It read: 5.30 a.m. Gone to bed. Please wake me at 10.30. Coffee in big blue and white jar. Beware hot water very hot.Julie, wearing a red towelling robe she had found hanging behind the door, padded around the apartment. It was spacious: four rooms, kitchen and bathroom. One room was shut. Presumably he was asleep in there.She stood and looked at the door and tried to make sense of her scrambled memories of yesterday. A corpse, a cop, several taxis, a revolver as big as a starting cannon, pain, anger, steamy heat, bustle, bad temper, night, lies, exhaustion. They made no sense. Nothing made sense at that moment except her stomach. It sent a loud, clear message. She went back to the kitchen, found coffee, bread and eggs, and cooked breakfast, slowly because the plaster cast made her virtually one-handed.Sunlight flooded the room. There was a balcony with scarlet geraniums and a view over Lisbon so huge that it made her breathe deeply just to look at it: a flood of angled, red-tiled roofs falling away to the glittering Tagus.
