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lessened.
    The driver was standing next to his engine, looking baffled, and Theo asked him if he was “okay,” and he said, by way of answer, “I saw just the one and I thought, Well, I probably don’t need to brake for that, and then”—he made a dramatic gesture with his arms as if trying to reenact a flock of disintegrating sheep—“and then the world went white.”
    Theo was so taken by this image that it occupied his mind for the rest of the journey, which recommenced once they had transferred to another train. He imagined describing the scene to Laura, imagined her reaction—horrified and yet darkly amused. When he finally got off the train he took a cab halfway but then got out and walked. It would make him even later but Laura would be pleased.
    T heo rested for a minute on the pavement before tackling the steep stairs up to the first-floor office of Holroyd, Wyre, and Stanton. The GP was right, Laura was right, he had to lose some weight. The front door was propped open with a cast-iron doorstop. Every time Theo entered the building he admired this door to the office, it was painted a glossy dark green, and the handsome brass furniture—letter box, keyhole, lion-headed door knocker—were the original fittings. The brass plaque on the door, polished every morning by the office cleaner, announced, HOLROYD , WYRE , AND STANTON—SOLICITORS AND ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW. Theo took a deep breath and set off up the stairs.
    The inner door that led into the reception area was also—unusually—open, and as soon as Theo walked in it was obvious that something was terribly wrong. Jean Stanton’s secretary was cowering on the floor, a trail of vomit on her clothes. The receptionist, Moira, was on the phone, dictating the address of the firm with a kind of hysterical patience. She had blood in her hair and on her face and Theo thought she was injured but when he went toward her to help her she waved him away with her hand and he thought she was dismissing him until he realized she was trying to send him in the direction of the boardroom.
    Afterward, again and again, Theo pieced together the events that preceded this moment.
    Laura had just finished photocopying a land registry form when a man came into reception, a man so nondescript that afterward not one single person in Holroyd, Wyre, and Stanton could give a half-decent description of his features, and the only thing they could remember about him was that he was wearing a yellow golfing sweater.
    The man seemed confused and disoriented, and when Moira, the receptionist, said, “Can I help you, sir?” he said, “Mr. Wyre, where is he?” in a high, strained voice, and Moira, alarmed by the man’s manner, said, “I’m afraid he’s late back from court, do you have an appointment? Can
I
help with anything?” but the man took off down the corridor, running in an odd way, like a child, and charged into the boardroom where the partners were having a lunchtime meeting, although not Theo, who was still on his way back from the station (although he had forgotten about the meeting).
    Laura had been sent out earlier to buy sandwiches for the meeting—prawn cocktail, cheese and coleslaw, roast beef, tuna and sweet corn, and a chicken and salad (no mayonnaise) for her father because he really needed to think more about his weight and she had thought affectionately what a dope he was because he’d forgotten his meeting when he’d suggested lunch to her this morning. The sandwiches and coffee and notebooks were all laid out on the mahogany boardroom table (oval to match the shape of the room) but no one had sat down at the table yet. David Holroyd was standing in front of the fireplace, telling one of the junior partners about the “bloody fantastic” holiday he’d just returned from, when the stranger rushed into the room and from somewhere, probably from beneath the yellow golfing sweater he was wearing, but no one was sure, pulled out a bowie knife and sliced through