I hope in years to come you may look a little more fondly on me and our time together. I hope you forget my harsh words and remember instead the vodka and dancing, the Blue Bridge, and even the bingo. But most of all, the laughter. I’ve never laughed so much with anyone as I did with you.

I hope you like the picture. It made me smile when I painted it, and I think a large part of that was because I was thinking of you. Pet Endof for me. I know you will look after him because that’s who you are. You said it yourself once. You look after what is yours. I hope you find many more people to look after. You’re very good at it even though you think you aren’t.

Be well. I wish a lifetime of happiness and joy for you because you deserve that more than anyone I’ve ever met. I hope you find someone with whom you can be yourself and love how you do the law and your friends. He will be a very lucky man.

Laurie

I put the letter down and swallow hard. My silly eyes are burning, and I have a wish to be with him right now. To be able to pull him into a hug, to smell his soapy scent, and hear his wicked chuckle. What has he done to me?

I wipe my eyes and stand up, suddenly consumed with this ferocious need. I look around for Endof and realise that I’m very near where Laurie’s mother lives. I went to a party there once. An idea stirs, and I whistle to Endof, who looks like he’s debating whether to ignore me. Thankfully, he decides to humour me and sidles over.

“We have work to do,” I inform him. “We have to go to Laurie, but we must make another stop beforehand.”

The first bang of my fist on the blue front door doesn’t produce a result, so I hammer on the surface again in a sustained tattoo.

I pause and listen hard. There is no sound, and I look down at Endof. “Where could they be?” I muse. “I will try one more time.”

I bang on the door again, and then luck is with me when I hear footsteps and the sound of locks turning and a muttered cursing. The door swings open, revealing the flushed face of Laurie’s stepfather. He’s wearing rather garish bronze-coloured pyjamas with a black towelling robe, and his hair is sticking up in silver tufts.

“Magnus?” He gapes at me in patent disbelief.

“Ah, good morning, sir,” I say brightly. “How are you?”

The silence lasts for a few seconds too long, and then he visibly recovers his poise.