Chapter Nine

The voice was strident and a fist banged on the outside of the lavatory cubicle’s door. Daphne Campbell almost swallowed her cigarette. She quickly stubbed it out in the toilet-roll dispenser and flushed the butt down the drain. Smoothing her hair, she opened the door.

The woman on the other side of the door was glaring at her. Not that this was unusual. Brenda Munion always glared. She had feverish eyes and a permanently pugnacious expression. In the newsroom she was known as ‘Gotcha’. Right now she seemed especially irked.

‘You know I get fucking asthma from cigarette smoke. Why aren’t you having your fags outside?’

Brenda Munion snorted and ripped open her handbag. Brenda’s movements were always frighteningly abrupt: as though she was having difficulty clamping down on some inner well-spring of violence. Daphne watched as she took out a lipstick and a powder compact and smashed them down on the side of the washbasin.

Daphne nodded listlessly. A totally bogus story as far as she was concerned. And boring. And not the kind of thing she wanted dropped in her lap a week before Christmas.

‘So what’s happening there?’ Brenda was rubbing the lipstick onto her mouth as though trying to erase her already thin lips. And the colour. The woman should stay away from cola-colour lipsticks. It made her complexion look even more muddy than it was.

‘Not much. It’s a load of BS if you ask me. I called this guy—Fromm, I think his name is. A former employee. Very sorry for himself. He told me he has some documentation, which can back up the whole story, but when I asked him to scan it through, he suddenly became coy.’

‘I interviewed Justin Temple last year.’ Brenda had taken a pair of tiny tongs from her bag and was now trying to curl her eyelashes. Daphne looked away. This was too much. She had had a disturbing glimpse of the underside of Brenda’s eyelid.

‘Temple. You remember,’ Brenda was saying impatiently. ‘That profile I did on him.’

‘I always have a soft spot for a man who’s rich and looks like Heathcliff.’ Brenda dropped her lipstick into her bag. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing. He runs a tight ship. So what did this Fromm character have to say?’

‘Oh, just that there’s this one species of plant, which is a vital ingredient in Taumex, and that they’ve had some problems trying to grow it in a greenhouse environment. And he said something about the authorities in Madagascar threatening to put the plant on the endangered-species list.’ Daphne shrugged. ‘So they’ll just harvest it somewhere else, right? Somewhere not third world. It doesn’t sound like that much of a problem to me.’

‘Madagascar has a unique ecosystem. They have plant and animal species you don’t find anywhere else in the world. You may have a real story on your hands. You need to do some digging. It’s called investigative journalism.’ Brenda spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of it.’

Daphne stared at her resentfully. But before she could respond, Brenda said, ‘I’ll take this story. Let me speak to Martin.’

‘No.’ Like hell was she going to give this bitch anything. ‘I’m on it.’

‘If you change your mind, let me know.’ Brenda walked to the door. Just before exiting she said spitefully, ‘You may have to give up your weekend in Ibiza. Pack away the bikini, darling’.

Daphne stared at her reflection in the mirror. She noticed the tiny red veins in her eyes. Too many end-of-the-year parties will do that to you. And now she’d probably have to get in her car and drive out into the wilds of Gloucestershire to talk to this man Fromm. Shit. Shit. Shit.

THE WHITE MARBLED FLESH of the lovers gleamed with a cool pallor. His hand, large and beautiful, rested on her hip. She was leaning forward, straining to press her mouth against his. Their lips met in an endless kiss; a kiss that was eternal.

Isa turned around. Behind her stood Michael Chapman. His hair was as untidy as the first time they had met and he was wearing another hand-knitted sweater: this one blue with a green mistletoe pattern. He wasn’t looking at her: he was gazing intently at Rodin’s two lovers. Then he dropped his gaze to meet her indignant eyes.

He smiled. ‘It’s true. Look carefully and you’ll see. She’s the ardent one. He’s much more removed from the moment.’

Isa looked at the fleshy marble figures once again. Michael was right. There was total supplication in the S-curve of the woman’s lovely back: a complete abandonment to the moment of passion. The man was turning his head from the neck and there was a hint of rigidity in the spine.

She sighed. ‘Well. So nice of you to point that out. Thanks for sharing. Of course you’ve now pretty well spoiled the experience for me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ His voice was contrite but there was a gleam in his eye. ‘Let’s go look at some ships. That should be safer.’

