finished her drink before pouring herself another measure. She raised the decanter to Veronique who shook her head in refusal. ‘We didn’t keep tabs on one another even before we separated. Why on earth would I want to know who he’s screwing now?’
‘And how did Mathilde feel about her father leaving?’
‘Her father?’
‘Monsieur Benazet.’
‘He’s not her father. Goodness, no.’ Madame Benazet sank back into her seat. ‘Her father and I went our separate ways a long time ago.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I’m not sure what this has to do with Mathilde.’
‘I’m simply wondering whether she may have tried to contact her father.’
‘What on earth for? He left us when Mathilde was a baby. Simply upped and left, abandoned us you could say.’
‘So Mathilde has had feelings of abandonment for some time?’
Madame Benazet’s eyes narrowed as she looked across at Veronique. ‘What are you implying?’
‘I’m simply trying to understand Mathilde in order to help me with my investigation.’ Veronique glanced around the room, at the precise positioning of everything in it. No trace of a family, no telltale signs that the apartment was anything more than a show home. ‘Anything from her past could provide a clue as to her whereabouts.’
‘I see. Well. She asked about her father when she was younger, but I told her the truth. He doesn’t want anything to do with us and we’re better off without him.’
‘Has she been involved with anyone else besides Frederic?’
‘Not really. Although she did mention her boss a few times, claimed he said that she had potential as a singer. I told her he must have been after something more than songs. She’s far too quick to trust, that girl.’
‘You don’t happen to recall his name?’
‘Valentine Dubois.’
Veronique nodded to herself. The eyewitness just so happened to be called Valentine and Jardins des Tuileries was a long way from the bar he owned in Montmartre. ‘Can you tell me about the necklace Mathilde was wearing the day she disappeared.’
‘What about it?’
‘How do you know she was wearing it? In your statement to the police you said Mathilde left early that morning, before you awoke.’
‘It was missing from my jewellery box.’
‘So you never saw her wearing it?’
‘No, I just assumed…’
‘So it’s possible that you have simply mislaid it?’
Madame Benazet shifted in her seat. ‘I trust that you can be discreet, that whatever I tell you stays between us. Client confidentiality and all that?’
‘What else has she taken?’
A wry smile. ‘Nothing important. Some money here, a trinket or two there. She thinks I didn’t notice.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this to the police?’
‘I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.’
Which is exactly why you came to me, Veronique thought to herself. That way no one need know the truth unless Madame Benazet chose to tell them.
Rising from her position on the sofa she placed the tumbler on the glass-topped table beside her, next to another photograph of Madame with her arms draped around a man in a tuxedo.
‘Do you mind if I have a look in Mathilde’s room?’
‘Of course, but I should tell you that it’s been cleaned since she left. I couldn’t stand the state of it a moment longer. Even with the door closed it bothered me every time I walked past so I asked the housekeeper to sort it out.’
‘Whereabouts is it?’
‘Third door on your left. Should I wait here?’
‘If you don’t mind, Madame; thank you.’
Veronique made her way back down the corridor and opened the door to Mathilde’s room. Her nose wrinkled against the scent of polish, which did little to mask the underlying odour of marijuana. If Madame didn’t know about her daughter’s little drug habit she was more naive than Veronique imagined.
The room was otherwise nondescript. Bed stripped bare of sheets, the duvet folded at one end. Cream walls adorned with various posters, mainly Renaissance art and folk musicians. Other than Joni Mitchell she didn’t recognise any of the names.
The desk was piled high with notebooks in a myriad of colours and designs. Flicking through the first couple there was nothing to set off any warning bells, just a keen desire to fit in and be noticed, much like every other young person in France. There was a bare patch on the wall next to a bookshelf. It was a shade darker than the rest and only the corner of a photograph remained, as if torn from its position. Given the prolific nature of social media and youth’s current obsession with cataloguing every moment of their lives, Veronique wondered what had driven Mathilde to obliterate hers.
Turning to leave the room her eye fell upon a guitar propped up against a wardrobe.
Madame Benazet looked up as she returned to the living room.
‘Why didn’t she take her guitar?’ Veronique asked.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘If she was going to run away, why didn’t she take her guitar?’
‘I don’t know. It’s never crossed my mind before.’
Based on what Veronique had seen Mathilde was a girl who loved music, to the point of obsession judging by the amount of notebooks filled with song lyrics in her room. As if music was the one thing she could cling to, rely upon.
‘I’ll take the case, Madame. But I’ll need a retainer.’
‘Of course.’ She opened a drawer in the bureau next to her, taking out a chequebook and pen.
‘If you could make it out to cash,’ Veronique replied, picking up her bag. ‘I’ll give you an update in a few days.’
‘May I ask how you intend to approach this?’ Madame walked with Veronique to the front door, watching as she bent down to retrieve her shoes.
Veronique paused. Until she had gone back over all the police files, combed through the pile of paperwork and reread all the interviews conducted thus far, she wasn’t sure where she would begin. ‘Frederic,’ she said.
‘You’re going to speak to him?’
‘Of course, Madame; this is new information that the police were not made aware
