39

This was the first time in her life that Christina had been on Interpol’s website. Of course she’d known somewhere at the back of her mind that it existed, but now, actually looking at it, it was dizzyingly real. There she was, looking through a list of criminals–not just wanted, but most wanted–one of whom was her own husband.

But, and this was the weirdest part, it also wasn’t him. Admittedly there was no denying it was William in the photo. He was haggard, almost as though it was a brand-new image, despite the date at the foot of the page indicating that it had been up there for months.

The rest of it though. The rest of it was bloody miles out. The name was Karl Axel Söderbladh. The date of birth was completely wrong, height was almost right but a couple of centimetres out, and country of birth was listed as Sweden, even though William’s parents had met in England and that’s where he’d spent the first few years of his life. It wasn’t William. And yet it so blatantly was.

In the ‘Wanted For’ column it said simply conspiracy to commit terrorism without any further explanation, and on that basis action was under way which Palmgren had described as ‘a major police operation’. A quick glance at Polish news sites revealed nothing, but of course that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Maybe the major police operation had already taken place without the newspapers having got wind of it. Maybe preparations were still going on in secret.

Either way, she couldn’t help feeling that William had been convicted in advance, and that it was largely his own fault. He’d run from the police. And now he was in—

She tried to sort the thoughts in her head. What was William doing in Warsaw? Somehow it had to mean that he’d drawn the same conclusions as she had. That he’d seen the threads all leading back to a particular occasion, five years before. To the Futurology conference, and the Palace of Culture and Science, and Piotrowski. Was this his doing? That didn’t stack up. However much they were afraid of him, he was hardly capable of getting someone up on Interpol’s must wanted list. And even if Michal Piotrowski had somehow managed that, why would he ever have used anything other than William’s real name?

She leaned forward, flipping through the pile until she found what she was looking for. The yellow envelope from the car. The CD.

For a few short moments she just held it, weighing it in between her fingers, staring at the computer. She felt a pressing urge to stick it in the drive and see what was on it, but she knew she couldn’t. However ludicrous it sounded, the theory was that Sara’s CD had caused the great power cut, and it felt like bad idea for Christina to cause another. Instead, she dragged herself over to the keyboard and opened the newspaper’s central address directory.

Two minutes later, when Christina put her coat on and headed back out into the open-plan office, Beatrice’s desk was her first stop.

‘You’re right,’ she said quietly.

Beatrice looked up from her enormous colour screen.

‘The typesetting?’

‘No. About me being here.’

Beatrice looked at her. Stood up, grabbed her coat from the back of her chair.

‘I’ll drive you home.’

‘I’m not sure that’s where I’m going,’ said Christina.

‘Well then, I’ll drive you somewhere else. I can’t let you drive, not on your own, not today.’

Christina sighed with gratitude and resentment. And then, after a quick glance at the desk, she took a slow, deep, breath. She sat on the edge of the table. Lowered her voice to a whisper.

‘You know me,’ she said. ‘I’m not the type to go around broadcasting how I’m feeling inside. And I realise that it must be difficult, that you want to grab hold of me and forcibly comfort me and force me to talk. For my own sake.’

Beatrice said nothing.

‘But that isn’t what I need. Quite the opposite. I need to deal with my own thoughts. And I’m glad you’re offering, but also, I know I need to a heal a little bit on my own first.’

Two seconds of silence. Then the smile.

‘You’re right,’ said Beatrice. A warm, friendly tone that said I know all that already. ‘I know you.’

Christina nodded. Thanks.

She stood up, mumbled something about hailing a cab, before she noticed that Beatrice was blocking her route like a big colourful wall.

‘The problem is that I don’t care about what you need.’

Before Christina had the chance to do anything about it, she found herself in a warm, comforting hug that she couldn’t escape. All she could do was to accept it, and once she had she realised she was holding on for dear life. They stood for a long time, comfort and warmth and a thousand other emotions.

‘If you don’t let go soon we’re going to end up in the gossip columns,’ Beatrice said into her shoulder, and Christina felt herself laugh, or perhaps cry, a single sound that could have been both.

‘We’re a tabloid newspaper,’ Christina replied. ‘No one believes anything we write anyway.’

When they’d finally let go of each other and dried their eyes, Christina smiled a last thanks and then trudged through the office, straight past all the pitying faces for the second time in half an hour. This time though, she met their eyes, muttered a see you tomorrow, and disappeared towards the lift and the exit.

As the doors closed around her she leaned against the wall and let her thoughts descend into calm. She was full of grief, had just lost her daughter, her life had been torn up by the roots. But in spite of it all, she still had a feeling that she was not alone. That was a feeling she could live with.

With that thought playing on her mind she stepped out in the garage, found the editorial team’s light blue Volvo and unlocked it with the key she’d taken from Beatrice’s desk.