‘Young?’
‘Oh, no,’ said Ollie. ‘Old. Thirty-five, something like that.’ Ollie saw the look on Chris’s face. ‘Well, not exactly old, but not young either. You know.’
‘OK, OK, I know,’ said Chris. ‘What did they talk about?’
‘No idea. Lenka took him into the boardroom and shut the door. They were in there about an hour. When he left, he looked angry. And she looked really upset. She went off to the loo for ages.’
‘Interesting. Did Tina see this bloke?’
‘No. She was out, I think. I remember I was the only one here, apart from Lenka of course.’
Pity, Chris thought. Tina would have been able to give him a much more accurate description of what had happened.
‘And Lenka didn’t say anything afterwards?’
‘No. I tried to talk to her, to see if she was all right, but she told me to go away. So I went off and did some photocopying.’
The photocopier was Ollie’s equivalent of the gooseberry bushes. It was where he always liked to go when Lenka shouted at him.
‘Can you be more precise about this guy? Hair colour, eyes, nose, face?’
Ollie screwed up his face, thinking. ‘It’s hard to remember. Eyes? Brown, I think. Although they could have been blue. Brown hair. Yes, definitely brown. Longish. Stubble — I don’t think he’d shaved.’
‘That’s very helpful,’ said Chris. ‘But we’ve no idea who this man is.’ He tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Can you remember what day it was?’
‘Monday, I think. Maybe Tuesday.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Chris turned on Lenka’s computer and opened it at her diary. There was only one entry that was not easily explainable. Against two o’clock on Tuesday 15 February was the word ‘Marcus’. That was all, just ‘Marcus’.
‘Know who that might be?’ Chris asked Ollie.
Ollie shrugged. There’s a Marcus Neale at Harrison Brothers. But it definitely wasn’t him.’
‘I wonder who it was,’ said Chris.
3
It was eight o’clock and Ollie and Tina had already gone, when Chris was disturbed by a loud buzz. The security guard had left at six; after that time, visitors had to use the buzzer out on the street.
‘Who is it?’
He couldn’t quite make out the reply, beyond identifying the voice as belonging to a woman, but he pressed the button to unlock the entrance to the building, and told whomever it was to come up to the fifth floor.
He opened the door to a young woman with long dark curly hair tied back behind the nape of her neck, blue eyes, freckles and a turned-up nose. She was dressed in jeans and was carrying two large bags. She looked familiar, but Chris couldn’t place her.
‘Chris?’
The voice was familiar as well. From a long time ago.
‘Chris? It’s Megan. Megan Brook. Eric’s friend?’
‘Oh, yes, I’m sorry. Of course.’
He recognized her now. She hadn’t changed much. She looked older — perhaps twenty-five rather than eighteen, although he realized she must be closer to his own age of thirty-two. He didn’t understand what she was doing there.
She marched into the reception area and dropped her bags. ‘Very nice,’ she said, nodding towards the swirling mural. ‘So, where is she?’
Chris couldn’t answer.
‘Don’t tell me she’s not here! We agreed we’d meet here at seven thirty. I know I’m a bit late, but she could have waited.’
‘No, she’s not here.’
Megan heard the tone of his voice, saw his face. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘She... she’s dead.’ Chris said.
‘No.’ Megan slumped back into a chair. ‘But I only spoke to her last week. When? What happened?’
‘Monday. She was murdered. In Prague.’
‘Murdered? Oh, how awful.’ Megan’s face reddened. Tears appeared in her eyes. She covered her face with her hands.
Chris didn’t know what to do. He stood awkwardly in front of her for a few moments, and then touched her arm.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Megan, sniffing. She took a deep breath. ‘It’s just such a shock.’
‘Yes, it is,’ said Chris. ‘For everyone.’
‘How did it happen?’
‘We were walking through an alley. Someone came up with a knife. It was very quick.’
‘How horrible. Oh, my God.’
‘You were meant to be meeting her now?’ Chris asked.
‘Yes. I’m supposed to be staying with her for a few days. I’ve just gotten in from Paris.’
She looked exhausted, slumped in the chair. Chris glanced down at her luggage. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I’ll find a hotel.’
‘Come back to my place,’ said Chris. ‘I have a spare room. You don’t want to spend the evening tramping round looking for a place to stay.’
Megan hesitated, and then smiled. ‘No. I guess I don’t. Thanks.’
Chris locked up, and they took a taxi from outside the office to Chris’s flat in Hampstead. Megan stared out of the window of the cab at the London streets.
Chris felt awkward. He wondered whether he had been right to invite her to stay with him. The offer had been honestly made, and Megan had accepted in the spirit it had been intended, but they hardly knew each other. Perhaps she was having second thoughts now, as she gazed blankly out of the window. Perhaps he should give her a way out: he could help her find a hotel that evening. Then he realized that would be even worse. He was being too English: an American would have had no hesitation in doing the hospitable thing.
The traffic was light, and they soon arrived at his flat. He carried her luggage to her room and she followed him into the kitchen.
‘Wine?’ he asked.
‘I’d love some.’
He opened a bottle of Australian red and poured out two large glasses.
‘Pasta OK for dinner?’
‘You don’t have to cook for me.’
‘Are you hungry?’
Megan smiled and nodded.
‘Well, then?’
‘Pasta would be great. Thanks.’
Chris put a pan of water on to boil. Megan sipped her glass of wine and examined his flat.
‘Nice place.’
Thank you. You’re lucky. The cleaner came today.’
‘Did you do all this?’
‘Yes. Or at least I paid for someone else to do it. It was a few years ago now.’ Emboldened by his first big bonus at Bloomfield Weiss, Chris had spent a considerable sum on doing up the flat. Interior walls knocked down, blondwood floorboards laid, rooms remodelled, walls repainted. He had been very proud of it until the day he had been fired, since when it had become just a place to live. In fact, in the last year or so, he had become faintly embarrassed by it. It was taste that had been purchased: much more stylish than its owner.
‘Where’s that?’ Megan asked, pointing to an eerie black and white photograph of factory chimneys clinging to an impossibly steep hillside.
‘Halifax. Where I grew up.’
‘Wow. Now I know what they mean by “dark satanic mills”.’
‘They’re not satanic any more,’ said Chris. ‘They stopped working long ago. But I like them. They’re dramatic in their own way.’
‘Alex would have appreciated it.’
Chris smiled. ‘Yes, he would. I thought of him when I bought it.’
She sat at his small kitchen table with her glass of wine.
‘Sorry I didn’t recognize you,’ said Chris.
‘It was ten years ago.’
‘But you recognized me.’
‘I was expecting you to be there.’
‘Of course. Lenka didn’t say anything to me about you coming to stay with her.’