Hannah woke to an insistent buzzing, a sound like an angry bee trapped under a glass. After several seconds’ confusion she connected the noise to her BlackBerry on the bedside table, sat up and reached for it. The number on the screen was a central London one, but the phone didn’t recognise it and neither did she. Curiosity got the better of her, however, and she hit the green button and croaked hello.
‘Good morning. Am I speaking to Hannah Reilly?’ It was an older woman’s voice, with a clipped accent that evoked girls’ boarding schools and crisp tennis whites.
Hannah confirmed that she was.
‘Hello, my name’s Jessica Landon,’ the voice said more warmly. ‘I’m calling from Roger Penrose’s office.’
Roger Penrose – in her newly conscious state Hannah made a reduced-speed search of her mental archives. Penrose. The woman clearly expected her to know whom she was talking about. At last she found the index card: Roger Penrose, from Penrose Price.
Jessica Landon was talking again. ‘Roger very much enjoyed meeting you on the second and asked me to apologise for the length of time it’s taken us to get back to you. I’m afraid his wife hasn’t been very well.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Thank you. She’s feeling much better now.’ A second’s respectful pause. ‘Anyway, as you know, we’re a family company and pride ourselves on being tight-knit. Roger likes to meet the final candidates for senior roles in a social context, along with their partners. He wonders whether you and your husband are available for dinner next week?’
‘Dinner?’
‘It would be you and your husband, and Roger and his wife, Diane. How about next Tuesday, a week today? Would that suit? At eight o’clock?’
‘Er, yes,’ Hannah said. ‘I think that’ll be fine.’
‘Lovely. I have your email address here so I’ll make a reservation and be in touch again later on today with the details.’
Dinner. Hannah pictured Mark and herself sitting smiling over a stiff white tablecloth and single, interview-appropriate glasses of wine, making smalltalk and pretending everything was fine, that they were an ordinary happy couple, no stolen savings or hidden killer brothers to muddy the crystalline marital waters. The idea – the fakery it would demand – was grotesque. And yet she’d have to do it. The final candidates for senior roles: here was a chance. If she could just get this job, a salary, she’d have options again. Choices.
She threw back the blankets, swung her feet to the carpet and went to the window. The air was cold on her bare legs; the heating was kept low in here, turned up only on the rare occasion when someone came to stay. Outside in Quarrendon Street, at least, it was a normal day, the houses across the road offering their usual inscrutable façades, the lush magazine lifestyles that went on behind them hinted at by a small Venetian chandelier visible above white slatted half-shutters, an orchid in a beautiful glazed pot in the narrow first-floor window of an en suite bathroom.
The tiny woman from the house opposite was just clambering down from the driver’s seat of her enormous navy blue Range Rover, looking child-like as she hopped out on to the pavement. She was in yoga clothes, the hair on the back of her neck dark with sweat. Hannah glanced back at the clock on the bedside table. 9.17 – shit. How had it got so late? Well, she’d seen four o’clock and five, quarter past. She must have fallen asleep just after that. How much time did she have? Surely not much. If his flight had run to schedule, Mark would be home any minute: the last night flights left New York around eleven, which meant they landed at Heathrow around eleven a.m. If he’d caught an earlier one, he could even be back already, waiting downstairs. What would he think if he’d come looking and found her sleeping in here?
She walked to the door, placing her feet gingerly in case he was in the sitting room below. The brass handle made a treacherous squeak and she froze but when she listened for sounds of movement downstairs, half-expecting his voice to call up to her – ‘Han? There you are. What were you doing in the spare room, you nutcase?’ – there was only the usual oppressive silence. The quilt on their bed next door was undisturbed and the bathroom was empty. On the top floor, his study door was ajar at the same angle it had been last night.
Downstairs, the dirty glass and the bottle of Armagnac, now half-empty, were still on the table. She put them away and filled the kettle. As she reached to turn off the tap, there was a sudden movement on the other side of the glass and a huge crow took off from the top of the fence, its wings black and ratty-looking against the flat grey of the sky.
What was she going to say to him? That was the question – or one of them – that had kept her brain churning through the early hours. How did you broach something like this? ‘Hi, darling – good flight? Oh, while you were away, I checked my bank account, and what do you know? Someone’s transferred all my money over to you. And why didn’t you mention your brother was getting out of prison? Manslaughter, was it? Not to worry.’
The water boiled and she put a new filter in the Krups machine and heaped in coffee grounds. She needed to be alert this morning, to think clearly. As she’d lain awake, she’d thought about what Mark had told her about his brother. Most of it could be interpreted as the broader truth, Nick’s character, his general behaviour, but even within the framework of his cover story, Mark had lied. He’d told her that Nick had missed being with their mother when she died because he was in bed with some woman when, actually, he must have been in prison. Why tell her that? Why bother coming up with such a detailed little sub-story – a married woman, Brighton?
She poured a cup of coffee and took a scalding sip. Perhaps she was over-thinking it. She’d put Mark on the spot that night in her apartment and he’d had to extemporise a complete cover story in the time he’d been out walking the freezing streets. He’d added a few details for verisimilitude; it was hardly surprising.
On the other hand, however, there was Hermione. She’d admitted that she’d spoken to him lately but, according to Neesha, there had been several calls. There is someone who calls. A few weeks – a month. He always closes his door. Why had they kept talking? What was there to say over a period of weeks? And if she and Mark were such good friends that Hermione was the person he’d turn to about this, why hadn’t she, Hannah, even heard of her before?
At her laptop she brought up the site for the Royal London. She clicked through, found the number and entered it into her phone. It rang three times and then a woman’s voice came on the line. ‘Renal.’
‘Hello. Could I speak to Doctor Alleyn, please?’ Hannah remembered the form of address used by the nurse behind the desk. Yes, that was right, wasn’t it? Surgeons weren’t called Doctor; they became Misters and Mizzes again once they reached consultant level. ‘Ms Alleyn,’ she corrected herself.
‘She’s in theatre this morning, I’m afraid. Can I take a message?’
Hannah paused. If she left her number, would Hermione call back? No, that wouldn’t be a good idea, anyway: she needed to control when they spoke. What if Hermione rang when Mark was around? How could she explain it or slope off to take the call without arousing suspicion?
‘It’s all right,’ she said, ‘I’ll ring back. Do you know what time she’ll be finished?’
‘Sorry, I really can’t say.’
‘No problem. I’ll try again later. Thanks.’
She hung up and put the phone back on the table. As she did, she became aware of a change in the room, a shift in the light, or perhaps she glimpsed an image in the glass of the French windows. She spun around.
‘Hannah?’ He laughed. ‘Oh, sorry – did I startle you, darling?’