She peered out between the frosted bars etched on the window. Her department had moved since she was last in London, and the new layout had no desk for her. One more thing taken away. She felt as if her whole life was a jigsaw, that someone was dismantling it piece by piece and throwing it in a box. She looked for her boss, but couldn’t find her.
‘Where’s Francesca?’ she asked Mark, when he returned with two cups of civil service-issue tea.
‘She’s at a conference in Bucharest. She told me to tell you whatever you need to know.’
‘When can I come back to work?’
He pulled out his teabag and tossed it in the bin. ‘Sorry. Above my paygrade.’
‘I
He looked as if he believed her – or at least as if he wanted her to think so. ‘You’ve been on secondment for eighteen months. And before that, you didn’t have a London job for five years. They’ll find you something to do soon enough.’
He gave a reassuring smile, which, eight years her junior, couldn’t help but patronise her. Abby gave a glassy smile of her own.
‘Is there any news from Montenegro? The police – any progress?’
‘They’re keeping us informed.’
‘Do they know who attacked me?’
‘They haven’t arrested anyone.’
‘Any leads?’
‘Probably.’ Mark stretched his legs, pointing out the toes of his shoes, as if to admire them. ‘Look, you know how it is. There are a lot of sensibilities here. The Montenegrins have only been independent five minutes and they’re pretty touchy about it. We’re putting pressure on them, discreetly of course, and they’ll tell us when they’ve got something.’
‘I read something online – that there’s a rumour organised crime might have been involved.’
‘You know as well as I do that the Balkans is one big rumour mill. Put it together with the Internet and you’ll probably hear that Father Christmas was involved.’ He blushed as he saw her face. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip. I know this is pretty dire for you.’
She opened her eyes again. Mark looked up from checking his watch and rearranged his face in concern.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Do you know what happened to Michael?’
He looked surprised. ‘I thought you knew. They say he fell –’
‘I know. I mean …’ She could hardly say it. ‘The body.’
‘There’s a sister who lives in York. Apparently, she flew out to Montenegro and brought it – him – home for burial.’
‘Do you have an address for her? I’d like to write.’
‘Human Resources are the ones who’d know. They must have had something on file to track her down.’
Mark stood and gave her a lukewarm smile. He looked as if he might try to pat her on the shoulder, but thought better of it.
‘I know how hard it must be for you, coming to terms with this. The best thing for you is to stay at home and get some rest.’
‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘If there’s any news, we’ll call straight away.’
‘My phone’s been disconnected.’ She dug the new mobile out of her bag and gave him the number. ‘This is how to find me.’
But she knew he wouldn’t use it.
* * *
She picked up a curry on the way home and ate it curled up on the sofa. She was already putting on weight, though she’d lost so much in the hospital she thought it didn’t matter. She stared out of the windows at the suburbs below. She imagined a glass canopy covering the whole city, cocooning its inhabitants in their daily lives, and herself above it hammering to be let in.
An hour on the web turned up no one called Lascaris in York. She tried to look up some friends, panning through online profiles to dredge up their contacts. But the numbers she could find were out of date or not answering; most of her friends, she supposed, weren’t even in the country. It occurred to her she hadn’t really had that many friends, not for a long time. She even thought about calling Hector – was seriously tempted – but drew the line at that.
Somehow, she survived three more days. She forced herself to take walks on Clapham Common, morning and
