Secrets of the Dead

road.

She put a twenty-kuna note on the table. ‘That’s for the coffee.’

Mark didn’t try to stop her.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ He waggled a finger in the direction of her neck; she gave him an I’m-sorry grimace, unhooked the necklace and laid it back in the box.

‘I bet you do that to all your ex-girlfriends.’

She left the warmth of the cafe and stepped out into the courtyard. The lady in the red skirt had moved along to the far end and was examining a shop window; the man in the black fleece was enthusiastically photographing the sphinx. The day was so dark the flash kept going off.

She turned right, then immediately right again down a narrow alley barely wider than she was. Footsteps followed – the snare-drum tap of a woman’s boots.

That’s why they let you go. They think you’ll lead them to Michael.

She came out into a small square. Ahead loomed the stark front of a grey Roman temple, squeezed tight between the red-roofed houses. She skirted around its monumental base, past a shuttered cafe and along an even narrower alley. The tight walls echoed the footsteps back at her like the chatter of crows.

The alley intersected with a wider street, the old Roman Cardo, running through the heart of the palace. East was the mausoleum and the peristyle; west, the double arches of Diocletian’s Iron Gate, leading out to the rest of the city. She looked both ways. To her right, the man in the black fleece was ambling along the street from the peristyle. On her left, a man was reading a tourist plaque mounted next to the gate. He looked like the green-anoraked man from the cafe, though he’d changed into a long fawn-coloured trenchcoat, a newspaper tucked under his arm.

She went left. The man half-turned, as if studying some detail of the architecture, but didn’t try to block her way. The gate was actually two gateways with a tower connecting them: it would be easy to hide someone inside, invisible until you’d stepped through.

Two sets of feet joined step behind her as Red Skirt and Black Fleece met. Ahead, she could see Trenchcoat looking past her. He moved the folded newspaper from his left arm to his right. Was that some sort of signal?

At the last moment, she veered right up another narrow lane. Stone arches soared overhead, connecting the buildings on both sides; all the houses had squat doors and shuttered windows cut into the dressed stone. Some were homes, but a few were shops. She quickened her pace.

Halfway down, one of the buildings housed a fashion boutique. Abby had been there when they’d visited in June. Michael had bought her a dress with bright orange flowers: she’d fussed about the cost, but worn it all through the summer. She reached the door and turned suddenly in. A bell chimed. There were no other customers. Behind the counter, a well-dressed woman was folding and smoothing a pile of cashmere sweaters. She smiled at Abby.

‘Can I help you?’

Abby smiled and shook her head. She flicked through the rails, one eye on the sizes and one on the door. No one came in; no one came past. Mark’s people had her trapped: they didn’t need to barge in and make a scene.

She picked off a pair of black trousers and a black V-neck sweater.

‘Could I try these on?’

‘Of course.’ The shopkeeper indicated a doorway next to the counter, where a dim stone staircase curved upwards. ‘The dressing room is at the top.’

Abby went upstairs. The walls on each side seemed so massive she had to presume she was climbing through the original fortifications. At the top of the stairs a wooden door led into a small white cubicle with a mirror on the wall, a stool, and an old-fashioned hatstand in the corner. A curtained window overlooked the house behind.

Abby went in and bolted the door. She pulled back the curtain and looked down on a red-tiled rooftop. The shop was built right into the wall: the roof she could see was on the outside of the old town. It led down to a courtyard between two buildings and there, dressed in motorcycle leathers and looking up expectantly, was Michael. He saw her face in the window and beckoned urgently.

A bell chimed downstairs. Someone had come into the shop. They must be getting impatient. How long would they give her – maybe two minutes? She put her hands against the wooden sash and lifted.

It rose three inches – and stopped. Adrenaline kicked in; she heaved and cursed, but it still wouldn’t move. Looking up, she saw two silver cylinders screwed into the window frame. Window locks.

The window wouldn’t open any further. From outside the door, she heard footsteps mounting the stairs.

‘Come on!’ she heard Michael shout. She tried harder, rattling the window in its casing, thumping it against the locks. They didn’t give.

The person outside stopped at the door and knocked.

‘Is everything OK? You need another size?’

It sounded like the saleswoman, though she couldn’t be sure through the door. ‘I’m fine,’ she called. ‘Just trying to make up my mind.’

‘You say if you need something.’

The footsteps didn’t go away.

Down in the courtyard, Michael had realised what had happened. ‘Did you get the pictures? Throw me the card.’

Abby took a deep breath. Time to decide. She’d seen some bad situations in her old line of work, in some of the worst places in the world. She knew the temptation of waiting just a little longer, maybe only a few seconds, to see if things turned out better than she feared. She knew you could stretch those seconds for minutes, maybe even hours if you got the chance. Hope could always justify doing nothing – right up