They silently threaded their way through a group of bored teenagers and a busload of neatly dressed Japanese tourists. In the Clore Gallery for the Turner Collection, they moved solemnly from canvas to canvas, not speaking, but after a while Isa had had her fill of pink-and-golden light, sails, masts and hulls. She turned away from the pictures and walked towards the long windows that gave a glimpse of the Thames and framed the delicate bones of the outside trees.

‘You don’t look so hot if you don’t mind my saying so.’ Michael had joined her at the window.

She noticed the sketch pad clenched underneath his arm. Now she remembered. He spent Mondays in the Tate, copying the artwork.

He didn’t push. Later, though, when they were sipping some lukewarm coffee in the cafeteria, he said: ‘It must be a little spooky living in that house all on your own. Are you okay with it?’

She watched his hands. The fingers were long and supple. He was turning a paper napkin into an intricate doily: folding and tearing the tissue paper with a skill and delicacy that was surprising in someone who gave the impression of being clumsy.

He smiled. ‘Don’t tell me Alette’s been floating up and down the staircase. I’d have expected her to come up with something a little classier.’

‘Well, then you won’t be disappointed. She’s been calling me.’ Isa paused. ‘On the phone,’ she added defiantly.

There was an awful silence. She looked up. She had expected to see embarrassed amusement in his eyes, but his face was stiff with shock.

‘Oh, God.’ Isa dropped her face into her hands. ‘You think I’m crazy.’

‘Explain this to me,’ he said at long last. ‘You mean the two of you actually have a conversation?’

‘Well, we did the first time.’ Just saying the words out loud made her feel deranged.

‘Twice. Only twice it’s happened. The first time I didn’t know she was dead. Last night’s call lasted only a few moments and afterwards I was scared witless and pulled the phone from the wall.’

Silence again. ‘So what do you think?’ Isa said. ‘Time for a padded cell?’

‘Isa. This is insane. No, not you.’ He stopped, took a breath. His eyes still showed shock but not, she realized with faint surprise, complete astonishment.

While she spoke, he placed his hand on hers, his fingers gripping strongly. She didn’t mind. The pressure of his hand was comforting: sane, real.

‘So there’s a definite link between the dream and the phone call,’ he said after she had finished. ‘The one leads into the other. From sleeping to waking. From death to life.’

She looked at him gratefully. ‘You believe me. You don’t think I’m demented.’

‘I believe you. Absolutely I believe you. Let’s forget about the phone call for a minute. Let’s start with the dream. At least lucid dreaming has been scientifically verified. And it is familiar terrain to you.’

She grimaced. ‘Although the idea that I might be sharing a dream with someone who’s dead is not exactly reassuring. And there’s something else. Last night’s dream was very different from the lucid dreams I shared with Alette as a child. Those dreams were wonderful dreams: joyous, magical things. Even encounters with monsters did not feel perilous. I always knew we had the power to think them away—or at least Alette had. And I always woke up refreshed, feeling on top of the world. Last night’s dream …’ She shivered, remembering the panic which had clamped itself around her like a vice. ‘Last night’s dream was frightening.’

‘Not much. All I can remember was movement. As though I were travelling at a very high speed. As if I were imprisoned in an out-of-control vehicle. It felt,’—she hesitated—‘it felt like a runaway car.’

‘I know. I’ve been thinking of that as well. But I’m not sure. The feeling of panic became so strong that I let go of Alette’s hand before I had a chance to focus properly on what was going on around me.’

‘When the phone rings,’ he said, ‘it sounds different, right? There’s something about the sound that’s unusual.’

She thought for a moment. ‘Yes, there is. It sounds sort of … flat, I suppose. Like it’s just the tiniest bit off pitch. And I don’t react well to it at all. In fact I get sick to my stomach.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘How did you know?’

THE CAB DRIVER DROPPED them off in front of a small, gothic-looking stone building overlooking a large garden square. Michael pushed open the heavily studded doors. With almost a sense of disappointment Isa realized he had brought her to a library.

The place looked exactly the way she would have expected a British library to look: old—authentic old—with mullioned windows and desks with deeply carved initials in the wood. It was tiny: only one room with a mezzanine section, and it didn’t take her long to realize that this was by no means your ordinary, garden-variety library.

