She was in a coffee bar on Holloway Road. She had a drink in front of her which she hadn’t touched. While she was waiting she looked, for the hundredth time, at the postcard that had been sent to her almost two weeks before. Her eyes travelled across it. The picture was the kind you might see on a calendar or a greetings card: just a vase of red roses. Mandy’s finger had traced a path across the vase and touched each of the flowers, trying to find some meaning in them. Then there were the words on the other side: ‘Please don’t tell anyone that you saw me. I will contact you.’ No signature, no other sign of the sender, and yet Mandy knew exactly who had written it. She looked up and saw Debbie coming into the coffee shop. She was closing an umbrella up and shaking droplets of water around. She came straight across, leaving her wet umbrella by the chair. ‘I’ll get a drink and join you,’ she said. ‘Won’t be a minute.’ Debbie was wearing black clothes again: black jeans and a leather jacket.
