‘That’s Le Voltage,’ I say, looking up at him, and he nods. I look back down and watch the stream of images. It’s the night of Noah’s exhibition. I recognise his paintings on the wall, the people in the crowd – there’s the guy with the thick grey hair, Agnès Bisset and the mousy-haired girl by the door handing out champagne. The camera moves through the crowd. Now the camera moves to the doorway and heads outside. A long, unbroken shot. It scans the street. Focuses on the sky. Then a streetlight. Then a figure in the dark, looking down the alleyway where Noah and I were smoking. The camera creeps towards him – I recognise the jacket, the tiger – and then comes a giggle and ‘Coucou!’. The figure swivels, his face in a state of shock. And Sabine says in French, ‘Wait, I know you.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Thomas replies in English.

‘I do. From the bridge. I know you.’

The camera is still rolling, Thomas’s eyes are wide. And then he says, ‘You’re wrong.’

‘Here’s my card, I’ll send you the footage, it’s cute,’ comes Sabine’s voice. And then the screen cuts to black.

I look up at Luneau. ‘That was the night of Noah’s exhibition. I’d seen Thomas just the night before and I’d posted about it on Instagram. He must have followed me there.’

Guilt pulses through me as Luneau makes a note on his pad.

Because poor Sabine. She really was the wrong girl in the wrong place at the wrong time… he got rid of her because she recognised him. He feared she could link him to Matilde.

My stomach clenches.

Luneau reaches for the iPad, scrolls through and presses play then pushes it back towards me.

‘This is from the next night, on the fifteenth.’ He says.

I watch the images of the crowd in Noah’s studio. I can almost smell the turpentine and dust in the air. She’s videoing, people are dancing. And I’m there. Noah leads me onto the dancefloor and my hands reach around his neck. I blink hard as I watch. My face is clear as I look over to the lens. Then I go to the kitchen and Noah follows me. Sabine keeps videoing, she wanders through the crowd, turning in circles in a way that makes the footage hard to watch without getting dizzy. And then she stops and simply films. I’m watching people move around, talk to each other. The guy in the green velvet jacket is in frame now.

Luneau presses pause.

I glance up at him, then back down at the screen. His finger points to a face in the background.

My breath catches in my throat as I take in the features.

‘That’s Thomas,’ I say, almost a whisper.