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chapter 44
alex
My expensive laptop is exactly where it should be, on my desk in my study.
So, too, are the small diamond studs I stupidly left on the windowsill the other day, because I’d spent so long on the phone talking to a client they were irritating my earlobes. My office window is securely locked. My old case files are stacked neatly on the bookshelf beneath it, their corners perfectly lined up, undisturbed.
But the stand containing my pens is on the left of my keyboard, not the right. I always line up my mouse with the edge of its mouse mat; that, too, is in the wrong place.
No self-respecting thief leaves behind diamonds and electronics. Whoever broke into my house was clearly looking for something else.
Information?
I’ve caught journalists going through my bins and intercepting my post more than once, though none of them have yet broken into my home. But this could also be connected to one of the legal cases I’m working on, which worries me more. I represent several women who have a great deal to fear. One sought asylum here in the UK after her wealthy Pakistani husband and son murdered her daughter in an honour killing for refusing to marrythe man picked out for her. Another Yemeni girl lives in constant fear for her life because she’s gay. Both are sequestered in safe houses here in London. I’m their lawyer of record: someone may have come here, looking for their addresses.
But all the case files I’m currently working on are still in place on my desk and show no sign of being disturbed.
When I check my laptop, I find its sophisticated security system – installed by my law firm – hasn’t been breached either. Perhaps whoever searched my office didn’t have time to find what they were looking for before the fox roused me out of bed.
Knowing someone was in my home, going through my things, should freak me out more than it does. Now would be the logical time for a panic attack, but I’m immune to the normal sense of violation most people feel after a burglary: for more than two years now, I’ve been public property. There isn’t a corner of my life that hasn’t been exposed and laid bare to judgement.
I have no privacy left to invade.
The absence of fear leaves room for straightforward curiosity. Who broke in and what were they hoping to find?
There’s no point calling the police. A break-in during which nothing was taken probably doesn’t even warrant a case number, never mind an investigation. Nor do I want the publicity that would attend the inevitable leak to the press. I’ll figure this one out myself. I have a hunch that if I discover what was taken, it’ll lead me to thewho.
I sit down at my desk and carefully go through each of my files and folders. I find nothing missing, not a page out of place, in any of them.
Except one.
I probably wouldn’t even have noticed the discrepancy had I not been on high alert, looking out for it. But as soon as I open the folder I spot the paperclips collating my notes are on the left-hand corner of the collected pages, where mostpeople would put it, rather than the right, as is my habit.
This break-in was never about work or getting a story. It’s about Lottie. It’s always about Lottie.
Quickly, I flip through the pages of notes to the back of the folder where I tucked the photograph of my sister and me eating ice-creams on the lawn with the housekeeper from South Weald House.
It’s missing.
My pulse quickens. I check the folder again, and then around my desk, in case I’ve dropped it, but it’s definitely gone. I’ve rattled enough cages and turned over enough stones for someone to have broken cover.
Jack may not believe there’s a connection between Lottie and South Weald House, but I’m certain of it.
And there’s only one person who can help me find it.
I’m not surprised when Harriet’s mobile goes straight to voicemail. My sister has always been an early riser, especially since she moved to the Shetlands, but our communications over the past two years have been sporadic at best. When we do talk, we don’t seem to know what to say to each other.
If we ever did.
‘It’s me,’ I say, as soon as her recorded greeting ends. ‘Look, I thought I might come up and stay with you for a few days. It’ll be nice to spend time together.’
I pause. Is that enough?
‘I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon,’ I add. ‘I’ll text you when I’m in Orkney.’
Slipping my phone into the pocket of my sweatpants, I go into the kitchen and insert a K-cup into the coffee machine.One, I think.
A stream of rich Colombian dark roast hisses into my mug.Two.
I settle myself on a kitchen stool.
Three …
