‘I don’t know. I just feel really knackered and weak. Maybe I ate something funny in Salzburg—I don’t know,’ Norah groaned. ‘But you’ve no need to come round this evening. I’m not exactly good company and I wouldn’t want to give you anything.’

‘But it’s February 11,’ Max said. ‘I really don’t want you to be alone this evening.’

‘That’s very sweet of you,’ said Norah, ‘but don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere; I’ll stay in and sleep it off. We’ll make up for it some other time, okay?’

‘All right then,’ Max said. ‘If you say so. But you’re to get in touch if you need anything, okay?’

Norah’s heart was suddenly heavy when she realised that this was probably the last time she would speak so freely to her best friend. Maybe even the last time she’d speak to him altogether. She almost said something sentimental, but then the game would have been up. So she just said, ‘Okay!’ and hung up.

Sandra was trickier, but Norah had expected that. On the other hand, she found it easier to lie to her than to Max—maybe she was getting into her stride.

‘I’ll be asleep all day anyway,’ Norah said, hoping her voice sounded weak and rasping.

‘I don’t care—you’re not to be alone,’ Sandra said. ‘And if Max and Paul think they can shirk their responsibility, then I’m coming round.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘Stopping my best friend from doing something stupid is ridiculous?’ Sandra asked brusquely.

‘What do you mean—something stupid?’ Norah asked, feeling foolish because they both knew what Sandra meant.

She sighed.

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

She searched for the right words.

‘But it’s all over,’ she lied. ‘You’re right. Grimm is innocent.’

She took a sip of water.

‘I expect it’s the stress coming to an end; all I want to do is sleep. I don’t want to see anyone or talk to anyone; I just want to leave all this stuff behind me. I’m tired.’

‘You sound tired,’ Sandra said.

‘Believe me,’ said Norah, ‘the last place I want to be this evening is the fucking Prater.’

Sandra had, eventually, been persuaded that Norah was all right. There was a ring at the door just as Norah put the phone down. The man—forty-odd, thick-lashed blue eyes, Britpop hairstyle—declined to come in, which was probably, she thought, for the best. Just because he’d been recommended to her, didn’t mean she wanted him in her flat. He was unassuming—a little taller than her, dressed in black jeans and a blue denim jacket too thin for the time of year. He took a small packet out of his rucksack and held it out to Norah without a word. She took it, handing him in exchange the envelope she had ready. He glanced inside, nodded and vanished silently down the stairs. Soon afterwards, Norah heard the front door swing shut.

She unwrapped the little box of ammunition at the kitchen table and loaded the old-fashioned revolver. She’d decided that a single bullet wouldn’t be enough. When everything was ready, she sat down at the window with a cup of coffee and a packet of cigarettes and waited for darkness to fall.