The journey home from the funeral had been full of theories. Rival drugs gangs, blackmailers. Ron, as always, wondering if the Mafia might be involved. But certain interesting questions remained. Why had Kuldesh not simply done as he was told? Why had he rung Nina Mishra? And who was the second call to? The Code 777 call? Elizabeth had brushed off Chris’s comment about criminals, but he was right. To have a number that leaves no trace is a very difficult undertaking. And is a tactic used by a very particular type of person.
And, key to it all, of course: where was the heroin now?
Elizabeth yawns, her long day done, and opens her front door.
Instantly she can tell something is wrong. Senses that something very bad has happened. This is a sense she has learned to trust.
The TV is off, that’s unusual. Stephen will sit and watch all day now. The History Channel. He used to tell her about what he watched, but not so much these days. Sometimes she will watch with him in the evening. It is mainly Nazis and Ancient Egypt. Not bad.
She slips off her coat and hangs it on one of the hooks in the hall. It is next to Stephen’s waxed Barbour jacket. The walks they used to take, the two of them. Yomping for hours, then a pub with a fire and a friendly dog, help Stephen with the crossword. Now they try for an hour a day, through the woods. No country fireplaces. Another thing lost, and so little left. She touches the sleeve of the jacket.
It is quiet, but Stephen must be here. There is a smell she has smelled before. Familiar, but from where?
Has Stephen fallen? Had a heart attack? Is she about to find him on the floor? Grey face and blue lips. Is this how it ends, this beautiful affair? With her strong man slumped on a carpet? With Elizabeth alone. Without a goodbye?
‘Elizabeth?’ Stephen’s voice, from behind the door of his office. Elizabeth nearly buckles in relief. She pushes the door open and there he is. He’s fully dressed, shaved, his hair neat, sitting at the desk he has worked at for years. Surrounded by his books – Islamic art, Middle Eastern antiquities, a shelf of Bill Bryson. For hours she would hear him in here, bashing away on an old word processor he refused to upgrade. She always teased him that he typed like an elephant, but she knew the joy behind it. How he loved his work, writing, lecturing, teaching, corresponding. What she would give to hear his galumphing typing again.
‘Hello, dear,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We don’t often find you in here?’
Stephen motions for Elizabeth to sit down. She sees he has a letter on his desk.
‘I want …’ starts Stephen. ‘If you don’t mind, that is, I want to read you a letter I was sent today?’
She sees the envelope on his desk. The post had come after Elizabeth had left. ‘Please,’ she says.
Stephen picks up the letter from his desk, but before he starts reading he looks straight at Elizabeth. ‘And I need you to be honest, if you understand? I need you to love me and be straight with me.’
Elizabeth nods. What else is there to do? Who has sent Stephen a letter? And about what? Kuldesh perhaps? A clue to his murder? A plea for help to an old friend?
Stephen begins to read. He used to read to her in bed. Dickens, Trollope. Jackie Collins when he was in the mood.
‘
Elizabeth can hear her heart beating through her chest. Who on earth has chosen to shatter their privacy this way? Who even knows? Her friends? Has one of them written? They wouldn’t dare, not without asking. Not Ibrahim, surely? He might dare.
‘
‘Stephen,’ says Elizabeth, but he gently gestures for hush.
