The phone was answered by an answering machine that had so many pips denoting other messages that Frankburg put the phone down.

A taxi drove past the telephone box as Frankburg put his diary back in his suitcase.

He walked to his car. It chirped at him brightly. Now why couldn’t all alarms be that simple?

725

The taxi contained an uneasy John Heron. He too had been listening to the pips on an answering machine, confirming that Emma still hadn’t arrived home. He looked at his watch. Ten thirty. The plane had landed three and a half hours ago. He took out his phone again and stared at it, hoping it might buzz and “wife” appear on the caller display.

“Take me to the airport,” he told the taxi driver.

724

The taxi did a U-turn and cut through the car park of a big city center hotel. Its passage was noticed by Samuel Thorn, who watched it idly from his new hotel room, which was smaller but bath-free.

It had a worse view but a better mini-fridge.

Nighttime taxis prowled the city.

He drank gin.

It had been a while since he’d been in Birmingham. The city had been busy in the meantime. Many new buildings were up; much was unrecognizable from his last trip. And they were still at it. Silent now, the cranes and JCBs massed on a patch of developing ground over the road would crank to life the next morning. Billboards were everywhere anticipating a glittering future.

Samuel liked construction work, it was solid. He enjoyed seeing foundations laid. Seeing how far down they went.

723

The reason the receptionist was depressed was because the hotel had been earmarked for demolition. She would have to get a new job in a new town and probably never see the handsome porter again.

722

The TV broke Sam’s gin spell. Local news had returned to the incident at the train station.

A reporter told him that the police had confirmed that the train jumper’s name was Ronald Henderson, a retired doctor from Aberdeen.

Samuel stared bleakly into the screen. He let his eyes unfocus till he could see himself superimposed over the family portrait of Mr. Henderson.

Ronald Henderson was the father of Kirsten, the sitcom suicide. The man whose mental strength Sam had confidently thought was improving.

Samuel Thorn hit the streets, cursing curses.

721

Ronald Henderson’s suitcase was finally picked off the carousel by an airport employee and put into lost property.

720

“Hi, I’m not in right now. Leave me a message.”

Bleep.

Sobbing.

“Pick up, you bastard, I know you’re there.”

More sobbing.

“I’m coming back. I’m coming back, okay? Stay where you are. Don’t fucking move.”

Muffled sound of someone kicking the telephone box.

“Bloody, bloody stupid . . .”

More sobs.

“Why is this happening? Penny, don’t let him leave.”

Pip pip pip pip . . .

719

“A suitcase?” asked the policeman on the phone. “Not a briefcase.”