Assistant Inspector Marchand came by again this morning, early, before I left for work. She said that they have had dog teams searching the area near where our car was found, but so far, nothing else has turned up. They have now spoken to eyewitnesses, who have confirmed that our car entered the main gate of the industrial park during the evening of 23rd October. The witnesses have provided sworn statements that the car was occupied by one man, a woman, and a child in a car seat.
She asked me if they could collect DNA samples. I signed a consent form, and then her people took a blood sample from me, and hair and skin samples from Hamid’s hairbrush and Eugène’s pillow.
I still have not heard back from my friend at the Directorate. I am afraid to call him lest I rouse suspicions. All the calls are monitored. I went to the office today, not because I thought I would get some work done, but simply to get out of the apartment. Everyone at the bureau knows about Hamid’s disappearance. They were all very sympathetic and my editor was supportive as usual, telling me to take whatever time I needed and pledging the agency’s resources to help in the search.
I cannot help feeling that I am being steadily boxed in. As the days go by and the reality of what has happened crystallises inside me, everything makes less and less sense. There seems no logic to it. Hamid picks Eugène up from the crèche that day, an hour or so early, and then is seen entering an industrial park (of all places!) in eastern Paris nearly eight hours later, with a strange woman. What happened in those intervening hours? Where did they go? I know the police think it was me in the car. My editor told me they were at the office yesterday interviewing colleagues about my whereabouts that day. I left a bit later than I usually do, and did some shopping on the way, but then went straight to our flat. I did not phone in the missing person’s report until the next day. So I have no alibi for the time of the supposed murders. I know that the police think I killed them, that I hid the bodies and burned the car. I have read and written enough about the horrific things that family members do to each other to understand why the police believe this.
No bodies have been found. Is that why they haven’t charged me yet? Are there no other suspects? And who is this other woman?
Are they really dead? No, I cannot believe it. No. Anything but that. Anything. My mind spins like a leaf in a hurricane.
Tonight, I called Hope in Cyprus. I took the metro to my favourite restaurant, sat alone, picked at my food, and then called her from a phone box on the street. I have no doubt that the police have wire-tapped the line to our flat and are monitoring my mobile. Hope is doing well. Little Kypros – she and Jean-Marie call him Kip – is growing fast. He’ll be big and healthy like his father. Her work on the new national park in Agamas is going well, despite the continual frustrations of dealing with government. Jean-Marie (I still, after all this time, cannot bring myself to call him Crowbar) left suddenly two days ago on a job. He did not tell her where he was going, or for what. He never does. Hope says that he is planning to get out soon – once he finishes up a couple of key projects he is working on. That is what he calls them – ‘projects’. They do not need the money, not after everything that happened in Cyprus. I know she worries. She knows that he loves what he does, and that I do not approve, but we both owe him our lives, and I know she loves him and he her. Some of the most improbable couples seem to have the best relationships. Some, not all.
Then I told Hope everything. I suppose I just needed someone to talk to. She has become a very close friend. We have been through a lot together. She offered to help, as I knew she would. I had to stop her from flying out here straightaway. It is good to have a few friends in this world upon whom one can depend utterly.
I asked her if she had heard from you. I thought perhaps you might have checked in with her, knowing about the two of you and what you share, but she had heard nothing, not since Maputo. No one has. Not even Crowbar. That was more than nine months ago. It was, she said, as if you had decided to renounce man-and womankind. That was how she said it, Claymore: man-and womankind. After the way I have treated you, I do not blame you.
Wherever you are, I pray to Allah to protect you and help you to forgive yourself, and forgive me.
I need your help, Claymore. That was the last thing I said to Hope: When you speak to Jean-Marie, tell him I am in trouble and that I need Claymore’s help.