Behind the Minster, the open spaces gave way to a warren of cobbled lanes, blind passages and narrow houses bunched together. The buildings were brown brick and squat, probably built in the last forty years, but somehow the ancient pattern of the streets still asserted itself on them. Some of the houses had pointed door frames, with strange leaded hoods hanging over them. She squeezed under the porch of Number 36 and rang the bell.
The door opened a few inches – as far as the chain would allow. A petite woman in a pink sweatshirt and jeans peered out at her. Her face was lined, her dark hair streaked with grey and pulled into a loose bun.
‘Are you Jenny Roche?’ A deep breath. ‘Are you Michael Lascaris’s sister?’
She didn’t need an answer. She could see it in the eyes: the same bright, inquisitive eyes as Michael, though dulled by age and pain.
‘My name’s Abby Cormac. I was Michael’s …’
The woman wasn’t listening – wasn’t even looking at Abby. She peered over Abby’s shoulder at the empty street and the rain.
‘Did you come alone?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘You’d better come in.’
It was hard to imagine Jenny as Michael’s sister. Everything about Michael had been bold, extrovert, light- hearted; by contrast, Jenny seemed frail and deadly serious. Where Michael had been incurably chaotic, Jenny kept her house immaculate. Abby perched on a rose-patterned sofa covered in plastic and sipped tea from a fine-bone cup. Framed photographs covered every surface, a silent congregation watching them. Faded children on summer holidays in short shorts and floral dresses; teenagers with big hair and awkward smiles; proud adults cuddling babies. Abby wondered who they all were. There was no evidence of children in this pristine house, and Michael had never talked much about his family. He’d always given the impression they might be rather grand, though it was hard to square with this small, compressed house.
Several of the frames were empty, blank windows where photographs had recently been removed. History unwritten.
‘The police told me you were there,’ Jenny said. ‘I wanted to get in touch, but I didn’t know how. They wouldn’t let me in to the hospital.’ She saw Abby’s confusion. ‘In Montenegro. I was there for the body.’
‘Of course. They said.’
‘They made me identify him.’ Jenny shuddered. Tea slopped in her cup, but didn’t escape over the rim. ‘Don’t ever let them make you do that. He’d been in the water three days when they pulled him out. Horrible. I felt like if I didn’t look properly, they wouldn’t think I’d done it right. I almost sicked up my lunch on him.’
‘Did they say anything? Any clue who might have done it?’
Jenny put a hand to her throat. Slim fingers fiddled with a golden heart on a chain. ‘Nothing. I thought you might know.’
‘Not really.’ Abby bit into her biscuit and tried not to spill crumbs. ‘I’ve heard a rumour – not even that, just an idea – that organised crime might have been involved. I don’t know how much you know about Kosovo – the Balkans generally – but it’s like the Wild West. Weak governments that are no match for the organised criminals they’re up against, if they’re not completely owned by them. Michael worked in the customs service. It’s possible he made some enemies, maybe without even realising it.’
‘He didn’t say anything to you? Before …’
‘You know what Michael was like. Nothing was ever a problem.’
That drew a rueful smile that threatened to spill into tears. ‘Always up to something. I was the big sister getting talked into his adventures – and then Mum blaming me for not stopping him when it went wrong.’ A grimace. ‘It usually went wrong.’
Jenny poured a fresh cup of tea from the pot. The spout rattled against the cup.
‘I wasn’t surprised he ended up out there. He was never one of those save-the-world people, but he loved adventure.’
‘It’s not that adventurous,’ said Abby. ‘And we’re not saving the world. Michael used to say we were just trying to make Kosovo as dull as everywhere else. He said we were leading by example.’
‘He couldn’t have been dull if he tried.’
‘No.’
A silence. A look passed between them: two strangers finding common ground in their grief. To Abby, it felt like nothing more than shared helplessness, but it seemed to decide something in Jenny. She stood abruptly and crossed to a mahogany cabinet in the corner.
‘He did know something might happen.’
She unlocked a drawer. From inside, she pulled out a thick yellow envelope and passed it to Abby. Abby’s heart quickened. It was postmarked Germany and addressed in Michael’s handwriting. A neat scissor-cut had already opened it.
‘Go on,’ said Jenny.
Abby fished inside. Out came a postcard folded within a sheet of official-looking paper. There was a crest with a cross and a lion, and the heading
‘Do you know what it says?’ Abby asked.
Jenny shook her head. ‘There’s a man at church who speaks German, but I didn’t like to take it to him. It’s too personal, isn’t it? Like a sort of message from beyond the grave.’