The signs marking the various sections were handwritten in a beautiful, flowing script: GNOSTICISM, THE CATHARS; CABALISM; SHEKINAH; HERMETIC ORDER OF THE GOLDEN DAWN; CLAIRSENTIENCE; ORDER OF THE ROSY CROSS; MARIAN APPARITIONS; TAOISM; THEOSOPHY; NUMEROLOGY, I CHING, RAPA NUI.

The only other occupant of the library, apart from the motherly-looking librarian, was a man dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. He looked like a banker and was making notes with a Montblanc fountain pen. As she passed by the desk, Isa read the titles of the two books in front of him: Malleus Maleficarum and The Book of the Dead.

She followed Michael as he led her down an aisle marked by the signs BLACK MAGIC, WHITE MAGIC, and—Isa started—SEXUAL MAGIC.

Michael noticed her stare and grinned faintly. ‘Some people believe you can reach a higher level of consciousness by having sex with archangels, saints and historical figures. Sounds like fun. Anyway, that’s not it. What I want to show you is this.’

He stopped in front of a glass-fronted book case and took out a thick encyclopaedia-sized volume. The spine was broken, and when he carried it over to the study table, a few loose pages fluttered to the ground.

Isa looked at the entry to which his finger was pointing. The heading stated baldly and without apology: Telephone Calls from the Dead.

‘Most phone calls from the dead take place within days of the death of the caller. The person called is usually someone with whom the caller shared an emotionally close relationship.

The call may terminate suddenly and often the connection is poor. When the phone rings it may sound abnormally flat. The reason for the call is either to impart some information that is necessary for the well-being of the recipient such as a warning of imminent peril—or a request for assistance.

Thomas Edison was working on designing a telephonic link between the living and the dead shortly before his death.

In the 1940s further experiments were conducted in England and the United States to reach the deceased by making use of a ‘psychic’ telephone. Interest in the phenomenon peaked in the 1960s when Konstantin Raudive managed to capture voices of the dead on electromagnetic tape. Experiments in the area are still being conducted by a number of modern-day parapsychologists.

Some psychiatrists and parapsychologists suggest that the phenomenon can be explained by hallucinations, which are in part the product of Psychokinesis (PK) done subconsciously by the recipient.’

Isa pointed to the last sentence: ‘“Done subconsciously by the recipient.” So this is all my fault? My imagination?’

‘Look, I don’t know what it means and maybe a shrink will tell you it’s all fantasy and some kind of subconscious wish-fulfilment on your part—you miss Alette, you’re traumatized by her death—so you start hearing voices. I just find it mind-blowing that Alette had been extremely interested in this subject. Passionate about it, in fact. She was the one who introduced me to this place.’ Michael gestured at the leather-bound books around them. ‘The very passage you just read, she read to me once. And she’s read everything else written on the subject, I can assure you. She told me her interest in afterlife communication started in her childhood. She had this friend; a black woman …’

‘Yes. As I understand it, she was the one who introduced Alette to the idea of communication between the quick and the dead.’

Isa said slowly, ‘Regeneration and reincarnation are central concepts in traditional African religion. Siena taught us that death does not liberate you. The newly dead especially are still required to play a role in the lives of the people they care about who are still alive. They help to right wrongs; are instrumental in settling scores.’

She leaned back in her chair. She was feeling slightly nauseous again. ‘Which reminds me,’ she said. ‘Did Alette ever show you carvings of two wooden dolls—about twenty inches high—very darkly polished?’

‘They’re marriage dolls. They symbolize spirit marriage partners and perfect unity between two souls. Perfect love. Alette had requested they be cremated along with her.’

‘I didn’t know that.’ He sounded surprised. ‘I knew, of course, that she preferred cremation to burial. Fire, to Alette, was a symbol of spiritual energy and a link between successive lives. She was interested in alchemy, you know, and believed, as the alchemists did, that fire is a medium of transmutation: first destroying and then regenerating.’ He checked himself. ‘But she never told me about the marriage dolls. Why do you ask? Do they have something to do with the phone calls?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just something else that’s been troubling me. I don’t know why but there’s something about it that’s not right.’

It was quiet between them. Then he said quietly, ‘Why is she calling you, Isa?’

He didn’t answer, just looked at her steadily. The green-shaded reading lamp was throwing a pool of light over the book; over his large hands resting on the rice-paper-thin pages. The yellow light illuminated the soft, fair hairs on the back of his fingers.

‘I can’t tell you that. But I think last night’s call was because I was thinking of not doing it: of walking away from it all.’

