It was Inspector Clarke. He began with an apology. “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you,” he said. “Do you have time to grab a coffee?” After agreeing to meet at a small cafe just a few blocks away, I hurried back upstairs to get my coat and scarf. I had a sinking feeling that I was pushing Alan to the limit by leaving the office yet again. Clarke was already at a table when I got there. “Thanks for seeing me,” I said. “Not a problem. I got you a coffee. I hope it’s what you wanted. How are you doing?” How was I doing? I couldn’t begin to answer that question. Every night, I dreamed about Rebecca, strange disjointed dreams that left me sweating and breathless. We’d been together in a car, driving in circles around the Campanile in Florence. Swimming in a deep blue pool with eerie black shapes lurking at the bottom. Climbing an infinite number of stairs to the top of a massive building that looked out over a city that wasn’t London.
