I’ll prove it to you.

40

All next day, she only pretended to work. She was stuck in a cul-de-sac. Valerie’s relatives were sure she had taken her life, and though Norah might have her doubts about that—and her suspicions about Grimm—she had no idea where to look for proof. It was all so long ago. Her only hope was the latest message from the anonymous texter, but he—or she—hadn’t been in touch since.

Norah tried to distract herself. All morning she had typed and cut, taken calls and talked to people, made notes and read—but all she had really been doing was waiting for another text message. It wasn’t that she was short of work; she had an interview with a famous conductor in Salzburg in a few days and hadn’t even begun to prepare. She opened her browser and found trains that would allow her to spend all afternoon and evening in Salzburg and still be back in Vienna by midnight. When she’d bought the tickets, Norah leant back in her chair to think about the interview. But however hard she tried, she couldn’t concentrate.

As she neared her flat that evening, she was exhausted from the relentless tension. She did a quick supermarket shop, got herself home, manoeuvred herself and the bags through the door, mechanically opened her letterbox—and found a letter that she stuffed into one of the shopping bags.

After putting the food away in the fridge, she had a closer look at the letter. There was no return address, no postmark. Carefully Norah opened the envelope. Inside was a single printed sheet. Nervously she unfolded it and read it through, then dropped onto a chair with a relieved sigh. The letter, addressed to all tenants, informed them that the drains would be cleaned between 9 a.m. and 2 p.m. on 14 March and asked them to leave a key with a neighbour if they weren’t going to be in. God, she really was getting paranoid.

Norah was about to make a note of the date when a loud beep announced the arrival of a new text. Irritably, Norah put the letter down and reached for her phone. The text was from the unknown number and contained no answer—only an eleven-figure number. A mobile number.

It rang once, twice, three times, four times, five times. Norah was about to hang up, half disappointed, half relieved, when somebody answered.

‘Reiter?’

A woman’s voice. Norah’s age, or maybe a little younger. Slightly unsure of herself. Was this the person who had sent Norah all the messages?

Norah cleared her throat.

‘Hello,’ she said, ‘this is Norah.’

Silence.

Norah felt her heart thumping in her chest and was briefly reminded of the time she’d sat in on an autopsy as a very young journalist. She’d never forgotten the astonishingly garish colours, the shocking smells—or the moment when she’d seen her first human heart, scarlet and shiny and beautiful.

‘Norah who?’ the voice asked suspiciously.

Norah decided to put her cards on the table.