The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins when I arrive back at the flat.
Taking a seat at the table, my fingers clutch the two white envelopes, the same name staring back at me from the front of each: ‘Goran Petrović’.
My mind scanning the possibilities, I pull open the first letter slowly. It is a generic note from the council, informing the occupier of a rise in business rates, which tells me nothing except that whatever this establishment is, officially and unofficially, it is registered as a business. There had been no company name on the front of the building, which would have enabled me to find a list of accounts and directorships via one of the websites we use at work.
My hands tremble slightly as I slide my fingers under the sealed flap of the second letter, which is stamped, more promisingly, with an EE logo in the corner.
Taking a shallow breath, I pull out a thick, folded wad of pages listing endless numbers. Scanning them, I feel my brain hum with possibility. Closing my eyes for a moment, catching my breath, I go through the pages again, more carefully this time, looking out for anything unusual or telling – a prefix I recognise, perhaps, or a foreign dialling code; anything to give me a clue, no matter how small.
Yet no matter how hard I look, I see nothing that points to an immediate clue. Just mobile number after mobile number, few of the calls lasting more than a minute.
The sense of anticlimax is almost painful.
It had felt like such a clear step forward when I was handed the post and yet now, short of ringing one of the numbers, I am no closer than I had been yesterday.
My brain is cloudy with exhaustion. Sighing, I let my face fall into my palms. The moment I close my eyes I see the girl blinking back at me, a look of terror transferring from her face to mine, and I sit bolt upright again, shaking my head to clear the image.
Pouring another cup of coffee, ignoring the voicemail from Ben flashing on the screen of my phone, which I’ve set to silent, I sit back in front of my computer and google the name Goran Petrović followed by the address of the building I’ve just visited.
The internet connection in the flat is deathly slow, and by the time I discover the building is registered to a company called PKI Ltd, I have six missed calls from Ben.
My mind fizzing with excitement at this significant progress, I stand and gather my papers, arriving at the office less than ten minutes later. From the moment I step through the door, the plastic champagne flutes on the desks containing the dregs of warm wine and the empty Sainsbury’s sandwich wrappers crumpled across desks alert me to my mistake.
‘Shit, Si, happy birthday,’ I say awkwardly, feeling my colleagues’ eyes on us as I move forward to give him a peck on the cheek before deciding that feels wrong and somehow opting instead for a weird jovial arm-slap, the kind American men might give each other at a barbecue.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Ben asks, dropping a load of papers onto his desk.
‘Somers Town,’ I lie. ‘Had a couple of people to interview. Anyway, I’m here now, aren’t I?’