And Norah Richter? Is she capable of murder? I can hardly wait to find out.

51

On the train back to Vienna, the landscape flashing past outside was a dim haze of black shapes against a deep blue background; only here and there lights flared up and went out again like dying stars. The conductor—a tall, slim woman with a cloud of bouncing grey curls—had turned out to be unpretentious and easy to talk to. Given the circumstances, Norah thought, the interview had gone well.

The only trouble was that the woman had talked about her current projects with such enthusiasm and at such length that Norah had got behind schedule and would have missed the Vienna train if it hadn’t been a quarter of an hour late leaving Salzburg.

When at last she’d found her seat and settled down, she listened to the message Max had left on her voicemail. He had a business dinner to go to, he said, so just very quickly: not long before she died, Dorotea Lechner had been engaged to act in an installation in public space. The role of Cassandra. Max repeated that and Norah could hear the excitement in his voice. ‘What I’m trying to say is I don’t think Lechner was a real beggar; I think she was playing the part of a beggar. Someone went to some lengths to organise all that. And I don’t like that, Norah. I don’t like it at all.’

Norah looked out of the window wondering what it all meant. A sense of unease crept over her and for the first time since the strange goings-on had begun, she felt that she had all the pieces of the puzzle in front of her and had only to put them together. But she couldn’t get them to join up; there was still something she couldn’t put her finger on—a crucial piece of information she couldn’t bring to the surface.

She looked alternately out of the window and at a white-haired man who was filling his pipe in anticipation of their imminent arrival. Funny, Norah found herself thinking, pipe tobacco didn’t smell as bad as she’d thought. It was actually rather a nice smell.

The driver announced that they would soon be arriving in Vienna. When Norah got off the train, a glance at the display panel told her that it was past midnight. February 11 had begun—and once again, Norah had the feeling she was being watched. She scanned the faces on the platform, but couldn’t see anyone she recognised. She suddenly felt as if her body were fighting a disease—viral flu, or worse—and for a moment she thought of getting back on the train and going away, spending February 11 far from Vienna—escaping. But she wasn’t like that. She wasn’t the kind to run away.

Norah shouldered her bag and took the stairs down to the concourse.

Dank cold and piano music. A requiem, though Norah wasn’t sure of the composer. She shuddered, looking about her as she made for the exit, unsteady on her feet as if she’d discharged herself from hospital in defiance of doctors’ orders. All she wanted was to get home, but she had to keep dodging lurching drunks and latecomers running to catch trains.