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my chair. You’ll all hate me.’
    ‘He runs up the stairs like a child,’ Mrs Becker said, poking a finger towards Jack. ‘Me, I walk the one flight. Can’t wait for the wretched lift.’
    ‘I promise to use the lift if it means we can meet,’ Jack said.
    Blimey, I sound desperate , he thought instantly. It was true he hadn’t really connected with a woman in a long time. Oh, he’d dated often enough — too much, in fact — but hadn’t enjoyed any woman’s company enough over the course of an evening to want to see her again. But here was Sophie, face shiny and clear of make-up, daggy tracksuit, hair tied up messily, sitting in a wheelchair and talking to them from an awkward position, and in less than a minute or two he’d decided he seriously wanted to meet her again.
    ‘I’ll hold you to that. Nice seeing you — I’m very glad to know who my neighbours are,’ she said to Mrs Becker and gave him a final glance.
    Jack wanted to watch that smile blaze all night, but instead he turned and guided Mrs Becker away.
    ‘Now there’s someone who eats her parsley,’ Mrs Becker muttered as the door of the lift closed on herself and Jack.
    He didn’t know whether to be confused or amused. He opted for poor hearing. ‘Pardon me?’
    ‘The teeth — beautiful, no? Lots of calcium. Good skin.’
    He gave her a bemused look. ‘Goodnight, Mrs Becker, I’m glad we solved the problem,’ he said, grateful that his floor arrived swiftly. ‘My best to Mr Becker too.’

    ‘Ja, thank you.’
    Jack returned to his apartment, took the phone off the hook and turned his mobile on to silent, then felt guilty and returned it to outdoors mode. He poured himself a slug of the riesling that was no longer quite as chilled, banished all thoughts of the case and instead focused his mind on Sophie Fenton and how he might contrive to meet her again.

3
    They’d always been early risers, but now they were nearly sixty both of them seemed to need even less sleep. They were usually wide awake by four and got up at first bird’s peep, around five. Clare sighed as she felt the warmth of her husband leave the bed to follow his usual ritual of ablutions before heading downstairs for the first cuppa of the day.
    She often wondered what their hurry was these days. There was nothing to rush downstairs for since Garvan had retired a year or so ago. His health had forced him to leave work much earlier than he should, but he’d been given a great send-off. Everyone loved Garvan and the company was sad to see one of its most loyal employees leave. She was thrilled though. Unlike many women, who found their husbands got underfoot once they retired, Clare was happy to have more time to enjoy their son and stay busy together. Her parents had left them pretty well set up: they weren’t wealthy but they were hardly struggling. Life in retirement was good.
    ‘What time is it?’ she mumbled, finally finding the courage to brave the cold, unwrap the quilt fromaround her legs and move to the bathroom where her husband was just finishing shaving.
    She’d always wanted an ensuite bathroom, but it hadn’t worked out that way, what with Peter’s education, giving him the money for his first flat, and then helping him to buy that silly vintage car he loved so much. Perhaps now they could make some improvements — now they had the time and some savings to play with. Clare sighed with quiet pleasure. Peter was well set up and everything they’d worked so hard to provide for him was paying off. She even sensed an engagement in the air and couldn’t imagine she would be any happier once it was made formal.
    ‘It’s nearing six, love,’ Garvan answered. ‘You don’t have to be up, though. Stay in bed, I’ll bring you a tea.’
    ‘No,’ she said, ‘I might as well get going. I want to start working on the cake.’
    ‘Is that the one for the McInerneys?’
    ‘Yes. They’ve ordered a fourth tier now, so I have to adjust all my weights and