Anita frowned.

‘Arthur Grimm?’ she asked. ‘Who’s that? When was this?’

‘Yesterday or the day before, in the kitchen. You were talking to Mario and mentioned someone called Arthur Grimm.’

‘Hmm,’ said Anita. ‘I don’t know anyone called that. Maybe you misheard?’

Norah nodded thoughtfully.

‘Yes, probably,’ she said.

‘Why do you ask?’ Anita said.

Norah studied Anita’s face. Had she lied to her? There was a beep and the lift doors opened.

‘Just curious,’ Norah said and slipped through the doors.

11

It was a hectic morning. Norah had been up late the night before, researching Vienna’s homeless scene—life on the streets, winter shelters, the various charities that provided help. Then Werner had rung to say he was happy to investigate Arthur Grimm for her. Typically for him, he didn’t ask why she wanted the information. Norah smiled to herself. Werner was as thorough as a taxman and as tough as a pit bull; the Arthur Grimm matter couldn’t be in better hands. If there was anything worth finding out, Werner would find it. But by the time Norah got to bed, it was only a bare two hours until her alarm clock was due to go off.

When it did, she was exhausted. The only good thing was that, for once, the flat wasn’t cold; the heating seemed to be working now. Norah peeled herself out of the sheets and crawled to the shower.

She dressed carefully in black designer jeans, a blue blouse and red lipstick—her classic interview outfit. Blue inspired more trust than any other colour. She made herself coffee, drank it far too hot, and clattered down the stairs in her high heels, almost colliding with her old neighbour. As usual, there was no reply to her greeting. She still hadn’t worked out whether he was rude or deaf.

A bare hour later, Norah entered the Hotel Imperial. With every step she took, the real world seemed to recede; she felt as if she were floating, light and noiseless. Her office colleagues, the strange woman with the begging bowl, her cheerless, empty flat—all that suddenly seemed miles away. She did, however, find herself thinking of Alex. Why did the interview have to be here, in the very hotel where she and Alex had stayed when they’d spent a weekend in Vienna a few years ago?

Norah reported to reception and sat down to wait in the lobby. There was an almost solemn hush, the only sound the soft creak of the revolving door, steady and soothing as the breathing of a sleeping baby. Gold and pomp everywhere, marble and chandeliers—and through the door, the busy street was visible, but at one remove, like mute projections on a screen.

She’d never liked the phrase ‘shut out the world’. The world was everywhere; you couldn’t shut it out. But on the two nights she and Alex had spent here, it really had felt as if they’d left the world outside when they stepped through the revolving door after an evening out and went to their room. Later they’d wandered hand in hand down the corridors, admiring the wallpaper, the marble columns, the paintings, until they’d found a small bench to sit on.