Isa nodded. ‘In the first phone call she mentioned danger. Fear. Last night’s dream was pure terror. Alette could have stopped it—she has that kind of power over dreams. But she didn’t. It’s as if she wants to show me something.’

His face was set and his voice sounded almost stern. ‘When Alette first introduced me to all of this—lucid dreaming, after-life communication—I was fascinated. It’s completely beyond my ken, but I saw it as something positive.’

‘Why? Alette believed that if you’re able to control your dreams, you’re on the road to fully taking charge of your waking life as well.’

‘Yes? Well, think about this for a minute. If dreaming is indeed functioning as an outlet for the pressure cooker that is our deepest, basest emotions and desires, what’s going to happen if you’re able to simply bypass all those symbolic, archetypical demons? Dreaming is supposed to help you gain insight into what’s troubling the unconscious, right? If you have the power to edit out anything you find threatening and uncomfortable—or, for that matter, add anything you feel like—how will you ever reach any insight? The mind is already such a cunning, cunning thing. It is programmed to be dishonest, to lie to us. Throughout our lives we train it to become even more deceitful. It is only in our dreams where the mind can’t lie. Where we can’t escape.’

‘Fine. So maybe this is a demon that needs to be confronted. But take care. This is still not an ordinary dream—it’s a lucid dream. And you’re linked to it through Alette. Some of the research on alert dreaming suggests it can be dangerous in the extreme. To exercise that kind of power may place on the mind an unbearable burden.’

‘Many of the experiences of the lucid dreamer and the schizophrenic are alike. There have been reports of lucid dreamers getting lost in their dreams and unable to find their way back; unable to distinguish between what’s real and what’s not. Lucid dreamers may find their dreams taking possession of them and they end up literally unable to find their own self again.’

‘Why don’t you just come right out and tell me what it is you’re trying to say to me?’

‘I’m saying you should beware. And that you should think very carefully before encouraging this.’

‘It’s not up to me, Michael. Alette is the one accessing my dreams. And she’s the one calling. Not me.’

He shook his head. ‘She needs a willing partner. Don’t take her hand. It is up to you.’

‘I know. And she was a good friend. But I’m worried about you now. I don’t think this is stuff one should mess with.’

She looked away. She was suddenly immensely tired and had an urgent need to get out of the silent, murky atmosphere of this library; to breathe in fresh air.

‘What time is it?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I still need to stop by Alette’s solicitor.’

Isa pushed back her chair. ‘No. He said he’ll be working late tonight. I only need to pick up an envelope.’

Outside a cold wind was blowing and the lowering sky was black-blue. The rustle of dried leaves in the garden square sounded like secretive, conspiratorial whispering.

Michael was looking at her with concern. ‘Why don’t you call me when you get back and we’ll get something to eat? We can talk.’

She paused, and when she spoke again, she kept her voice deliberately light. ‘Actually, I was thinking about trying to find a place to work out tonight.’ She gestured at the large, floppy gym bag she had been carrying around with her all day. I found Alette’s gym card. Do you think they’ll let me in?’

‘Oh, certainly. It’s the council gym. They’re pretty lax; they’ll let in just about anyone if you put down your two pounds. But I have to warn you, it’s not swish: rather Victorian. But there’s a swimming pool if you’re interested. And it’s convenient: only five minutes from Alette’s house.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ His eyes crinkled into a smile. For a moment they simply looked at each other. Then the smile faded and he said almost abruptly, ‘Alette was fascinated by death. Even when she was a little girl.’

ISA GLANCED OVER HER SHOULDER through the smudged rear window of the cab. Something did not feel right. It was impossible to say exactly when she had first noticed the prickling, claustrophobic feeling of unease that was nudging at her. She had been aware of it ever since she had left Michael at the library. A sense of being observed. It was as though something—someone—was warning her to pay attention, to watch out. As though an invisible finger was tapping her on the shoulder. Tap. Tap.

The corridor leading to Mr Darling’s office was empty and with a sinking heart she saw that no light shone through the fan-shaped window above his door. She looked at her watch. It was later than she had thought. But just as she was about to try the door, she heard something behind her and spun around. A man dressed in black clothing, a helmet under his arm was standing to one side, quietly watching her.

Isa blinked. Lionel Darling seemed quite different today. Gone were the brogues and expensive suit. His attire was almost a parody of the bad-boy biker look. The leather jacket actually had a skull-and-crossbones patch on one arm and his boots were studded with metal. His fair hair was slicked back.

