Graham set off for work the next morning, wondering if Annalise Twelve was watching. Was she floating, invisible, above the trees or crouched down between the parked cars? And who else was watching him? Was that Kevin Alexander who sat in the parked car over the road?
He tried to settle back into his old routine of counting paces between the landmarks but found it hard to concentrate. Part of his mind was analyzing faces—was that woman familiar, hadn't that man passed by on the other side of the road ten minutes earlier?
It was the same on the tube—anyone getting on or pushing through into the carriage or hanging back by the doors. What would they do if he jumped off at Finchley Road, ran across the platform and took the next northbound train back to Harrow?
Finchley Road came and went. He'd toyed with the idea of jumping off just as the doors were closing. He'd even edged forward onto the balls of his feet, ready to spring. But something had held him back. His fear of attracting attention, his fear of upsetting his daily routine.
He walked into the Post Room thirty minutes later, glanced over towards Sharmila's desk and stopped.
Sharmila wasn't there.
Michael was. Michael hadn't worked at Westminster Street for six months, not since he'd been transferred to Greenwich.
Michael raised a well-muscled arm in acknowledgement and carried on talking. He was on the phone as usual. He spent most of the day on the phone—organizing his social life, keeping his girlfriends in line, checking all the players were available for the match on Saturday, booking squash courts, restaurants, arranging nights out. Michael lived enough lives for four people—all of them busy.
Graham waved back. And almost said hello. His mouth started to form the word but his brain kicked in and promptly closed it. He wasn't ready. Not yet. Talking to Annalise had been fun but it had been unsettling too. There was a warm protective feeling about silence. Silence couldn't hurt you. Whereas words could tear your life apart.
Graham's phone rang. A sound as frightening to Graham as the low drone of a wasp. He swung round, Michael was still on the other phone, he must have switched calls through to Graham's extension.
The phone kept ringing. Graham hovered close by, praying it would stop, wondering if he could pretend he hadn't heard it and walk out the door.
The phone rang on. Michael laughed and chatted. Graham's insides churned. He hated phone calls. All he could say was mmm for yes and uh-uh for no. And even that was a strain. His throat would invariably tighten or the person on the other end would shout at him.
But what if it was urgent? What if in five minutes' time someone came storming into the Post Room demanding to know why the phone hadn't been answered?
He lifted the receiver.
"Michael, you were supposed to be here five minutes ago. What's keeping you?"
It couldn't have been worse. Frank Gledwood. Graham didn't know what to say. A thin voice attempted a cross between a mmm and a uh-uh.
"Shit!" said Frank. "Shenaz, go and fetch Michael. There's only that moron in the Post Room and I haven't time to play twenty questions."
Graham listened, knowing that Frank hadn't even thought to hold his hand over the mouthpiece while talking to his assistant.
The phone clicked and the ringing tone purred. Shenaz would be on her way down.
Graham hated telephones.
Lunchtime came and Graham couldn't leave the building quick enough. He didn't unwind until he reached St. James's Park, found an empty seat by a stand of bushes, sat down and started to unwrap his sandwiches.
"Don't look around," said Annalise from somewhere behind him. "We have to talk. I'll be here tonight at seven. Make sure you're not followed. Take the subway as usual, lose your tail in the crowd, then double back. Scratch your head if you understand."
Graham scratched his head and fought the desire to turn around. Had Annalise received another message?
He waited to find out. Hardly daring to breathe in case he missed a word. Five seconds passed, ten, twenty.
No answer came. She'd gone.