Abby looked at the front of the postcard, divided into three pictures. One showed a huge ancient gateway in the middle of a roundabout, blackened by fire; the second, a formal red-brick building on a tree-lined avenue; the third, a bearded man in a frock coat and a scowl.
On the back, Michael had written two simple words.
Nothing else.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘What can I?’
‘There’s a phone number on the letterhead. You could call it.’
‘I couldn’t.’ Jenny seemed to shrink into her sofa. She pushed the envelope back in Abby’s hand. ‘You have it. If there’s any good can come of it, you’ll do better than me.’
Jenny’s strength seemed to be fading. Her face looked drawn. Abby sensed she didn’t have much time.
‘Where’s Michael now?’
It was unfortunate phrasing. Jenny’s anguished look made Abby wish she could melt onto the plastic-covered sofa. ‘I meant … I just … I’d like to visit his grave, while I’m here.’
Jenny took Abby’s teacup and stacked it on a brass tray. Her shaky hands threatened to smash the china.
‘He was cremated. We scattered his ashes on the sea at Robin Hood’s Bay. He didn’t want a memorial. He always said: when you’re gone, you’re gone.’
And that seemed to be the signal for Abby to go. Jenny murmured something about having to collect her niece from Brownies; Abby said she ought to catch her train. The intimacy that had briefly united them had passed, but on the threshold, Jenny surprised her by sticking out her arms and giving Abby a hug. It was an awkward gesture, as if she wasn’t used to such things.
‘Tell me if you find anything.’
Out on the street, the rain was unrelenting. Abby found a snicket between two houses, sheltered from the rain, and pulled out Michael’s letter. She checked her watch. It was just past five o’clock – six in Germany – they’d probably have gone home. But she couldn’t wait. She took out her phone and dialled the number, hoping she had enough credit.
A voice answered in German.
‘Doctor Gruber, please?’
‘A moment. I put you on hold.’
The voice gave way to a soft digital pulse that reminded her of the hospital in Montenegro. She shivered. At the far end of the street, a shadow detached itself from one of the houses and started to come towards her. A man in a long black raincoat and an old-fashioned trilby hat. The day was dark and the rain blurred her vision: the shapeless coat made him seem little more than a pocket of darkness.
‘Hello?’ A man’s voice down the phone, thin and accented.
‘Doctor Gruber?’
‘
The shadow moved down the street. He could have been going anywhere, but there was something about his movement that seemed aimed straight at her. She looked around for reassurance, but the rest of the street was empty. Even the houses had turned their backs. White curtains blanked out the windows, like the sightless eyes of Jenny’s empty photo frames.
‘
‘Doctor Gruber? Do you speak English? My name’s Abby Cormac – I’m a friend of Michael Lascaris. Did you know him?’
A cautious pause. ‘I know Mr Lascaris.’
‘He’s –’ She glanced over her shoulder. The man in the raincoat was still following. ‘He died. I was going through some papers he left and I found a letter you wrote to him. I wondered …’
‘… if you remembered him,’ she finished lamely.
She came round a corner on to a street lined with shops. A car drove past, splashing through the puddles. She quickened her pace.
‘I remember him,’ said Doctor Gruber. ‘I am sorry he is dead. He came to visit me not so long ago.’
‘What did he want?’
The sound of the rain made it hard to hear, but she thought she caught a new edge in his voice. ‘I am the Director of the Institute for Papyrologie. You know this word,
‘OK.’ Another pause. ‘I didn’t know he was interested in ancient documents.’