As he fitted his key to the lock, he looked at her with amusement. ‘Don’t let the clothes rattle you.’

‘I know. But solicitors don’t only play golf.’ He smiled again and held the door wide for her. ‘It’s a good thing I had to come back to the office. I thought you weren’t coming anymore and left for home a while ago. But I forgot my wallet.’

Inside the office he unlocked a steel cabinet. ‘If you’ll just sign here.’

‘Our office is closed from tomorrow until well into the New Year,’ he said. ‘But I’ll make arrangements to have the third letter couriered to you next week.’

‘You don’t have to go to so much trouble. I don’t mind waiting. When do you open again?’

He looked at her sternly and wagged his finger in mock disapproval. ‘No, that won’t do. Our office is very particular.’

‘And to you.’ She nodded at him and started walking away. At the end of the passage she turned and looked back. He was still standing where she had left him, watching her. He smiled charmingly and lifted his hand in an elegant farewell salute.

She stepped through a pair of wide doors into yet another long, empty corridor. She was very conscious of the manila envelope clutched in her one hand. It was identical to the first envelope she had received, but in the upper right-hand corner were the words: Second Envelope.

When she finally reached the stone steps outside the building, Isa stopped. For a moment she looked at the envelope irresolutely, her finger lightly rubbing against the sealing label bearing Alette’s signature. Then, with an abrupt gesture, she tore through both the label and blue waxed seal and took a quick peek inside. As before: two smaller envelopes addressed to the FT and the Post. And Alette’s letter. She withdrew it halfway out of the envelope:

Isa slid the letter back into its sleeve. This was not the place to read it. Zipping open her gym bag, she tucked the envelope underneath her sweats.

She turned right, thinking there would be a shortcut to the main street where she might hail a taxi. But she miscalculated and found herself in a maze of tiny alleys. This was clearly not a residential area. The buildings were dark and the streets so narrow that when she looked up it seemed to her as though the rooftops on both sides of the road would touch. Despite some tall, modern glass-and-steel buildings, it was an old part of London this: some of the walls on both sides of her were impregnated with the grime and sweat of centuries. A vaguely urinal smell clung to the pavements. Large black rubbish bags, streaked with a diamond glitter of raindrops, lay piled up on every corner. Apart from two other pedestrians and a silent figure crouching in a doorway, clutching at a tangle of dirty blankets, she saw no one. It was quiet here. And again she had that feeling of being watched, of being followed. Tap. Tap.

She was walking faster and faster. The echo of her footsteps bounced off the walls. It sounded jerky, irregular. Now she was slowing down; now she was speeding up; now she was stopping as she stood still to listen. The wind tugged loudly at a sheet of tarpaulin covering the steel skeleton of a piece of scaffolding and her heart jumped. The loose piece of grey canvas billowed and flapped.

She turned the corner. At the far end of the narrow street she could see a stream of cars passing by as a traffic light flashed green. She had found the high street. The relief was so great; she tasted salt in her mouth.

She tried to flag down a taxi, but every cab had passengers in the back or its yellow roof light switched off. The fog had suddenly thickened, turning bright beads of light into misty halos. She wondered if she was ever going to find a free cab.

On the other side of the road she spotted the brightly lit blue-and-red circle marking the entrance to the Tube. After a moment’s hesitation, she crossed the street and walked down the shallow steps. After buying her ticket, she stepped onto an enormously tall escalator packed with commuters and found herself squeezed in between a burly man and a teenager with a long ponytail.

She peered over her shoulder at the long line of passengers stacked up behind her. Her eyes met the uninterested gaze of the teenager. He was listening to his iPod, his lips making breathless ‘mpa mpa’ noises along with the beat.

As she stepped off the escalator, she did not follow the flow of passengers. She pressed herself against the dirty margarine-coloured wall tiles, watching and waiting as the stream of commuters passed her by. No one looked at her. No one seemed interested in her.

She continued down the echoing corridors. The walls were shuddering, the ground underneath her feet was vibrating, and as she rounded the corner leading to the platform, she was just in time to see the train disappearing noisily into the black tunnel.

The platform was now almost empty. At the far end stood a turbaned Sikh and a young woman wearing a navy jacket and trainers with reflector strips on the heels. Each time she moved her feet they glinted with the gaiety of ballroom shoes. Silently the yellow letters on the electronic billboard spelled out that the next train would be arriving in three minutes.

