjoying the walk. I don’t commonly come this way, that’s all.’

‘Whereabouts do you live?’

He waved his hand behind them. ‘Oh, back there somewhere. Nothing extraordinary about it. Now, by my estimation I believe we are just two streets away. Onwards.’

Hadley slowed her step to match his and they came to Rue des Mirages
a little after seven o’clock. It looked as ordinary as ever, a street of buildings with weary expressions and closed shutters. There was no startling yellow police tape, no chalked outline. It was as deserted as ever, and there was no sign of Lisette.

‘So this is where it happened,’ said Hugo, removing his hat and smoothing his hair. ‘I don’t believe I’ve ever been on Rue des Mirages
before. Or perhaps I have, a long time ago, maybe. I tend to move in similar patterns, these days. The same places, the same faces.’

‘I’m sorry to break your routine.’

‘You’re apologising? I thought my gratitude was obvious.’

Hadley gave a small smile and shrugged. ‘Okay, so how do we do this? Start at one end and just . . . knock?’

‘Nothing else to it,’ Hugo said.

Together they went from one end of the street to the other. They buzzed every buzzer and knocked every knocker and rapped at every door. Their questions were met with suspicion, concern, contrition and apology, but the answer was always the same.
We only heard the ambulance siren. That was the first we knew
.

They came to the very last door, 148 Rue des Mirages, a top-floor apartment of a block that, once inside, had the tight, caustic smell of bleach and cold concrete. A young woman in a silk dress answered, her hair piled on top of her head in an elaborate series of curls and twists. Her eyes bulged with sympathy as she listened, and her head bobbed with agreement. She spoke delicate French with Hugo, and Hadley tried to understand. They talked for some time and she grew hopeful, but when Hugo shook her hand and gently led Hadley away, she knew she’d been no more helpful than anyone else.

‘She said that people use these back streets as a cut through, a way to avoid the main routes. Rue des Mirages has quieter traffic than most, but it is near the station and there are always trains rattling past. Residents are used to the noise. They turn up their television sets and their music; they don’t go running to their windows when they hear something.’

‘What else did she say?’

‘That was it,
plus ou moins
, more or less.’

‘But you were talking for ages.’

‘She wanted to know why we were here together, whether we were related. I think she was intrigued. I didn’t give very much away.’

‘There’s not much to say, is there?’

‘That depends on your point of view.’

They reached the bottom of the staircase and stepped out on to the street. A blast of ice-sharp air hit them and Hadley blew on her hands to stay warm. They started walking.

‘So, what now?’ she said. ‘Lisette was right: “nobody saw anything”, she kept saying that, over and over. She meant Kristina, she meant the driver, and she meant every other non-existent witness. The police were right too.
Salauds
.’

‘Hadley!’ said Hugo with a shout of laughter. ‘Your French is astonishing.’

‘I don’t even know what it means. Lisette said it.’

Beside her Hugo stumbled suddenly, and Hadley caught his elbow. She took a little of his weight and was surprised at his lightness. He looked so solid.

‘Are you all right?’ she said.

‘Yes, yes, fine,’ he said, hurriedly. ‘Just skidded a little, that’s all.’

‘It was exhausting,’ she said, ‘going to all those doors. And the walk here was uphill.’

A lock of his perfectly groomed hair had come unstuck and it fell over his forehead, giving him an uncharacteristically bedraggled air. Hadley resisted the urge to pat it back into place.

‘I think there must be a little ice underfoot,’ he said. ‘Watch your step too.’

‘I will,’ she said, gently.

‘You look tired yourself,’ he said, glancing sideways at her.

‘I haven’t been sleeping very well. And then this morning . . . it’s the shock. None of it feels real.’

‘You need to look after yourself,’ said Hugo, stopping. ‘Do you have friends where you live? Do they care for you?’

‘Kristina was my friend,’ said Hadley, then, ‘it’s different with the others, we just don’t connect in the same way. But they do try. I don’t think I make it very easy for them, in fact I know I don’t.’

‘A boyfriend, then?’

‘No boyfriend,’ she said, shaking her head.

‘No?’

Hugo looked at Hadley and her hand unconsciously went to her chin. She felt the mark of Joel’s rough kiss, his stubbled cheek.

‘Thank you for today, Hugo, I really appreciate it. You don’t have to care this much and yet you do. Why do you?’

‘Anyone would.’

‘They wouldn’t, not like this.’

‘Tomorrow, I’ll see about your list. We’ll soon know about every Jacques in Geneva. If you haven’t got classes, you should go to the police again. Ask them what they’re doing next. If you possibly can, make a nuisance of yourself.’ He stopped, took a breath, then went on, ‘Then take a photograph of Kristina to the train station. Just in case anyone who works there saw her. It might not give you anything, but why not? Try anyway. You must always try. And Hadley, it’s shut now, but there’s that flower shop at the end of this street; go in and ask if they have a security camera. You never know, they might have picked up something. Now, I think that’s about all. You know where I am if you need me. I’d come to all these places with you, only . . .’ his voice tapered off.