Chapters (50)
- Title Page
- Copyright Page
- Dedication Page
- Contents
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Ninteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Epilogue
- Letter From the Author
- Acknowledgements
- About the Author
I pulled the brakes on my train of thought. What was wrong with me? This issue with the money was making me resentful and angry. But I had warm memories of my time with Karen, liked her and respected her. I didn’t need to be an arsehole about what was almost certainly an oversight. I’d call her when I got home, let her know that it would be extremely helpful if she could pay the invoice without any more delay.
As I turned to leave, an elderly man wearing a cravat came out of the front door. He had a small black and white terrier on a lead, and the dog nearly sent me flying as it jumped up at me.
‘Sorry about that,’ said the man, squinting at me like he recognised me. Maybe he did. I’d been a frequent visitor here once. ‘Were you looking for someone?’ he asked. The dog was sniffing my leg furiously and I wished he’d pull it away.
‘Yes. Karen in flat 3?’
His face creased with pain. ‘Oh dear. Are you a friend?’
I felt my blood drain. ‘Yes. I’ve been trying to get hold of her but she never answers her phone.’
He looked up and down the road, as if searching for help.
‘Perhaps you’d better come inside.’ To the dog, he said, ‘Come on, Dickens.’
He dragged the terrier back inside the building, with me following. My stomach fluttered, the kind of feeling you get when a doctor pauses before giving you the prognosis.
‘I’m Harold, by the way,’ he said, opening the door of the ground floor flat, which was stuffed full of antiques and objets d’art, statues and African masks, so many books crammed into the bookcases I was surprised the floorboards could hold them. He gestured for me to sit in an armchair that almost swallowed me.
‘I don’t know if I should be the one to tell you this,’ he said. ‘Were you very close?’
‘We used to be,’ I replied.
He exhaled noisily. ‘Would you like a drink? Scotch? Malt whisky?’
Normally, I would have said no – I wasn’t a big drinker of spirits and it was only two o’clock – but I understood that he was telling me I might need one. He got up and poured Scotch into two large tumblers. I took a sip. It burned and I coughed.
Harold stared at me with his milky eyes while the dog sat at his feet.
‘So . . . Karen?’ I said.
He ignored me. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Andrew.’
I didn’t like the way he was suddenly looking at me.