Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Chapter Four

We take a cab to the restaurant. We’re shown to our table, outside on the pavement. White tablecloth, held down with plastic clips, a basket of bread. The evening is warm and pleasant, the air still, loaded with promise.

We chat. Once I recovered we told ourselves we must spend the evening celebrating Kate’s life as well as mourning her death. We laugh, there’s an ease between us; Anna even takes out her phone and takes a snap of the two of us with the river in the background. She tells me she likes this area of the city and wants to live here, one day. ‘It’s very central,’ she says. ‘By the river …’ She orders a carafe of wine. As the waiter begins to pour I put my hand over the top of my glass and shake my head.

‘You’re not drinking?’

‘No,’ I say. I think of the excuses I’ve made in the past – I’m on antibiotics, I’m dieting, or driving – but then the inevitable happens. Other excuses begin to crowd in, the ones that tell me why this time, this one time, I can take a sip. It’s been a difficult day, I’m stressed, it’s been fifteen years and it won’t do any harm.

My sister has been killed.

‘I’m fine.’

I think back to what I’ve learned. I can’t avoid the temptation to drink, I have to recognize the urge. I have to know that it’s normal, and temporary. I have to challenge it, or ride it out.

‘To be honest, I don’t drink. I haven’t for a while.’ Anna nods and sips her wine while I ask for some sparkling water. She looks interested but asks no questions, and I’m relieved. When she puts her glass down I see that she’s distracted, restless. She shifts in her seat, rearranges her napkin.

‘I wanted to talk to you about something.’

‘Go on.’

She hesitates. I wonder what she’s going to say. I know the police have interviewed her extensively; the bar Kate was in that evening is one she goes to. I brace myself for a revelation.

‘It’s about the money …’

I smile. Kate’s will must have surprised her, and Hugh warned me she’d probably mention it.

‘The money Kate left to you?’

‘Yes. It was a shock …’ She picks off some bread. ‘I really wasn’t expecting it. To be honest, I had no idea she had any money to leave, let alone that she’d leave some of it to me … And I didn’t ask her for it. I do want you to know that.’

I nod. I remember it’d been Hugh who had persuaded Kate to write a will in the first place, and we’d both been relieved when she’d later changed it to include Anna. It meant she had friends, she was putting down roots.

‘I know. It’s okay.’

‘Were you surprised? That she left money to me?’

‘No. It makes sense. You were her best friend. Kate was a generous person. She must have wanted you to have it.’

She looks relieved. I wonder whether it’s because of the money, or the fact that this conversation isn’t proving as awkward as she’d feared.

‘Where did it come from?’

‘Our father. He died a couple of years ago and left his money to Kate. Just what was in the bank, plus the proceeds from the sale of his house. It came to a lot more than anyone expected.’

A lot more, I think. Almost a million pounds. But I don’t say it.

‘Did he leave some to you?’

I shake my head. ‘He thought I didn’t need it, I guess.’

Or maybe it was guilt. He knew he’d neglected his younger daughter. He was trying to make it up to her.

Anna sighs.

‘Oh, it’s okay,’ I say quickly. ‘Hugh has money in the family and Kate was struggling.’

‘But she didn’t spend it.’

‘No. Hugh suggested she put some of it away, save it for a rainy day. But neither of us thought she would actually listen to him.’

‘I would happily give my share to you. If you want?’

She’s being serious. I put my hand on her arm. ‘Absolutely not. Besides, she left the rest to Connor. It came to quite a lot.’ A lot more than she left to you, I think, though again I don’t say it. ‘I’m his trustee, though I’m not giving it to him until I’m sure he won’t spend it all on computer games and new trainers.’

She says nothing. She looks unconvinced.

‘Kate clearly wanted you to have that money. Enjoy it …’

Her face breaks into a smile of relief. She thanks me, and a moment later the waiter comes over and for a minute we’re lost in the choosing and ordering of our food. Once he’s retreated, there’s silence. The sun pours its golden light over the river. People stroll, arm in arm. The veil of my grief lifts, briefly, and I glimpse peace. I feel myself almost capable of relaxing.

