It opens, I push it and run across the cobbled courtyard, past the parked cars, and enter the next code. My hair is dripping and I’m shivering from cold by the time the light flicks on inside. And as I make my way up the ninety-six stairs, I feel for the cool metal of my keys in the bottom of my bag. I find them, put them into the lock, twist and exhale loudly as the door swings open and I go inside.

As I shut the door behind me and flick on the light, I subconsciously check the dark corners for a swarthy silhouette. I drop my bag on the counter, reach into my pocket, pull out that card and trace the lettering with my eyes. My phone beeps and I reach for it, expecting it to be Camilla. But it’s not. It’s a news notification.

Noah X questioned further over Sabine Roux murder.

And isn’t it ironic how this morning that headline was exactly what I wanted to read. But now, just twelve hours later, I’m not so sure. Because now I’ve seen that video. Now I know someone else might have had a reason to want Sabine dead.

Chapitre Vingt-sept

Chapitre vingt-sept

We’re all sitting around the big dark wood table, an ominous silver light seeping in through the windows as we industriously fuck around with notepads and printouts in preparation for our weekly editorial meeting. My phone lights up from the table and I grab it.

A message.

Camilla.

I have a really bad feeling about this.

And she’s not just talking about the PI card and the photographs I sent her late last night from the cab. That tabloid in the UK chose this morning to release its next instalment of fear, with news that ‘inside sources’ claimed both Sabine and Matilde’s bodies had blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. Camilla’s been texting about it all morning. And I’ve been cursing myself for sending her anything at all. It was supposed to reassure her but now, with this, all it’s done is stress her out.

I let out a deep breath, put my phone down face up beside my notepad and look out the window: the clouds outside are the colour of deep dark bruises and it’ll rain soon. I hope if Mr PI is lurking outside, he forgot his umbrella.

Hyacinth closes the door with a bang and then sits down at her spot at the head of the table.

‘Nathalie, you’re up first,’ she says, without her usual fake-nice introduction. I can feel her bad mood seeping off her.

Nathalie looks down at her notes and her face goes a little pink.

‘They’re opening a new sensory-deprivation restaurant in—’

‘The ones where you eat in the dark?’ Hyacinth interrupts. I’m pretty sure if her forehead moved she’d be frowning right now.