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Authors: Alex Blackmore
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bought from the supermarket on the day she arrived, she settled down on the bed with the sandwich she had bought before the accident and opened her laptop. Her left leg still ached mightily after the crash, but she was still walking and the pain had at least not spread to her back, which was her usual weak spot. She thought about the events of the last few hours as the heat of the Calvados dripped down her throat. She had absolutely no idea what she had stumbled across but she felt she had taken a step closer towards the truth. Leonâs revelation about the needle marks was important and she felt like this confirmed her fears that Jackson had indeed been murdered. By who and why, though, remained a total mystery.
She still had Shaunâs phone and had not fulfilled her side of the bargain and told Leon about it during the encounter at his flat. In the end he seemed to have forgotten that he had asked her what she had found and she felt there was no need to share too much with him. It would be great to think she now had some kind of ally in Leon but he had also tailed her and possibly knocked her down with his car, and his jittery, manic behaviour didnât encourage her to trust him.
Out of habit, she navigated to Facebook and looked at her own page. Her profile picture was a shot taken on a night out. She had used a camera app with a flattering filter and she was sitting in the middle of two of her best friends, each of them brandishing a huge curved bowl of a cocktail glass filled with a red liquid. The snap had been taken way before Jacksonâs death and looking at it made her feel sad. She scrolled down the page and on the left saw that Jackson was still listed as her brother. She clicked on his smiling face and opened the page. His âwallâ was full of messages in French that she didnât understand. She recognised the sad face emoticons and realised the page had probably been turned into some kind of tribute. She looked at all the faces of his French friends, her mouse scrolling over each face in turn. Over one face she stopped. A short-haired woman with a nervous smile looking directly at the camera. She had seen her before. Eva opened up the womanâs main page and saw immediately that it was the woman from the photo Leon had shown her earlier that night. Her name was Sophie Vincent. The rest of her profile was restricted. Eva took out her Moleskine notebook and printed the name in black letters.
SIX
T HE NEXT DAY, E VA MADE HER WAY slowly along the crowded Parisian streets. She was finally on her way to meet with Jacksonâs girlfriend Valerie for the first time, but she felt foggy and unfocused and her mouth was dry. Arriving at Exit 5 of the Tuileries Métro station precisely at 1pm, Eva scanned her immediate vicinity. No sign of Valerie. Whilst the two women had never met, Valerieâs flame-red hair and model-like poses had featured frequently on Jacksonâs Facebook pages in the year before he died, and Eva felt familiar enough with that face to pick it out in a crowd. When she realised she had a few minutes to herself, she moved out of the flow of pedestrians to the back edge of the pavement. At her back a sandy stone wall topped with rusted black railings, behind which stretched the beautifully manicured grounds of the Tuileries Gardens. In front of her, a busy Parisian road bustling with cars, bikes and mopeds, bumpers glinting in the morning sun. Eva found a railing to lean against and rested the back of her head against the cold metal as her gaze drifted up towards the sky. She closed her eyes.
âEva.â
Eva jumped, knocking her head against the railing. Valerie was standing directly in front of Eva, her auburn hair glinting in the winter sun. They shook hands awkwardly.
âHow are you?â
Valerie hesitated before answering. âI am fine. You?â
âQuite hungry. Shall we get lunch?â
Valerie looked taken aback. âI had thought we
She still had Shaunâs phone and had not fulfilled her side of the bargain and told Leon about it during the encounter at his flat. In the end he seemed to have forgotten that he had asked her what she had found and she felt there was no need to share too much with him. It would be great to think she now had some kind of ally in Leon but he had also tailed her and possibly knocked her down with his car, and his jittery, manic behaviour didnât encourage her to trust him.
Out of habit, she navigated to Facebook and looked at her own page. Her profile picture was a shot taken on a night out. She had used a camera app with a flattering filter and she was sitting in the middle of two of her best friends, each of them brandishing a huge curved bowl of a cocktail glass filled with a red liquid. The snap had been taken way before Jacksonâs death and looking at it made her feel sad. She scrolled down the page and on the left saw that Jackson was still listed as her brother. She clicked on his smiling face and opened the page. His âwallâ was full of messages in French that she didnât understand. She recognised the sad face emoticons and realised the page had probably been turned into some kind of tribute. She looked at all the faces of his French friends, her mouse scrolling over each face in turn. Over one face she stopped. A short-haired woman with a nervous smile looking directly at the camera. She had seen her before. Eva opened up the womanâs main page and saw immediately that it was the woman from the photo Leon had shown her earlier that night. Her name was Sophie Vincent. The rest of her profile was restricted. Eva took out her Moleskine notebook and printed the name in black letters.
SIX
T HE NEXT DAY, E VA MADE HER WAY slowly along the crowded Parisian streets. She was finally on her way to meet with Jacksonâs girlfriend Valerie for the first time, but she felt foggy and unfocused and her mouth was dry. Arriving at Exit 5 of the Tuileries Métro station precisely at 1pm, Eva scanned her immediate vicinity. No sign of Valerie. Whilst the two women had never met, Valerieâs flame-red hair and model-like poses had featured frequently on Jacksonâs Facebook pages in the year before he died, and Eva felt familiar enough with that face to pick it out in a crowd. When she realised she had a few minutes to herself, she moved out of the flow of pedestrians to the back edge of the pavement. At her back a sandy stone wall topped with rusted black railings, behind which stretched the beautifully manicured grounds of the Tuileries Gardens. In front of her, a busy Parisian road bustling with cars, bikes and mopeds, bumpers glinting in the morning sun. Eva found a railing to lean against and rested the back of her head against the cold metal as her gaze drifted up towards the sky. She closed her eyes.
âEva.â
Eva jumped, knocking her head against the railing. Valerie was standing directly in front of Eva, her auburn hair glinting in the winter sun. They shook hands awkwardly.
âHow are you?â
Valerie hesitated before answering. âI am fine. You?â
âQuite hungry. Shall we get lunch?â
Valerie looked taken aback. âI had thought we
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