‘This is so lovely,’ I say. ‘I can see why Kate came to Paris.’

Anna smiles. I think how things might’ve been, if my sister and I had somehow managed to reconcile our differences and found a way back to the closeness we’d shared until the last few years. Perhaps then I could’ve visited them both. It might’ve been the three of us sitting here, chatting, gossiping, having fun. Were we really that different, Kate and I?

I turn to Anna. For the first time I feel able to ask her. ‘I wish I knew what happened,’ I say quietly. ‘That night …’

She sips her wine then pours herself more.

‘Normally we’d have gone out together,’ she says. Something in her tone makes me think I’m not the only one who feels guilty. ‘But I was busy that day. She was on her own.’

I sigh. I don’t want to imagine it.

‘Is it a bad area? Where she was found?’

‘No. Not particularly.’

‘What happened, Anna?’

‘What’ve the police said? Do you talk to them?’

‘Yes. Not as much as Hugh. The Foreign Office said they’d prefer to liaise with just one of us. It keeps it simple, I suppose, and he volunteered. But I speak to them, too.’

‘And you discuss what they say?’

‘Oh, he tells me everything. But none of it’s very helpful.’

‘Really?’

‘No. It’s all dead ends. There’s no motive. They said they’d talked to her friends, but—’

‘But none of us knew anything …’

‘No. So they just keep drawing blanks. The only thing they’re puzzled about is her earring.’

I close my eyes. This is hard. I can’t help but visualize my sister’s body. She was found wearing one earring. It looked as though the other had been torn off.

‘They asked me about that.’

‘You don’t remember anything?’

She shakes her head. ‘No. Was it expensive?’

‘It was cheap. Costume jewellery. Cheap gold, I think. A funny kind of dreamcatcher design with turquoise feathers. I suppose in the dark it might’ve looked expensive, but why take only one? And, as far as they can tell, nothing else was missing. She still had her phone, her purse.’ I hesitate. ‘I think that’s why I find it so hard. It seems so senseless. Hugh keeps suggesting I have some therapy.’

‘And do you think you should?’

I pick up my glass. ‘I’m just not sure what good it would do. It’s typical of Hugh, though. He’s a wonderful man, but he’s a surgeon. If something’s broken he just wants to fix it and then move on. Sometimes I think he’s secretly angry that I’m not getting back to normal quickly enough. You know? He thinks I’m over-obsessing about knowing who killed her.’

‘And are you?’

‘Of course not. I know it won’t bring her back. It’s just … we used to be as close as two people can be, you know? We used to finish each other’s sentences. How could I have not known when she was in trouble?’

‘You’re not to blame—’ she begins, but I interrupt her.

‘You knew her, Anna. What was she even doing there, in that bar, alone?’

She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m not sure.’ She looks out, towards the river. The coaches on the bridge are silvered in the last of the evening sun, the buildings on the right bank glisten.

‘What? What is it? Anna?’

‘I think she might’ve been seeing someone …’

‘A boyfriend?’

‘Kind of …’

I feel a surge of energy. A Pavlovian response to the promise of progress.

‘What d’you mean? Who was she seeing? Did the police know?’

‘It’s not that simple.’ She looks uncomfortable. ‘She … she had boyfriends. Boyfriends, plural.’

I take a deep breath and put down my fork. ‘You mean more than one at the same time?’

She nods.

‘You think one of them found out about the others? Did you tell the police?’

‘I told them as much as I knew. I presume they looked into it, I think they still are looking into it. The thing is … it wasn’t as straightforward as that.’ She hesitates but doesn’t lower her voice, even though there are people at the surrounding tables. ‘They weren’t really boyfriends as such. Kate had fun. You know? She liked meeting guys and having a good time. We both did, occasionally.’

‘In bars?’

‘No. Online.’

‘Okay …’ I say. ‘So she dated people off the internet?’

‘Not just dating.’

‘She was meeting men for sex.’

