I don’t go to bars.

Norah got up and switched on the lights. Then she sat back down on the sofa. What was the point of that? Whoever wrote that might just as well not have bothered. But she did, Norah thought. Because she wants to communicate with me. The text had been sent only half an hour ago.

What are you afraid of? Norah wrote.

The reply came immediately.

You ask the wrong questions.

Norah almost hurled the phone at the wall, but forced herself to stay calm.

Did Arthur Grimm kill Valerie? she typed.

You’ve met him. What do you think?

That he has guilt written all over his face, Norah thought.

How do you know it was him? she asked.

This time she had to wait for an answer.

What difference does it make?

We could go to the police, Norah wrote.

No proof. Not enough, after all these years.

Was it you sent me the gun? Norah asked.

No reply. Norah noticed that she had started to pace furiously up and down—probably just thinking about the gun under her bed. She was suddenly livid with rage.

How did you get in my flat? she added.

No reply.

I threw it in the canal! Norah wrote.

A short pause, then:

Doesn’t matter.

Norah ran a hand through her hair.

Do you want me to do it? she wrote.

Silence again. Norah put her phone down on the table, finished smoking her cigarette, then went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. She hadn’t expected an answer—certainly not a direct one—and was surprised to find a reply when she got back to the living room.

Yes.

Why me? Norah wrote.

Who else?

I’m not sure that I can.

The question is do you want to? And you do.

What makes you think that?

The fact that you’re still speaking to me.

Norah blinked, stunned. The next message popped up on the screen.

You want to and you can.

Why is it so important to you? Norah asked.

For a while, there were no more texts. Then, once again, Norah saw three dots skipping up and down on her screen.

Because I loved her too.

‘Who are you?’ Norah whispered. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

Why don’t you do it yourself? she asked.

I would if I could.

Norah thought feverishly. Who had loved Valerie? Her parents, of course. Her brother. But that was absurd. Who else? Was there someone she didn’t know about?

Why February 11? she asked.

It was a test, that was all.

Tomorrow, she thought dully. It’s tomorrow.

You know why, was the swift reply.

Of course.

And why the Prater?

The next three messages came in swift succession. A salvo.

He’ll be there.

The two of you will be alone.

It will be perfect.

Norah stared at the screen, her anger growing by the second. No way was she going to act as hitman for somebody who was hiding behind an anonymous phone number and obscure insinuations.