Not much family, Taylor thought. But there was the blank postcard. Nicola Bannatyne.

“I’ll liaise,” she said. “And if I discover anything that could conceivably relate to the disappearance of Petra Wade, you will be the first to know.”

6

The street was orderly suburbia, on the less glamorous fringe of West London. Taylor removed the postcard that had been among Rory’s possessions, checked the address again, then the corresponding house. A neat semi-detached property, net curtains, a No Junk Mail sign on the door.

Nicola Bannatyne was Rory’s sister. They’d run a check on her: unmarried, worked at Ealing Central Library. Their parents had died when they were both young, and this seemed to have created a closeness. There were no other siblings and no partners in their respective lives. Nicola’s Facebook page was sparse, but it included a photograph of herself with Rory, the only photo of him with friends or family Taylor had seen. In his personnel file, she was named as next of kin.

Taylor had spoken to Nicola Bannatyne on the phone shortly after the woman had been informed of her brother’s death. It hadn’t been a pleasant call to make. Taylor had introduced herself as Rory’s line manager, given her condolences, and offered herself as a point of contact. His sister sounded numb, and Taylor was guiltily relieved at the absence of questions. She felt responsible for subjecting Nicola Bannatyne to a confusing grief. It was important that any queries from the sister came directly to Taylor. The postcard remained a quiet puzzle of its own. When Taylor had called the sister that morning after leaving the police, Nicola had sounded keen to see her.

Taylor pocketed the card. She’d been anxious since Kane had set off. A brief visit to her office after the encounter with Detective Inspector Rehman hadn’t helped Taylor regain a feeling of control. She had messages from C’s office, asking for a report on her meeting with the police, and requests from Bower at GCHQ: Any news yet? As if spying were as quick as hacking.

The cable project, if successful, would single-handedly put Taylor in line for one of the top jobs. It had allowed old fantasies to return: of power, of success as judged in the eyes of the world. All for a cable. It was rare to return from a setback like hers. Failure now meant it had all been for nothing. Her career would peter out in sideways moves through HQ, or find itself drained of will via postings to inconsequential MI6 stations in Africa and the Far East.

She turned her phone off, looked at the unwritten postcard, then across at the flat. What message was he intending to send you?