He was going to be late meeting Wendy. Then an impulse overwhelmed him and he crossed the road and hauled on the brass pull of Number 12. He held his breath and listened. No music. No sound. Nothing. He was about to turn away when a noise from within made him linger. The door opened. ‘Can I help you?’ The woman peered at Brook dubiously. Her voice had a heavy Scandinavian lilt. She looked about fifty years old with short blonde hair, tinted to disguise any grey, wide, clear grey eyes and a clear complexion. She was still a handsome woman and must once have been a great beauty. She held a hand over her eyes to shield them from the low sun. ‘Is this Professor Sorenson’s house?’ ‘It is.’ ‘Right.’ Brook was hesitant. He hadn’t expected the house to still be Sorenson’s. ‘I…used to be a friend of his…it was a while ago. I heard the news and came to pay my respects.’ ‘That’s very good of you,’ she said without gratitude. She was suspicious, uneasy, gripping the door with one hand.
