“I’m coming to London tomorrow,” he said. “Can we meet?”

“Why? Is everything all right?”

“It’ll be easier to talk about in person.”

“Is it about the will?”

“Yes, I’ve had a quick look through the papers.”

“Can’t you tell me something?”

“Don’t do anything financial,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“With Liam Birch’s estate. Don’t pay any money out of it.”

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t planning to.”

Thirty-One

The next morning, shortly after ten, Michael Winter stepped into the flat and looked around, visibly unimpressed. He was dressed for business and made Jude feel instantly shabby and unprepared. It was as if they were teenagers again, with Michael as the disapproving older brother.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know you were living like this.”

“It’s only temporary,” Jude said. “Once things are settled, I’ll get somewhere proper.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Yes, things,” he said, putting a heavy emphasis on the word. “That’s what we’re going to talk about.” He looked around once more. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”

He sounded doubtful about there being any such place. Jude steered him toward the one armchair. She pulled across a small wooden stool.

“Can I get you tea or something?”

He looked at his watch.

“I’ve got a meeting near Old Street in fifty minutes,” he said. “We’d better get a move on.”

He was carrying a leather case. He opened it and took out a blue cardboard folder. In it was a single sheet of paper with his tiny, neat handwriting on it. It reminded Jude of their schooldays. He picked up the piece of paper, sighed and put it back down.

“Before we talk about all this, I think there are questions I should ask you.”

“What sort of questions?”

“Like: are you all right? I’m not good at that sort of thing. But the murder and everything. It must be awful.”

“Yes. It has been awful. I wouldn’t say I’m completely all right, but I’m getting through it.”

“I’ve never known anyone who was murdered before—not that I actually knew this man, of course.”

“Nor have I.”

“And they haven’t caught them yet?”

“No.”

“I looked it up online. All these stabbings. London’s a frightening place.”

“I think it’s quite safe. On the whole.”

Michael picked up the piece of paper and assumed a professional expression.

“Did you look through the papers before you sent them to me?”

“Not really. It’s all a bit technical.”

“In a way,” said Michael. “But in a way it’s also very simple.”

“What do you mean?”

“For a start, you can’t do this. I’m not sure who can—this isn’t really my specialty—but it needs someone qualified.”

“I thought anyone could be an executor.”

“Not in this case.”