She videoed us. She threatened to tell his wife. Noah ran after her. I don’t know anything after that.

Simple. I have nothing to hide. So why are my hands shaking? Is it the Ambien? Or is it the fact that once I say it, I can’t unsay it? They’ll look for that video, and if they find it, Noah will become their prime suspect. And fuck my life, I kind of liked him.

Wesley finally leaves and I make the coffee, pick up the tray and head back through the open-plan office towards the meeting room, glancing in at Hyacinth’s office. She’s not in. That’s good. I don’t want to have to explain things to her yet if I don’t have to.

The meeting room door is open when I get there and I quickly move inside. I put the tray down on the table then close the door behind me and sit down, passing cups across the table like it’s a social visit. Luneau has a notebook open in front of him and is clicking a pen but he smiles with thanks as I pass him his cup.

I take a big sip of my own coffee and watch as Brigadier Moor adds milk and then four sugar cubes. The sound of his teaspoon clinking against the bottom of the ceramic mug fills the room. I can’t stand it. I need this done, and quickly, before Hyacinth gets in.

‘Right,’ I say with a hospitable smile as I covertly take control. ‘This is about Friday night, right?’ I ask, taking another sip of my coffee. ‘About Sabine Roux? I saw the news this morning. I was going to come and see you after work.’

‘Yes,’ Luneau says. He’s watching me, trying to figure me out. ‘We’re asking questions of anyone… connected.’ He clicks his pen. ‘You called Noah Parker two days ago?’

Parker. That’s his last name.

And I think of that morning in the bathrooms, the cold tiles beneath me as I left that message on Noah’s phone: ‘Hey, Noah, it’s me, I just saw the news about Sabine and Friday night and I—’

All the police needed to do then was call my number back and they’d have heard: ‘You’ve called Harper Brown at The Paris Observer.’

‘Yes, I saw the news about Sabine going missing and I was worried.’

Luneau squints at me. ‘Harper,’ he says. ‘Is it okay if I call you Harper?’

I nod, even though I sense I am not going to like what comes next.

‘Noah claims to not know who you are?’ It’s posed like a question, the subtext being: please explain.

Right.

Even through the haze I can see what happened here. They went through Noah’s phone when they questioned him. They listened to his voicemails and called me back. They asked who Harper Brown was and Noah said he had no idea. But that didn’t quite make sense to Luneau: if Noah didn’t know me, why was I leaving a message in an intimate tone on his voicemail about Friday night and Sabine? What was he hiding?