“It’s a ballet tune,” he said. “Ta ta tada tada, ta ta tada tada . . . Often used for warm-ups at the barre.”

“You play for ballet classes?”

“Not anymore. I did when Sabine and I were at school.”

“She could’ve been a brilliant dancer.”

“Could’ve been many brilliant things if she’d stuck at them,” he said.

“She was forced to stop dancing, though,” I said. “Because of her fucked-up feet.”

“Yeah. Her fucked-up feet wanted to take her to—now, where was it that time? Goa, I think.”

I frowned at him. “Then why the ballet music?”

“To annoy her.” He stubbed his cigarette out in the car’s ashtray. “She’d have appreciated the irony.”

“Could I—ask you some things about Sabine?”

He swung open the passenger door. “Feel free.”

I climbed into his car. The interior was beautiful, soft saddle leather. Close up, Xavier appeared to be nearer fifty than forty. There were fine lines on his face, silver at his hairline. I wished I’d caught him in the pub. I felt the distinct absence of props. Wineglass. Cigarette. Loo escape. General buzz.

The silence between us lengthened.

He said, “You’re wondering how I didn’t notice . . .?”

“No,” I said. “I—”

“Sabine went out of contact intermittently. I used to chase her, harass her, but it never really worked. When she wanted to go AWOL, it was best to let her be. She always rang eventually. Except this time she didn’t.”

I shifted in my seat. “Actually I wanted to ask something else.”

“Go ahead.”

“Did she ever mention me to you?”

“Might help if you tell me your name.”

“I told you in the pub. It’s Meggie.”

He shook his head slowly. I looked out through the windshield at the wooden fence. A sign read, CAR PARK. PATRONS ONLY. There was a weeping willow on the other side of the fence. An empty children’s playground beyond the willow. I heard myself say, “Sabine mentioned you to me.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“That you were dead.”

Xavier burst out laughing. “Typical Sabine! What death did she give me?”

I shook my head.

“You can’t back out now, Meggie,” he said.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have told you.”

“It’s OK,” he said.

“I’m trying to understand things—”

“Maybe I can help,” he said. “But you need to tell me the rest.”

In a splurge of words, I told him everything I could remember. About his mother kicking him out, about the BASE jumping, and free-climbing, and finally about him diving to his death off a high rock into a deep pool.

When I finished, he was silent.

Spots of scarlet appeared at his temples.

“I’m sorry.” I tried to open the door.