He checked the address on his phone again, and then checked the number of the building. It was the same. He punched the button for the flat number she’d given him and waited for a reply through the intercom. But all he got was the buzz of the door as it opened. The lobby was ten degrees cooler than the outside, floored in granite, full of mirrors and plants. He’d been in shabbier five-star hotels. It didn’t fit in with what he knew about Felicity at all, that she would live in a place like this. This was the sort of building that wanker City-types lived in, or that sat mostly empty as pieds-à-terre for wealthy foreign nationals. In the lift going up, he thought again how little he knew about Felicity Bloom. He didn’t know her new last name. He knew none of her friends. Nothing about her current life, really, other than that her mother had passed away a couple of years ago and that she was married to a man she didn’t talk about, and that she drew children’s books. He’d picked one up in a shop a couple of days ago: Igor the Owl and the Earwig Enigma.
