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“Just every now and again,” Hugh says. His voice is kind; Hannah knows he’s trying not to add to her guilt. “I think perhaps it was easier for him to talk to me, you know, being a medical man and all that.”
Hannah nods, grateful that he’s letting her off the hook, and then Hugh turns abruptly down a little alleyway between two tall stone buildings, where a lighted sign flickers above a stairwell. LE JOLIE BEAUJOLAIS, Hannah reads as they descend a short flight of stairs and find themselves in an almost aggressively French-themed bar, complete with Toulouse-Lautrec drawings on the wall, Gauloises drinks coasters, and row upon row of shining wineglasses and bottles. LE BEAUJOLAIS NOUVEAU EST ARRIVé! says a sign above the bar.
It’s hot and very, very full, but after a shouted conversation with the man behind the bar, true to Hugh’s promise, a tiny table is found for them in the corner. Hannah is ushered onto a velvet-covered banquette, and Hugh hitches his pressed suit trousers and sits opposite on a stool. The barman wipes their table with a theatrical flourish, puts a fresh candle in the wax-spattered bottle between them, and then hands them two menus.
“Thank you so much!” Hannah says to the barman above the noise of the crowd. He gives a little Gallic bow.
“De rien, mademoiselle! For Monsieur Hugh, nothing is too much trouble. What can I get you?”
“Just something soft, thanks.”
“Perrier? Evian? Orangina? Coca? Jus d’orange?”
“Um… Orangina would be great, thanks,” Hannah says.
“Monsieur?” The barman turns to Hugh.
“Well, I have to have a jolie Beaujolais really, don’t I?”
“A glass of the nouveau? It’s very good this year.”
“That would be great, thanks. And maybe something to nibble—an assiette de fromage, perhaps? And some bread?”
The barman gives a grin and another little bow, and then turns and weaves his way back through the crowd to the bar.
“It wasn’t just auld lang syne that made me go and see Ryan, though,” Hannah says, as if there had been no interruption to their conversation. She feels as if she’s taking her courage in her hands. Hugh raises an eyebrow.
“No?”
“No, I had a visit. From an old friend of his.”
She begins to explain, about Geraint, about the meeting in the coffee shop, about the pregnancy test and Will’s reaction… everything. By the time she is winding up the account, Hugh’s expression is mild as ever, but his right eyebrow is nearly up to his hairline.
“And so, well, I thought… I would come and see you,” Hannah finishes. “You’re the only other person who really knows what happened that night. Who really remembers.”
“I see,” Hugh says. He takes off his glasses and polishes them on his pocket square as if buying himself time. Without them his face looks different, less finished, somehow, his eyes smaller and less defined. Before he has finished polishing, the barman comes up with a tray bearing Hugh’s wine, Hannah’s Orangina, and a plate of mixed cheeses and charcuterie. At the sight of it Hannah realizes suddenly how very hungry she is, but also that she can’t eat 90 percent of what’s on there.
When the glasses and plates are laid out, the barman retreats and leaves Hannah and Hugh in silence. Hannah waits. Is Hugh going to speak? Should she? She’s not sure what exactly she wants to ask.
“Will—Will isn’t completely on board,” she adds at last, more as a way of breaking the painfully stretching silence than because she thinks she really needs to tell Hugh this. “That’s why he isn’t here. He’s not—I don’t think he understands why I’m pursuing this. As far as he’s concerned Neville’s dead and that’s it. But for me… it was my evidence, Hugh. And if I got it wrong, and Neville died in prison because of me…”
“I see,” Hugh says again. He settles his glasses back on his nose and sighs. He looks very tired, as if Hannah’s story has put a huge weight on his shoulders that wasn’t there at the start of the evening.
“Hugh, listen,” Hannah says impulsively. “Look, if you’d rather forget all this, just say, I can go. We don’t need to talk about this. If you feel the same as Will, I wouldn’t blame you, but—”
“No, I understand,” Hugh says. He rubs his face with his hand, his palm rasping against his stubbled cheek. “I wish—I mean, I wish this Geraint chap hadn’t opened this can of worms, I’m not going to pretend otherwise. But I understand your feelings. What do you want to know?”
“Just what you remember from that night, something, anything that I might have missed or forgotten. I don’t care if it’s something to reassure me or something to make me doubt the verdict even more, I just feel like I have to know.”
“I don’t know if I can tell you very much more than what you already know,” Hugh says. He takes a long gulp of his wine as if gearing himself up for something painful. “But I’ll try. I mean, the first part of the evening you know—I was up in that room above the Lodge, acting as lookout, and she came in with those friends of hers from the play. They were all dressed up, do you remember? All in their wigs and makeup.”
“Yes, but the two girls changed halfway through the evening, didn’t they,” Hannah remembers. “Clem and whatever the other one was called. Sinead, or something like that? Only April and the boys stayed in costume.”
“We were all in the bar all evening,” Hugh continues. “None of us left, I’d swear to that.” Hannah nods. That chimes with her recollection too. “And then it was almost last orders and April decided to go up and change.”
“It was so late,” Hannah remembers. “It was utterly stupid, the bar was never going to let her back in. I suppose she thought we’d all carry on drinking in our room or something.”
“But she didn’t return,” Hugh says. “So you said you were going up to find her, and I said I’d come too. We walked across the quad, and just as we were about to get to your stairs, you saw Neville coming out.”