On the other side of the tracks, on the wall facing her, were giant posters advertising an exhibition of Russian icons and medieval art. Isa looked intently at the figures on the poster, strangely mesmerized by their soot-black faces and golden halos. One martyr, eyes turned up inside his head, was grasping a jewel-encrusted cross: from his garrotted throat spewed forth a silently petrified, motionless arc of red blood.

She started nervously, but at that moment the train rushed into the station with a whoosh of dirty air and clamouring noise. She stepped into the shadowless carriage, drawing comfort from the glaring, unflattering light. The train started moving forward and the Russian saints with their enervated eyes slid slowly past the window and disappeared.

MICHAEL WAS RIGHT. The gym was not swish. Actually, it was dank and more than a little smelly. Arranged over four floors in a dark, red-brick building, it was very different from the gyms she was used to at home: large, airy places with enormous plate-glass windows and aerobics instructors with glo-bright smiles. Here you had to negotiate your way from one level to the next by narrow stairwells painted an institutional green. It was quiet: no urgent rock music or even the sound of voices. As she passed by the swimming pool on the ground floor, she heard the soft splash of water. Three swimmers, wrapped in a cocoon of quiet concentration, were swimming in a pool sparkling with a lunar light.

There were very few people around, but this was probably because she had arrived a mere half-hour before closing time, as the cashier at the till had told her, annoyed. But at least she had experienced no problem gaining access.

The dressing room was a large, cavernous space with concrete floors and row upon row of empty stalls. As she stripped, she shivered slightly: the building was insufficiently heated. She placed her gym bag in one of the lockers, but took out the envelope and looked at it irresolutely. It was probably safe to leave it in the locker, but she was still hesitant to do so. She looked around her. Against the wall was a wooden bench. She knelt down and slid the envelope underneath the seat. It fitted snugly and was invisible.

In the aerobics room, an elderly man with soft underarms was pedalling on one of the bikes. He hardly acknowledged her presence. She mounted one of the treadmills and started running.

The swoosh of the treadmill and the rhythmic slap of her feet were soothing. She was starting to space out a little, her mind filling with a jumble of unformed, unsorted images and sensations. The book smell in the panelled library. Michael’s powerful wrists and the hair on them gold. Dark cobbled streets. A piece of tarpaulin flapping like the broken wing of a giant bat. The scent of roses everywhere and a saint bleeding. Justin’s lips twisting into a smile: ‘The only certainty is death.’ Michael frowning, ‘Why is she calling you, Isa? Why is she calling you, Isa?’

The gym assistant’s voice jerked her back to the present. ‘Ten minutes,’ he shouted. As if to emphasize his point, he leaned from behind the door and flicked off one of the wall switches, plunging one half of the room into darkness.

The running had unknotted the tension in her back. As she walked down the stairs and then into the dressing room, she was tired in mind and body. But there was no feeling of apprehension as she stood inside the open shower; the warm, soapy water sliding down her body. There was no sense of unease as she walked naked towards the other end of the room, unlocked her locker, and took out her gym bag. There was no invisible hand to nudge her into awareness. Only a sudden, inexplicable pain behind her ear; a feeling as though her eyes were breaking into pieces inside her head; and the ground coming up gently to meet her.

HER FIRST SENSATION was that she was cold. The cement floor was ice on her exposed skin. Her face was pressed up against her bare arm. The skin was puckered with gooseflesh and a few stray drops of water glistened where she hadn’t dried herself.

Slowly she pushed herself upright: her elbows wobbly. The side of her face hurt. She started walking towards the swing doors when she realized she had no clothes on.

She felt like an old woman. She pulled on her trousers, her sweater. It all seemed to take a long time. Her locker stood wide open. Her gym bag was turned over, the contents spilling out.

She sorted through the items. Her scarf. A lipstick and a pen. Socks. She picked up her shoes. In the toes of her one shoe were the three twenties and a ten she had stuffed in there before she had left for the aerobics room. Her watch was pushed inside the other shoe and had also not been removed.

She pulled the wooden bench violently towards her, her fingers scrabbling hastily underneath the seat. The side of the envelope cut into her palm as she withdrew it and turned it upside down. The two envelopes addressed to the newspapers fell out. So did Alette’s letter. Everything was as it should be. The relief was overwhelming.

