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The fire that had driven him out of his boring, safe work ebbed over the empty weekend, leaving him with a distinct sensation of doing something ludicrous, or foolish, or mad. But he’d made the appointment, so he turned up, and when the stern lady at the desk announced, ‘MrDunnidge? DrOyede will see you now,’ Jem plucked up his courage and went in.
Aaron was writing at his desk. He didn’t look up for a second, and Jem saw that his very close-cropped hair was as dark as ever. Jem’s was starting to grey.
Finally he looked up, said, ‘Good afternoon, MrDunn—’ and stopped dead.
‘Hello, Aaron. Sorry about the subterfuge.’
Aaron stared at him for a second, mouth slightly open. ‘Jem?’
He made a movement, as though he was about to come round the desk, but didn’t. He stood, though, and held out his hand. Jem gripped it, and Aaron’s far larger hand engulfed his, warm and strong and familiar, and for a second Jem felt a lump in his throat so hard and painful that it couldn’t be borne.
‘Great Scott, man.’ Aaron surveyed him. ‘How are you? What on earth are you doing here: are you unwell? Why…’ He paused, then said, a little more slowly, ‘Why the false name?’
‘I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me. I’m not unwell.’
‘It’s been a long time.’ Aaron’s deep voice was a little vague, as though he was thinking. His gaze flicked to Jem’s foot. ‘Let’s sit down.’
Jem moved to the chair on the opposite side of the desk, then hesitated. Aaron took up his own chair and moved it so that they faced each other without furniture between them.
‘Very well,’ Aaron said. ‘I suppose this isn’t a social call. Or is it?’
‘No. I wish it was.’ He wondered whether to plunge into it, and decided to prepare the ground. ‘Have you had many letters recently?’
‘Letters. That sort?’ Jem nodded. Aaron shrugged. ‘Three or four a month, perhaps. Fewer than I used to.’
‘My God. Even Hugo only gets one or two.’
‘You’ve seen Hugo?’
‘Last week. I went to him after a letter was sent to my employers. I lost my position over it.’
‘What?’ Aaron demanded. ‘You were dismissed for a letter?’
‘More for objecting to my superior letting the rest of the office know about it. You know how it is, people scrawlingMurdereron my desk blotter, that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, Jem. I’m extremely sorry to hear it.’
‘It’s all right. I loathed the job anyway. It was tedious paper-pushing. I’ve done nothing but tedious paper-pushing since—since…’
‘I’m sorry,’ Aaron said again, his voice deep and irrationally comforting, making Jem realise just how much he needed that comfort.
He pushed the longing aside. ‘Did your superior or your colleagues receive one last week? Last Wednesday, or thereabouts? I expect it would say,Aaron Oyede is a murderer. He killed Toby Feynsham. Ask him why.Three lines, typewritten. And addressed to the head of your practice, not to you.’
‘We’re equal partners. I’ll ask; Miss Hirsch throws them away for me. Wait here.’
Aaron went out, and returned a few moments later, looking grim. He shut the door behind him. ‘Miss Hirsch is of the opinion that there was indeed one in the middle of last week, and that the wording rings a bell.’
‘Hugo’s was to his fiancée. Someone set out to cause all three of us trouble. Or, for all I know, all six of us. I don’t know about the other three yet, but I’m going to ask.’
‘You’re going to see?—’
‘Ella next,’ Jem said, watching his face. ‘Have you seen her?’
‘No.’
‘I wondered if you’d kept in touch.’
‘No. What about the others?’
