I wished I’d brought Fergus with me—he was some kind of computer whiz and he’d done freelance work for the firm several times. He’d even been here on Greg’s last day. He’d have been able to guide me through.

I made a list of all the clients Greg had visited over the last three weeks, with their phone numbers and addresses, and stared at them, the names blurring. I looked at the A–Z and my head buzzed with tiredness and a despairing frustration. Anything was better than not knowing. For how could I say goodbye to Greg when I no longer knew who he was? How could I get him back?

Chapter Six

It was while the undertaker was going through the price options that I descended into a form of mental illness. I experienced the feeling I had once had as a teenager—probably all teenagers have it—that I was the only real person in the world and that everyone else was an actor playing a part. The undertaker’s in Kentish Town was much like any other shop in the high street offering a service, an estate agent or a white-goods supplier. But this one had been made over in shades of gray with fake pillars supporting the reception desk and white lilies in vases, so that it looked a bit like a mausoleum. Somber new-agey music, something on Pan pipes, was playing in the background. Of course, Mr. Collingwood, the funeral director, was dressed in a navy suit with a white carnation and, of course, he offered me his condolences in a subdued voice as he pushed the price list across his desk toward me.