She brought her hand to her head and when she removed it there was a tiny smudge of blood on her thumb. Whoever had coshed her had hit her hard enough to break the skin.

What should she do about this? Nothing had been stolen. When her opportunistic attacker couldn’t find a wallet, he had obviously not thought to search her shoes. She was okay, if you discounted the pain inside her head. If she told the person at the desk, there would be questions. Then the police. Forms to fill in, more questions to answer. Hours at the police station.

She walked into the lobby. ‘You’re the last one out,’ the gym assistant said, and held the door open for her. He sounded almost accusing. Isa looked at him and then past his shoulder at the girl behind the till who was staring at her. ‘Are you, okay, Miss?’

Dear Isabelle,

If you’re reading this letter, you have decided to help me.

Thank you. Thank you so much. I am so grateful, Isabelle. You are the one person I can count on. The only person. You, I know, will never betray me.

Here’s what we’ll do next.

Once again the brokers will receive a call from Sophia. Once again there will be letters to send to the papers.

You never really got to know Justin well, but even so I’m sure you remember that single-minded energy of his. It was one of the things that attracted me most when we first met. Once he sets his mind to something, the idea of failure is not an option. What Justin wants, Justin gets. He wanted me: he got me. He wanted to achieve great success in his professional life and he did: first as a researcher and then as a businessman.

Most biotech companies are run by visionary but quite fanatical biochemists who believe absolutely in their product. Justin is no exception. He had been interested in the medicinal qualities of plants for a long, long time: convinced they hold the key to a cure for Alzheimer’s. But research requires money. Lots of it.

Companies finance their activities from two sources: shareholder money and bank money. A tiny, one-product pharmaceutical company with no proven track record is not likely to get much assistance from the banks unless there is someone in the company with whom they can do business who has a reputation for safe hands. And this is where Justin made his winning move.

Justin knew it would be imperative to gather around him the best managers he could possibly find. A team that would impress the banks and soothe the nerves of investors during the bad times; and in the pharmaceutical industry there are always bad times during the development process.

Gabriel Perette is Temple Sullivan’s finance director. He commands enormous respect in the City. For many years he managed the financial affairs of Sidicis—a very successful technology group—and in the process, he also made a pile of money for himself. At the age of fifty, he decided to call it a day. Two years later Justin managed to talk Perette out of his early retirement into joining Temple Sullivan. This was a coup: the smartest move Justin ever made. For the past ten years Gabriel Perette has been steering Temple Sullivan with great skill through some very choppy financial waters.

Louise Perette, Gabriel’s wife, is a close friend of mine. Even after my divorce from Justin, we kept in touch. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about: matinée movies, lunches for the girls, visits to the hairdresser’s. A few months ago she moved to France after telling me that she and Gabriel were having marital problems. She also told me that she had presented him with an ultimatum: resign from Temple Sullivan or lose his wife. Gabriel is a sweetheart. He made the right choice.

Louise is no friend of Justin’s. She has never forgiven him for persuading Gabriel to get back into the rat race and she blames him for the tensions in her marriage. And so, when Gabriel finally made his decision, she sent me a bottle of champagne accompanied by a copy of his letter of resignation. She knows I own a large number of Temple Sullivan shares and wanted to prepare me for the possible impact the news of her husband’s resignation might have on the market. She was taking a risk, of course. If caught, she could have been accused of assisting in insider trading. But she is a loyal friend.

I have made two more copies of this letter and they are included in the envelopes you will be sending to the Financial Times and the London Post. Gabriel’s letter is signed but undated; he has agreed to let Justin decide when the right time would be to go public with the news of his resignation.

Louise says Justin had indicated he would like to release a statement soon after the next annual report. This is a smart decision. The annual report this year promises to be a poem: the balance sheet will be exceptional and the reports on the company’s operations will reveal that the market’s expectations for the product are well justified. No doubt Justin’s letter to the shareholders will make the most of the highlights of the past year and his predictions of even better things to come will leave investors with a warm glow. It will be the perfect time to announce the bad news that Perette will be leaving the company.

But we won’t allow Justin the luxury of waiting that long.

