Again, she thought of Alex—of the way he used to listen to her when she was pondering a problem out loud, the way he would wrinkle his forehead and rub his cheek and then come out with something that was—generally speaking—very clever. Her longing to hear his voice was suddenly so intense it was almost unbearable.

She must have dropped off in the end, and when she woke up, she didn’t know where she was. She had fallen asleep in a twisted position on the phone book, her head on the crook of her right arm, which was now so numb that she had to massage it for a few minutes to bring it back to life. Her notes lay scattered on the floor by her bed. So many questions and no answers. They had whirled around her head and worked their way into a strangely realistic dream in which Norah had run hopelessly from one place to another, knocking on doors that remained locked. A glance at her watch told her that she hadn’t overslept. It wasn’t yet seven; she’d had a bare three hours’ sleep. Norah swung her legs out of bed, went into the kitchen and put on some coffee. When it was ready, she poured herself a cup and took it back to bed. With the coffee inside her, she felt vaguely able to face the day. She had a shower, dressed, poured muesli into a bowl, covered it with milk and ate without appetite.

When she’d finished, she still had a good hour before she had to leave for work. She went back into the bedroom and opened the window to give the room an airing and drive out the stale air and cold smoke. She made her bed, plumping up the pillows and quilts, then bent down to gather up the papers on the floor. As she did so, she glanced under the bed. And froze.

She was suddenly icy cold.

Slowly Norah straightened up. She left the room, as stiff as a poorly oiled robot, and sat down on a box in the hall. Everything was spinning. She closed her eyes, but that only made it worse.

It took her a moment to force herself to get up and go back into the bedroom. Norah crouched down, stretched out a purposeful arm and pulled the case out from under her bed.

She might be untidy. She might be suffering from sleep deprivation. It was also possible that she ate too little and drank and smoked too much. But one thing she was sure of: this black case, a little smaller than a shoebox, was not hers. She put out a hand to open the lid, then stopped, mid-movement, as if something was holding her back. Then she screwed up her courage and lifted the lid.

At first she only stared in disbelief, but a moment later she stood up and took a few steps back. She couldn’t calm down, though; her mind was racing.