‘Why are you still nice to me?’

Norah shrugged.

‘Someone once said, There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women.’

‘Madeleine Albright,’ Theresa said. ‘I think.’

‘Told you you were clever,’ Norah said.

Her eyes narrowed.

‘You got away this time, Kim. Make the most of it.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘A contract killing costs about twenty thousand euros,’ she said. ‘It’s an urban myth that you can have someone murdered for two or three grand; I’ve looked into it. You have to put up twenty thousand.’

Theresa stared at her, not sure if she was joking.

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ Norah went on. ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’ She pushed her hair out of her forehead. ‘But a shot in the kneecap starts at about three and a half, and I think I could manage that.’

Theresa grinned.

‘I mean it,’ Norah said.

‘I know. After all, you are the High Priestess of Evil.’

‘Exactly. So don’t disappoint me.’

‘I won’t.’

Norah turned to go.

‘Norah?’

‘What now?’

‘The other night in the Prater,’ Theresa said and then hesitated.

Norah looked at her patiently.

‘If your friends hadn’t turned up,’ she said, ‘would you have…I mean, were you really going to…?’

‘Of course not,’ Norah replied.

And the women looked at each other, the way two people do when they both know that one of them has just told a lie.

‘Didn’t think so,’ Theresa said.

Back in her flat, Norah wandered through the rooms. The cardboard boxes had begun to gather dust and for the first time she realised why she hadn’t unpacked them: part of her had thought she wouldn’t stay in Vienna—that she’d end up going back to Alex. But that door was closed now. Alex had found a new girlfriend and although she hadn’t expected it, although the thought hurt like hell, a small part of her—a decent, grown-up part of her—was pleased for him.

First thing tomorrow, she’d start to unpack. She’d manage somehow, though she knew it wouldn’t be easy. But first…

Norah put her keys on the table, went over to the window and lit a cigarette. She looked down at her car. Tomorrow, when she’d finished unpacking, she’d drive somewhere nice. To Prague, maybe, to visit Kafka’s grave. Or to Hamburg, to surprise Werner. The possibilities were endless.

Her eyes came to rest on the kitchen table. She sat down, opened her notebook and began to write.