She looks defensive. ‘It happens! But, anyway, I know she didn’t meet them all. She was more into it than me, but still a lot of it was just sex talk, you know? Fantasy.’

I try to picture Kate, alone in her room, in front of her laptop. For some reason I think of Connor sitting at his computer, his face illuminated by the screen, then of Hugh doing the same thing.

I dismiss the thought. Hugh isn’t that sort of person.

‘We both used to go online together. This is before I met my boyfriend, of course. We’d chat to people, compare notes, sometimes go on dates. You know?’

‘But the police said she left alone.’

‘Maybe she’d been stood up?’

‘Promise me the police know this? They didn’t say anything … She might have put herself in real danger.’

‘Oh, yes. I told them. They questioned me for hours. They asked about everything. Her friends. People she knew. Even you and Hugh.’ She looks at me then down at the table. Anger prickles. Have we been investigated? Do they think I’m capable of hurting my sister? ‘They took away her computer, her phone. I guess they didn’t find anything …’

‘Maybe they didn’t look hard enough?’

She smiles sadly. ‘Well, I suppose we have to trust that they know what they’re doing. Surely?’ She pauses. ‘I’m sorry. If I’ve upset you.’

I look out over the city. It’s dark now, the sky is lit, Notre Dame sits in front of us, owning its own ghostly history. I’m overwhelmed with sadness. All these questions that lead nowhere.

I begin to cry again. It’s as if it’s a new skill; now I’ve started, I can’t stop. ‘How can someone do this to my sister – to anyone – and get away with it?’

‘I know. I know.’ She hands me a tissue from her bag then puts her hand on mine. ‘You need closure.’

I shut my eyes. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But everything I try to do just opens it all up further. It’s like a cut that won’t heal.’

In my mind I see Kate as a toddler: we’re ready to go to a party, she’s wearing a dress in lemon that had once been mine and a band in her hair with a yellow bow. She’s just pulled herself up on a chair but has let go. She wobbles then looks at me. She’s hesitant, determined, and after a couple of false starts she lifts one foot, then the other. She takes a few steps, her arms out wide, then begins to fall. I remember I’d caught her, swooped her up – already she was giggling – and carried her through to where our mother stood, putting on her gloves. ‘She walked,’ I said. ‘Katie walked!’ And our mother hugged us both to her, all three of us laughing, delighted.

The weight of my grief presses down and I blink the image away. She puts down her wine. ‘Might it help to go there?’

‘Where?’

‘To the place it happened.’ I shake my head, but she goes on. ‘I went. The other week. I had to see it for myself.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘It’s just an alleyway. Nothing special. Next to a train line.’

I don’t speak. I can’t tell her how many times I’ve seen it, how many times I’ve imagined my sister there.

‘I left some flowers there. I think it helped.’

Still I say nothing. I’m not ready. I’m not ready to stare Kate’s death in the face. I’m not strong enough.

‘You just need more time …’

Time. The thing I have plenty of, the thing Kate ran out of.

‘Come with me?’

I close my eyes. Kate is there, I want to say. Her ghost. She’s trapped there, screaming. She can’t escape, and I can’t help her.

‘No. No. I can’t.’

Something snaps. I feel it give, then there’s a release. I reach for the carafe. The gesture is automatic, I’m barely aware I’ve moved. I’m thinking of Kate, of her sitting at her computer, chatting to strangers, telling them her secrets. I’m thinking of Anna. I’m thinking of Hugh, and of Connor, and of Frosty and Marcus, and before I know what I’m doing my glass is in my hand, and it’s full of wine, and I’m thinking, It can’t hurt now, surely? and, Haven’t I waited long enough?

The answers will come, if I’m not quick. I raise the glass to my lips, I push all thought away, and then, for the first time in fifteen years, I’m drinking, and drinking, and drinking.

Chapter Five

I sit on the train. I’m thirsty, my lips are dry, but my head is remarkably clear. I remember hangovers, and this isn’t one. I didn’t drink that much. I can’t have done, or I’d know it.

