And now I’m thinking of the white fabric found at the scene of the body. Thomas was there, at the studio. There were sheets of it covering all of Noah’s paintings. How easy it would be to take one. To use it to move the body. Then to plant it later, when Noah was in the papers as the main suspect.

His number plate: AA.

His white car parked on the bottom section of Rue Chappe.

‘Sabine posted a selfie on Instagram the night of Noah’s party,’ I say, my words coming out fast. ‘It had Noah’s street sign in the background. If Thomas already had her business card he would have known to watch that account. How to find her.’

Luneau nods. He already knows what I’m telling him. And my mind is filled with images of how it all went down.

Thomas waiting outside for Sabine to leave, him following her and Noah to the bottom of the street. Waiting as they fought. Noah returning to the party. Sabine carrying on to the metro. I imagine her looking down at her phone, watching the footage she’d taken that night. It was a quiet street. Nobody was around, I remember.

He could have waited until she was almost at his parked car.

Thirty seconds. That’s all it would have taken to knock her out and bundle her into it like a drunk girlfriend, put his hands around her neck while she was still unconscious and squeeze. Then all he had to do was speed away.

I bite down on my lower lip and tears burn in my eyes.

Moor goes to a desk in the corner and brings me back a couple of tissues.

‘Did you find a copy of that video of Matilde and Thomas on the bridge?’ I ask.

‘No,’ Luneau says. ‘But there was a second phone in his apartment. The same one we found those photographs on.’ He nods to the iPad, ‘There were texts from you on it.’

I think back to his iMessage.

This is why my texts weren’t there with all the others. With my neighbour’s. Mine weren’t going to his real phone, they were going to a burner phone.

‘And also a text from Matilde’s number,’ Luneau continues, interrupting my thoughts. He reaches into the pile of papers in front of him and pulls out a photograph. ‘One of these belonged to Matilde. Do you recognise anything in this photograph?’

It’s all forensic lighting and a sterile tray with a selection of jewellery on it.

I glance down at it: a gold necklace with a seashell pendant, an evil-eye bracelet, a silver bangle and a red kabbalah string.

‘That’s Sabine’s,’ I say, my voice small as I point to the red string.