I sat on the floor and held the paper in both hands, staring at it. What did it mean? The message was in Milena’s handwriting. There was no doubt about that. After my days in the office, I knew it as well as my own. And it was on a piece of paper from Greg’s office with Milena’s name on it. It was the thing I had been looking for all this time, the connection. And I was more confused than ever. Why was Marjorie Sutton’s name written on it over and over again? And what was it doing here?

I tried to remember. I thought so hard it hurt. I looked at one of the newspapers. It was from the day that Greg had died. Yes, that was it. These were the scraps from the tidying I had done that day, just before the knock on the door, before my life changed. The connection between Greg and Milena had been in my hands on the day he had died, before I knew, perhaps while he was still alive. Before I had heard of Marjorie Sutton, before I had heard of Milena, or had known her handwriting. I looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper. Suddenly it seemed fragile, as if it might crumble away and the connection would be lost forever.

I found her number and dialed it. She seemed confused to hear from me again. She said she had told me everything she remembered.

“Did you know a woman called Milena Livingstone?”

“No,” she said firmly.

“Are you sure?” I said. “You might have forgotten.”

“It’s a funny, foreign sort of name,” she said. “I would have remembered it.”

I described the piece of paper I’d found. “Were they your signatures?”

“I don’t see the importance of this,” she said, with a touch of impatience. I felt as if I was talking to a small child whose attention was wavering.

“I think it’s very important,” I said. “I’m going to take the paper to the police. They may want to ask you about it.”

“I certainly didn’t sign any piece of paper in that way.”

“What exactly do Greg’s company . . . I mean Foreman and Manning, what do they do for you?”

“I’m not sure that’s your concern,” she said.

“I suppose they do your accounts.”

“Since my husband died . . .” she began.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“It was twelve years ago, thirteen almost. They handle the money side of things for me, the things my husband used to look after. I couldn’t do it myself.”

“But there’s something about that piece of paper,” I said. “It must have been connected with why Greg wanted to see you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

“But have you had any trouble with the firm? Have they behaved strangely in some way? Were you having problems with them? Had you complained?”