I think back to last night. The drink slid down my throat as if it were something that belonged, a key in a lock, something that completed me, and as I swallowed I felt myself relax, the unclenching of muscles I didn’t know I’d been tensing. It felt a little too much like coming home.

This isn’t good. I know that, I tell myself that, over and over. Unless I’m careful I’ll forget that there are no halfway houses, I’ll convince myself that I can handle one drink, here and there, or that I’m fine as long as I only drink wine, or don’t drink before the evening, or drink only with a meal. One excuse will bleed into another.

I know I have to do something. I know I have to do it now.

When I get home I call Adrienne. She’s the person I always ring, when I need help. She understands, though she’s never been in the programme. Her addiction is to work, if it’s to anything. She answers straight away.

‘Darling, you’re home. How was it?’

I’m silent. I don’t know what to say. So many years of vigilance, all wasted, all gone in one night. I should confess everything, yet part of me doesn’t want to.

‘I just …’

‘What is it?’

‘Can I talk to you about something?’

‘Of course.’

I can’t say it. Not yet.

‘Did you know Kate was using websites? To meet men, I mean?’

‘Well, I know she used dating sites. Like everyone else. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes. But she wasn’t just dating. Anna said she was having fantasy sex.’

‘Cybersex?’

‘Yes. And she’d meet up with people, apparently.’

I hesitate. I’m aware this isn’t why I called her, this isn’t the reason I wanted to speak to her. But it seems easier. It’s a build-up, a preparation. Adrienne says nothing.

‘Did you know?’

‘Yes. She told me.’

Jealousy prickles my skin.

‘She never told me.’

Adrienne sighs. ‘Darling, she was having fun. It wasn’t a big thing, just something she did occasionally. And, anyway, you hadn’t really been talking for a while.’

She’s right. Not about anything that really mattered, I guess. There’s another wave of nausea.

‘What if the man who killed her was someone she met online?’

‘The police know what she was doing. I’m sure they’re looking into it.’

Are they? I think. I can’t focus on it, now. I close my eyes. I take a deep breath. I open my mouth to speak, but the words still won’t come.

‘Darling, are you all right?’

She knows, I think. She’s my oldest friend and she can just tell. I lower my voice, even though the house is empty.

‘Julia, what is it?’

‘I had a drink.’

I hear her sigh. I can’t bear her disapproval, but I hear her sigh.

‘I didn’t mean to. I mean, I wasn’t going to, but …’

I stop myself. I’m making excuses. Not taking responsibility. Not admitting that I’m powerless over alcohol. Basic stuff.

I take a deep breath. I say it again.

‘I had a drink.’

‘Okay. Just one?’

‘No.’

Please don’t tell me it’s a slippery slope. I know that. Please don’t make me feel worse than I already do.

‘Oh, darling,’ she says.

‘I feel pretty bad. Awful, in fact.’

Another pause. Please don’t tell me it’s nothing and I ought to forget it.

‘Adrienne?’

‘You’re going through a lot,’ she says. ‘It happened. It’s a slip, a relapse, but you need to forgive yourself … Have you thought about what we talked about?’

She means therapy. She agrees with Hugh, and like everyone in therapy she thinks I should go too, or see a counsellor. She’s even recommended someone. Martin Somebody-or-other.

But the truth is, I don’t want it. Not now, not yet. Not while I’m like this. I think it would fail, and then it would no longer be something I can have in reserve.

‘No,’ I say.

‘Okay, well, I won’t say any more, but I wish you would. Think about it at least.’

I tell her I have, and I will. But I’m beginning to wonder if I deserve this pain, if somehow I owe it to my sister to live through it. I couldn’t save her. I took her son.

‘Have you told Hugh?’

I don’t answer.

‘About having a drink. Have you told him?’

I close my eyes. I don’t want to. I can’t.

‘Julia—?’

‘Not yet,’ I say. ‘There’s no need. It won’t happen again—’

She interrupts me. ‘Darling. Listen. You’re my oldest, dearest friend. I love you. Unconditionally. But I think you need to tell Hugh.’ She waits for me to speak, but I don’t. ‘I know it’s entirely up to you, but I’m sure it’s the right thing to do.’

