She tried to work—to fit in with the busy rhythm of office life, the relentless ringing of phones, tapping of keyboards, clicking of mice, the constant coming and going. She tried to share in her colleagues’ sense of urgency and enthusiasm, but couldn’t get into her stride—couldn’t concentrate on a job for more than a few seconds at a time. Her thoughts fluttered about like startled chickens.

She wrote Werner an email headed Special Assignment, asking him for his help—again.

And just as she clicked on Send, a text arrived on her phone.

You’re asking the wrong questions.

Norah put down her glass of water.

Who are you? she wrote again.

The reply came immediately.

You’re asking the wrong questions.

Norah groaned, ignoring Aylin’s glance across the desk.

What do you want from me?

Whoever was at the other end answered instantly.

I’m helping you.

Norah sniffed.

What do you know about Arthur Grimm? she asked.

You know all you need to know. You just won’t admit it.

Norah stared at the display. Soon afterwards—perhaps whoever it was had realised that she wasn’t going to reply—another message appeared. Norah opened it.

On the night of February 11. At the big wheel in the Prater. You know all you need to know. What you do with that knowledge is up to you.

Norah gulped. There they were again. Dorotea Lechner’s words. Not exactly the same, but clearly recognisable.

Who are you? Norah asked yet again.

No answer.

Feeling numb, Norah read the texts over and over. Her hunch had been right. It wasn’t a joke; it was serious. Someone was expecting her to kill Arthur Grimm. On the very date and in the very place announced to her weeks ago by a woman who was now dead.

But this was crazy!

Norah sank back in her chair.

She remembered Valerie’s funeral—the coffin, Valerie’s parents (still together at that point), her brother Sven. Poor Sven had attracted horrified stares by bursting into laughter in the middle of the service, and Norah, who had always been terrified of laughing at a funeral, but had, until then, somehow managed to persuade herself that it couldn’t actually happen, was gripped by panic.

She remembered the girls at school who had surprised her with their sudden kindness. They wanted her to hang out with them all the time, kept asking her round to their houses, seemed to have developed a new, keen interest in her. At the time, Norah had wondered whether it wasn’t her close friendship with a dead girl that made her, in some macabre way, more interesting to them. Only years later did it occur to her that it was possible they had been nice to her all along; she just hadn’t noticed. As long as Valerie was alive she hadn’t needed them—hadn’t wanted to spend time with anyone except her best friend.

She remembered the policemen. She remembered hearing her mother’s whispered phone calls to her friends and knowing that she was talking about her. And she remembered the moment when she found out how Valerie had done it.