“Hi, Vicks.”
And just like that, it’s over. At the edge of the wood I can see a posse of people striding over the grass toward us. And the aftermath begins. I must be a little dazed from our encounter, because I can’t engage with any of this. I’m aware of Vicks and Robbie and Mark all raising their voices, and Sam staying calm, and Vicks getting near to tears, which seems a bit unlikely for her, and talk of trains and cars and emergency press briefings and then Mark saying, “It’s Sir Nicholas for you, Sam,” and everyone moving back a step, almost respectfully, as Sam takes the call.
And then suddenly the cars are here to take everyone back to London, and we’re heading out to the drive and Vicks is bossing everyone around and everyone’s going to regroup at 7:00 a.m. at the office.
I’ve been allotted to a car with Sam. As I get in, Vicks leans in and says, “Thanks, Poppy.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.
“It’s OK,” I say, just in case she’s not. “And … I’m sorry. About—”
“Yup,” she says tightly.
And then the car moves off. Sam is texting intently, a deep frown on his face. I don’t dare make a sound. I check my phone for a message from Magnus, but there’s nothing. So I drop it down on the seat and stare out the window, letting the streetlamps blur into a stream of light, wondering where the hell I’m going.
I didn’t even know I’d fallen asleep.
But somehow my head is on Sam’s chest and he’s saying, “Poppy? Poppy?” Suddenly I wake up properly, and my neck is cricked and I’m looking out of a car window at a funny angle.
“Oh.” I scramble to a sitting position, wincing as my head spins. “Sorry. God. You should have—”
“No problem. Is this your address?”
I peer blearily out the window. We’re in Balham. We’re outside my block of flats. I glance at my watch. It’s gone midnight.
“Yes,” I say in disbelief. “This is me. How did you—”
Sam nods at my phone, still on the car seat. “Your address was in there.”
“Oh. Right.” I can hardly complain about him invading my privacy.
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“No. Of course. That’s fine.” I nod. “Thanks.”
Sam picks up the phone and seems about to hand it to me—then he hesitates.
“I read your messages, Poppy. All of them.”
“Oh.” I clear my throat, unsure how to react. “Wow. Well. That’s … that’s a bit much, don’t you think? I mean, I know I read your emails, but you didn’t need to—”
“It’s Lucinda.”
“What?” I stare at him dumbly.
“For my money. Lucinda’s your girl.”
“But what—Why?”
“She’s been lying to you. Consistently. She couldn’t have been in all the places she says she has at the times she’s said. It’s not physically possible.”
“Actually … I noticed that too,” I admit. “I thought she was trying to bill me for more hours or something.”
“Does she bill by the hour?”
I rub my nose, feeling stupid. In fact, she doesn’t. It’s an all–inclusive fee.
“Have you ever noticed that Magnus and Lucinda inevitably texts you within ten minute of each other?”
Slowly, I shake my head. Why would I notice that? I get zillions of texts every day, from all kinds of people. And, anyway, how did
“I started off life as an analyst.” He looks a bit abashed. “This is my kind of thing.”
“What’s your kind of thing?” I say, puzzled.
Sam produces a piece of paper and I clap a hand over my mouth. I don’t believe it. He’s drawn a chart. Times and dates. Calls. Texts. Emails. Has he been doing this while I’ve been asleep?
“I analyzed your messages. You’ll see what’s going on.”
He hands me the paper and I blink at it.
“What … ”
“You see the correlation?”
Correlation. I have no idea what he’s talking about. It sounds like something from math exams.
“Um … ”
“Take this date.” He points at the paper. “They both email at around six p.m. asking how you’re doing, being chatty. Then at eight p.m. Magnus tells you he’s working late at the London Library, and a few minutes later Lucinda