She’s being tender, kind-hearted; yet still it feels brutal. I tell her I’ll do it tonight.

Hugh is out for the evening. He’s playing squash, then there’ll be drinks afterwards. He isn’t late, though, and Connor has only just gone to bed when he gets in. Almost straight away I decide I’m going to tell him.

I wait until we’re sitting in the living room, watching television. At the first ad break I pause the screen then turn to him, as if I’m going to ask if he wants a cup of tea.

‘Darling?’

‘Uh-huh?’

I stumble over the words.

‘I’ve had a relapse.’

I don’t say any more. I don’t have to. He knows what it means. He hasn’t been through the programme, or even to a meeting, but he’s read the literature. He knows enough. He knows what a relapse is, just like he knows he mustn’t try to control my behaviour by modifying his own, that he can’t stop me drinking by never drinking himself.

He also knows better than to ask how many drinks I had, or when, or why. It’s pointless. The answers are irrelevant. I had a drink. Whether it was the tiniest sip or a whole bottle makes no difference at all.

He takes my hand. I thought he was going to be angry, but he’s not. It’s worse. He’s disappointed. I can tell, from his eyes.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t have to apologize to me.’

It’s not what I want to hear. But what do I want to hear? What can he say? Addiction is a sickness unlike those Hugh is used to facing. He’s someone who cuts the bad parts out, sends them to the incinerator. The patient is cured, or not.

I look at him. I want him to tell me he loves me. I don’t want him to tell me he knows what I’m going through. I want him to remind me that a lapse doesn’t have to be a relapse, or tell me that I can start going to meetings again, or make me feel that we’re in it together.

‘I won’t drink again,’ I say.

He smiles, and tells me he hopes not, for my sake, and for Connor’s. He tells me he’s here for me, always, but it’s too late. He layered the guilt on first, and now I’m hardly listening. Instead, I’m thinking of my sponsor, Rachel. I wish I could ring her, but she’s moved away, it’s been too long. And I’m thinking of Kate.

Finally he’s silent. I wait for a moment then thank him. We sit for a few more minutes, then I tell him I need to go to bed. He kisses me, and says he’ll be up in a minute.

I’m on my own, but I won’t let this happen again, I tell myself. I’ll be vigilant. Whatever happens, whatever it takes, I won’t drink again.

Chapter Six

I wake early. My eyes flick open. Another bad night. It’s June, two months since I went to Paris, four since Kate died. It’s still dark. It’s the middle of the night.

The room is hot and airless, the sheets soaked. Hugh has kicked the duvet off and lies next to me, snoring gently. The clock on my side of the bed ticks, too loud. Four forty. The same time I woke up last night, and the night before that.

I’ve been dreaming of Kate. This time she was about four, it was summer, we were in the garden. She was wearing a yellow dress, angel wings made out of yellow paper, black tights. She wanted me to chase her; she was making a buzzing sound, pretending to be a bee. ‘Come on!’ she was saying, over and over, but I was bored, I wanted to stop. I wanted to get back to my book. ‘Come on, Julia!’ she was saying, ‘Come on!’ then she turned and ran, towards a wood. I wanted to tell her not to go in there, but I didn’t. I was too hot, too lazy. I just let her run away from me, and then turned to go back to the house. As I did the dream morphed, we were adults now, something terrible was happening, and suddenly it was me who was running, running after her, calling her name, and she who was disappearing into an alleyway. It was dark, I was desperate to catch up with her, to save her. I ran round a corner and she was there, slumped on the floor. I was too late.

I sit on the edge of the bed. Every night it’s the same, a dream of Kate, bleeding to death, and then in a dream behind a dream there’s Marcus, always Marcus, his mouth open and accusing. I know I won’t sleep again, I never do.

