‘I actually think a day job, a proper day job, can give you purpose,’ he went on. ‘My parents always said it was important to have a routine – something to get up for and something to come home from – otherwise you risk becoming lazy. And, as we all know, you should always listen to your parents, especially ones as remarkable as mine.’ He smiled again, glancing at a picture of his mother and father on the wall behind him. ‘But, seriously, working at the FCO, it’s not to everyone’s tastes, I understand that, and not everyone understands why I still do it, but my work as a diplomat has been so interesting. I’ve been to places I wouldn’t have even thought to go to otherwise. In the nineties, I was posted to Hong Kong for a while, after that I spent three years in Jakarta, and then another two in Muscat – I mean, Muscat; why would I ever have gone to Oman if not for this job? – then Moscow, Nairobi, Pretoria …’ He opened out his hands. ‘I loved all of those places. The FCO, it’s full of boring politicians – but sometimes, and I know it’s a cliché, there really are things money can’t buy.’

I looked around the room and out to the garden.

But it can still buy a lot.

‘So what is it I can help you with, Mr Raker?’

‘David,’ I said, taking out my pen and pad and setting them down. ‘I was hoping to talk to you about a woman who was on the same Politics MA as you back in 1987.’

I watched for any sign that he knew what was coming.

I didn’t have to look hard.

‘You want to talk about Beatrix Steards,’ he said.

‘You remember her?’

Zaid frowned, as if the idea of forgetting her was offensive to him.

‘Of course,’ he responded. ‘I remember her very well. I remember the day she went missing, the aftermath of her disappearance. But, mostly, whenever I think of Beatrix, I remember the man who murdered her.’

Retirement: Part 1

2015

Los Angeles | Friday 30 October

Her retirement party was at a Mexican place in Irvine. The university staff had hired a room at the back and decorated it with balloons and banners, and while a part of her had worried no one would turn up – an irrational fear given how many friends she’d made during her twelve years of teaching at UCI – it was packed. So she drank too much and ate too little, she danced to songs that she’d thought she’d forgotten a long time ago, and then she left just after midnight in an Uber one of the staff had organized for her.