Timing is everything in life, don’t you agree, Isabelle? If news of Perette’s resignation follows hard on the heels of news that the company is experiencing sourcing problems with regard to Taumex, the effect is likely to be quite dramatic. There could even be speculation that the reason given for Perette’s resignation—his wanting to spend more time with his family—is a smoke screen, and that he is leaving because of the problem in Madagascar. Furthermore, in his resignation letter he stipulates that he may wish to sell his share options soon after his resignation takes effect. This could easily be perceived as lack of faith: as though he wants to dump his shares because he is nervous about the company’s prospects. Investor confidence will take a knock, believe me. And Justin will have a nasty little problem on his hands.

Isa folded the letter carefully. She was curled up in the armchair in Alette’s bedroom, and had wrapped herself in one of Alette’s cashmere throws. Maybe it was delayed shock after what happened in the gym, but she couldn’t seem to get warm. Next to her on the table stood a glass of whisky and a bottle of painkilling tablets. It was probably not at all the wise thing to do, but the pills and the alcohol had taken care of her headache very nicely.

But she was still feeling shivery and it was difficult to focus on the contents of the letter in her lap. And she couldn’t shake this nagging feeling at the back of her mind. She remembered the sense of unease that had dogged her as she had left Lionel Darling’s office; the feeling of being observed. Maybe it hadn’t been a random mugging. Maybe her attacker hadn’t been searching for loose cash. Maybe he had a very specific goal in mind: the envelope.

And maybe she was letting her imagination run riot. The only person who could possibly be interested in the contents of the envelope was Justin. But he knew nothing about her arrangement with Alette. Or had she inadvertently let something slip that aroused his suspicions? She had had quite a lot of wine to drink during their dinner together. Perhaps he had decided to keep an eye on her and had been following her.

This was getting more far-fetched by the minute. And whatever else Justin may be, she had no reason to believe he was a violent man. Obsessive, yes. Controlling, yes. But violent? The idea of him prowling around the ladies’ room with a cudgel in his hand was absurd.

For a moment she wondered if she should have the locks on the front door changed. Isn’t that what one was supposed to do after a mugging? Except in this case her keys had not been stolen. It would be overkill.

She shoved the letter back into its envelope and got out of the chair. Carefully she removed a few books from the top shelf of the bookcase. The first envelope Alette had sent her already peeked out from behind the row of hardback volumes. She placed the second envelope with its twin and slid the books back into place. There was now no sign that something was hidden behind them.

For a moment she stared at the row of books. She owed Alette so much, but was revenge the answer? Destroying the most important thing in someone’s life was an unforgivable, maybe even an evil, thing to do. Justin deserved to be punished but could anything he had done deserve retribution this severe?

She returned to the chair but as she reached for the glass of whisky, her elbow knocked over one of the many photographs propped up on the table.

It was a picture of herself in a glamorous dress with an eye-catching shawl wrapped casually around her waist. Prom night. The shawl had not originally been part of the ensemble. But that night she had had an accident: clumsily spilling nail polish onto the ivory-coloured skirt. She had been devastated until Alette took this beautiful antique shawl from her closet and draped it skilfully around her waist to hide the stain. She remembered the shawl well: Alette had saved up for months to put together enough money to buy it.

Throughout her life she had depended on Alette. And now Alette was depending on her. Despite her misgivings, she must do what Alette asked of her.

And it may all yet be for nothing. The first set of instructions seemed to have had no effect whatsoever on the company’s health. As a matter of fact, only yesterday the Sunday supplement in one of the papers had showcased a glowing article on Justin and Taumex. It featured a full-page, posed photograph of Justin appearing sternly competent—eyes looking straight into the camera. Nothing could shake the composure of a man with eyes that cool.

So maybe Gabriel Perette was an ace financial director. But the resignation of one man couldn’t do that much harm, surely. The news of his resignation wouldn’t be enough to dent Temple Sullivan’s armour: ‘the tiny titan of pharmaceutical companies,’ as the article had stated with fine alliterative flourish. What’s more, Alette had bargained on rumours about potential supply problems to prepare the ground, but no one had paid any attention to the rumour. So really, there would be little harm done if she agreed to Alette’s demands once more. And if the company did suffer slightly as a result, which seemed unlikely, well—Justin had it coming. Any possible anxiety her actions might bring him wouldn’t even begin to compare with the trauma he had inflicted on Alette. If she sent out those letters, made those calls, she would be able to face the day with the knowledge that she had not betrayed her cousin.

Isa looked at the telephone. It was still unplugged: the cord sprawling across the carpet like a sleepy snake.

NINE