Tonight I’m weak. I can’t help it. And so I let myself think of him. Of Marcus. For the first time in years I think of the day we met. I close my eyes and I can see it. I’m back there. Marcus is sitting opposite me, the other side of the circle. It’s his first meeting. We’re in a church hall, it’s draughty, a tea urn fizzes in one of the corners. The chair – a guy called Keith – has already outlined the programme and introduced the first speaker, a woman whose name I’ve forgotten. I barely listen as she speaks; I’ve been coming for a while, ever since I caved in and admitted I’ve been drinking too much for too long. Plus, I’m watching Marcus. He’s the same age as me, and we’re both much younger than the others in the group. He sits forward in his chair. He looks eager, attentive, yet at the same time he doesn’t seem wholly interested. Something about him is wrong. I wonder if he’s here for himself, or for someone else. I picture a girlfriend, someone who he’d hoped to persuade here tonight but who refused to come. Perhaps he wants to go home, back to her, and tell her what he’s learned. It’s not so bad, he might say. These people want to help. Next week come with me.

I wanted to find out. I don’t know why; maybe he looked like someone I thought I could get on with. I went up to him, during the break. I introduced myself, and he said his name was Marcus. ‘Hi,’ I said, and he smiled, and in that moment I realized just how attracted I was to him. It was a desire that felt solid, had a shape, a pull that felt physical. I’d never experienced it before, not like this. I wanted to reach out, to touch his neck, his hair, his lips. Just to be sure he existed, was real. ‘First time?’ I said, and he said yes, yes it was. We chatted for a while. Somehow – I don’t remember how, or even whether he volunteered the information himself – I learned that the girlfriend didn’t exist. He was single. When it was time to go back to our seats he came and sat next to me, and after the meeting we went outside. We paused to say goodbye, about to head off in different directions.

‘Are you here next week?’

He shrugged, kicked the kerb. ‘Probably.’ He turned to leave, but then he pulled a scrap of paper out of his wallet.

‘Got a pen?’ he said.

Was that it? I wonder now. Was that the moment my life slipped out of one track – recovery, stability, sobriety – and into another? Or did that come later?

I open my eyes. I can’t think of him any more. He belongs in the past; my family is here, now. My family is Hugh, and Connor.

And Kate.

I get up. This can’t go on, this waking up in the middle of the night. This avoiding of things. I’m haunted by the place she lost her life; I should’ve gone to see it when I had the chance, but there are other ways.

I go downstairs and sit at the kitchen table. I’m determined, I have to do this. In Paris I was a coward, but now I can put it right. I open my laptop and log on to the map programme. I type in the address.

I press enter. A map appears on the screen, criss-crossed with roads, scattered with points of interest. There’s an arrow dropped into it and when I click on Street View the map disappears, replaced by a photo of the road. It looks broad, lined with trees, with shops and banks and a stack of prefabs covered in graffiti. The photo has been taken during the day and the place looks busy; passers-by frozen as they walk along it, their faces blurred inexpertly by the software.

I stare at the screen. It looks ordinary. How could my sister have lost her life here? How could it have left no trace?

I steel myself, then navigate along the road. I see the alleyway, cutting down between a building and the raised railway line that crosses the road.

I’m here, I think. The place she died.

I zoom in. It seems anodyne, harmless. At one end there’s a kiosk, painted blue with a sign advertising Cosmétiques Antilles, and there are two rows of bollards dotting the pavement. The alleyway curves after what looks like four or five yards, and I can’t see down it.

I wonder where it leads, what’s at the other end. I wonder why there was no one there to save her and, for the millionth time, what she was doing there.

I need answers. I fetch the box that Anna gave me from under my bed and take it back downstairs. I look at the picture on the front, the woman in the red dress. For two months I’ve tried to ignore this, terrified of what I might find, but I can’t any longer. How bad can it be? I ask myself. Didn’t Anna say it was just some paperwork? That’s all.

Yet still I’m afraid. But what of? Evidence of how far she’d come, perhaps. Proof that she was right, that Connor would have been better back with her?

I take out her passport and hold it for a moment before putting it to one side. Underneath it there are some letters, and beneath them her birth certificate and driving licence, along with her medical card and a note with what I assume is her National Insurance number.

