Katherine Debona - The Girl in the Shadows

The last place Mathilde had used her credit card was a restaurant three streets away from where she lived, timed at 23.41 on 7th June. Since then there had been no online activity on any of her social network sites, no credit card usage, nothing. The police report claimed the only witness to have seen Mathilde was unreliable but didn’t state on what grounds.

Circling the fountain Veronique headed along the Champs-Élysées, lines of traffic streaming towards the Arc de Triomphe like lemmings. The roof of the Grand Palais caught the morning sun as she passed, the city’s aristocratic history hidden amongst modernity, the streets long since clean of the blood that was spilled.

What had made Guillaume so quick to dismiss the case as nothing more than a runaway? Surely the fact Mathilde had been seen in the early hours of the morning in a park some distance away from her home and place of work warranted further investigation? Or was it because she was legally of adult age and therefore free to come and go as she wished, which pushed her case to the bottom of the pile?

The police had missed something, but at first glance Veronique couldn’t see what that was. Nothing stood out amongst the files and a preliminary online search told her very little about Mathilde Benazet. Interview notes painted a picture of a shy girl, a bit of a recluse. Her tutor said she was a diligent pupil and showed promise but seemed a little distracted recently, which had affected her grades.

The change seemed to occur around the same time she began working at a music café in Montmartre, co-workers stating that she hadn’t missed a single shift in the last six months. Nothing out of the ordinary, most undergraduates went through a phase of choosing a social life over the library, but Mathilde didn’t come across as a party girl.

Veronique crossed over Avenue George V and then turned right, a map of Paris imprinted on her mind. She had walked every street of the city, explored every back corner and could find her way even in the dark. Every district had its own character, its own presence, which was determined as much by the people in it as the buildings. She didn’t like this part of Paris. It was too brash, too garish, with sprawling streets and designer stores, the narrowed gaze of its patrons as you passed.

Veronique checked the address on her phone as she looked up at the pale stone building in front of her. She smoothed her hair from her face – thinking perhaps she should have at least brushed it after her gym session that morning – before ringing the bell above the sign for Apartment 3.

‘Oui?’ came the response over the intercom.

‘Madame Benazet?’ Veronique replied. ‘My name is Veronique Cotillard. We spoke on the phone?’

‘Ah yes, of course. Won’t you come up?’

Veronique pushed against the wrought-iron gate, walking through into a private courtyard. In the centre stood an ornate fountain, the delicate sound of water accompanied by the faint notes of Mozart coming from an open window above her head. A doorway to her right was framed by trailing jasmine, its scent settling on her clothes as she passed through into a lobby with marbled floor and a crystal chandelier hanging from the double-height ceiling.

After walking past the lift Veronique ascended the stairs to the second floor, her footfalls muffled by the striped runner. Pausing outside Apartment 3 she angled her face away from the door before lifting the brass knocker and allowing it to fall against the gleaming mahogany.

‘Madame Benazet.’ Fixing a smile on her face she extended her hand in greeting.

The smile that was returned didn’t quite meet eyes that flickered from one side of Veronique’s face to the other. If Madame Benazet was surprised by the woman standing in her doorway she gave no indication of it.

‘Please,’ she said, gesturing for Veronique to enter, ‘do come in. I hope the traffic wasn’t too bad. It can be rather busy at this time of day.’

‘I walked,’ Veronique replied as the door was shut behind her.

‘I see. Please would you remove your shoes and follow me.’

Veronique did as she was asked, following Madame Benazet along a carpeted hallway with photographs lining the walls and into a room screaming for attention. An oversized mirror, deep velvet curtains framing dual-aspect windows and lilies adorning every conceivable surface.

‘Can you tell me a little about Mathilde?’ she asked, sitting on a nearby sofa and sinking into the cushions.

‘What would you like to know?’ Madame Benazet stood by the mirror, repositioning one of the flower arrangements.

‘Something about her character, her favourite food, anything. It doesn’t matter whether or not you think it’s relevant.’

‘What can I tell you about Mathilde?’ A sigh, a stroke of hair, fingertips lingering on a drop diamond earring. ‘She’s a bit of an attention-seeker, a bit melodramatic.’

‘Can you give me an example?’

‘Mathilde is a rather difficult girl, always has been,’ she began, descending onto a wing-backed chair and crossing her legs. ‘Even as a baby she was always the one demanding attention. If only she could have been more like…’

‘Like?’

‘Oh, you know.’ A wave of her manicured hand. ‘I suppose I had an idea of what motherhood was going to be like, but then these things rarely live up to your expectations, do they?’

‘I wouldn’t know, Madame. I don’t have any children.’

‘You know,’ she said, rising from her chair and going over to the sideboard from which she retrieved a decanter and two tumblers, ‘you’re not at all what I was expecting.’ She poured two generous measures and handed one to Veronique.

‘What were you expecting?’ Veronique swirled the dark liquid around the glass before taking a large sip.

‘You’re really rather beautiful.’

‘Is that a problem?’ Veronique knocked back the remaining Cognac and rolled the glass in her palms.

‘Goodness no.’ A shrill laugh followed by a pursing of lips. ‘Just surprising is all. Francoise mentioned your scar.’

‘People usually do.’

‘I only mean that… Oh never mind. I guess I was nervous about this whole thing. Hiring a stranger to come into your home, opening yourself up to scrutiny once more. But Francoise couldn’t recommend you highly enough and what’s important is finding Mathilde, to find out what happened to her.’ She looked directly at Veronique. ‘You do believe me when I say she hasn’t simply run away?’

‘Why would I not believe you, Madame?’

‘Please, call me Christelle. Madame makes me sound so old.’

Walking over to the grand piano at the far corner of the room she picked up one of the framed photographs that lay atop it.

‘You may have noticed that there are no recent photographs of Mathilde in the apartment.’

‘It did strike me as a little peculiar, I must admit.’

‘She made me put them all away.’ Taking a long sip of her own drink Madame Benazet placed the photograph back on the piano and turned to Veronique. ‘Mathilde seems to think all the world is against her. That it’s harder for her than anyone else, but I’ve told her you don’t get something for nothing in this life; you have to work at it. I mean, she takes everything so personally. It’s not as if he was even a serious boyfriend.’

‘Boyfriend?’ Veronique mentally flicked through her notes. There had been no mention of a boyfriend.

‘Ever so handsome, but had that look about him, you know? Bit of a bad boy is Frederic.’

‘And how long were they seeing each other?’

‘Not long, but they had known each other since school. Then he ran off with one of her friends and she fell apart. Can’t say I’m all that surprised. Agnes is one of those creatures who was first in the queue when God was dishing out beauty. Hardly a shock that Frederic’s head was turned.’