It calms me, somehow. I’m facing something that’s been waiting for me. I’m doing well. I feel surprisingly okay.

I dig further in. It’s more difficult; there are photos, taken at parties, one of Connor that I’d sent her, another of some friends on a boat trip along the Seine. I tell myself I’ll look at them properly later. Further down there’s a pink Filofax, pocket-sized. This seems hardest of all, but when I flick through its pages I see she seems to have stopped using it when she got an iPhone last summer. Tucked into it is a single sheet of paper. I take that out and unfold it.

Straight away I see a name I recognize. Written at the top is ‘Jasper1234’. It’s the name of the Labrador we had when we were little, followed by four digits, and next to it she’s written ‘KatieB’, and then a Web address, encountrz.com. The rest of the page is filled with a list of odd words – ‘Eastdude’; ‘Athletique27’; ‘Kolm’; ‘Ourcq’ – all written at different times, in different inks and with different pens. It takes me only a moment to piece it together. Encountrz is the site Anna told me about, the one they both used. Kate used our dog’s name as a password, KatieB as her username.

I refold the page and put it back. The guilt I’ve told myself I shouldn’t feel rolls again in my stomach. I should’ve looked at this sooner, I think. It might be important, something the police have missed. I’ve let her down; there was something I could’ve done to save her, something I could still do to make it all right.

I dial Anna’s number. It’s early, but this feels urgent. And it’s an hour later in Paris. Nearly six.

She answers almost immediately. Sleepy, anxious. ‘Hello?’

‘Anna? It’s me. Julia.’

‘Julia. Is everything okay?’

‘Yes, fine. I’m sorry to call so early. I didn’t mean to wake you, but that box you gave me? You’re sure the police have gone through it?’

‘Box? You mean Kate’s things?’

‘Yes. The police have definitely looked at it?’

‘Yes, I’m certain. Why?’

‘I’m just looking at it all now—’

‘Now? It’s very early …’

‘I know, but I couldn’t sleep. The thing is, there’s a list of names. I think they might be people she was talking to. Online, I mean. I thought the police should see them …’

‘They did, I think. They had everything in that box. They said they’d kept everything they might need.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘I think so, yes. Give me a second.’

She’s quiet for a moment; I imagine her shaking herself awake. ‘Sorry. What names are they?’

I read the first couple out. ‘Do any of them sound familiar? Did she mention any of them to you?’

‘No—’

I carry on reading. After a few more names she stops me. She’s wide awake now.

‘Wait. Did you say “Ourcq”? That’s not a username. It’s a Métro station.’

I know what she’s going to say.

‘It’s near where they found her body.’

‘So that’s what she was doing there? Meeting someone off this list?’

‘I don’t know,’ she says. But already I’m feeling a curious surge of energy. ‘But I guess it’s possible.’

I end the call. I look again at the list of usernames in her Filofax. It’s as if I’ve found a weak spot in the wall of my grief, something that might lead me first in and then through, on to the other side. To peace.

I wake my laptop. I type quickly: encountrz.com. I tell myself I just want to have a look. I can’t do any harm. I’m about to press enter when I hear a noise. A cough, then a voice.

‘Darling?’ It’s Hugh. ‘It’s half five in the morning. What on earth are you doing?’

I close the browser window and turn to face him. He’s wearing his gown, tied around his waist, and yawns as he rubs his eyes. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes. I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Again? What’s wrong?’

‘I just keep thinking the police must’ve missed something.’

He sighs. I say the same thing to him every single day.

‘I think they’re being incredibly thorough.’ He comes over and sits next to me. I know he can see what’s on my screen.

‘If I hear anything new I always tell you straight away. You know that.’

‘Yes. But do you think they’re still investigating what happened?’

‘I’m sure they’re doing everything—’ he began, but I interrupted him.

‘I mean, really investigating it?’

He smiles. It’s his sad smile, full of compassion. His surgeon’s smile. I used to imagine him practising it in the mirror, determined not to be one of those doctors accused of having a poor bedside manner.