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has asked me to let you know that she will give your request for an interview serious consideration. To help her in her decision, she invites you to forward through me a copy of your CV, a list of previous publications and a synopsis of your proposed biography of Archibald Lunan.
    Regards
    Foster James
    Niles, James and Worthing
    He wondered why he had lied to George Meikle about Christie having already granted him an interview. He’d sent the requested documents six weeks ago. They would confirm his credentials, the scholarly nature of his interest. Would that be enough?
    Murray’s phone chimed with news of a new text. He drew it from his pocket and watched the tiny electronic envelope twirl and open, half-anticipating a self-justifying missive from his brother.
    Where are you?
    There were people standing further down the carriage. To get up would mean losing his seat, so he dialled where he sat. He expected her voicemail, but Rachel picked up on the third ring. He said, ‘Hi, it’s me.’
    ‘I wondered if you’d get my message. I’d like to see you.’
    ‘I’d like to see you too.’
    ‘Good.’ Her voice was all business. ‘Where are you?’
    ‘I don’t like to say.’
    ‘I don’t have much time, Murray, Fergus has got his big deal of a dinner party later.’
    ‘I’m on the train.’
    ‘Heading where?’
    ‘Home.’
    ‘Can we meet at your office?’
    He hated meeting her there, disliked the risk, the clash of associations.
    ‘Okay, when?’
    ‘When can you make it?’
    Murray glanced at the display above the carriage door. They were approaching Croy.
    ‘I’ll jump in a cab at Queen Street and be with you in thirty minutes.’
    ‘Good.’
    She cut the connection without saying goodbye. Outside, the train window started to speck with rain.

Chapter Five
    MURRAY’S TINY OFFICE was almost, but not quite, dark. Enough light shone in from the streetlamp beyond the trees for him to see Rachel Houghton’s features soften. A blast of hail shot against the window and Rachel’s pupils widened, edging nearer, but still too self-aware to be there yet. Murray matched his rhythm to the shadows cutting across the room, blessing whatever procurer of office furniture had managed to issue him with a desk of exactly the right height. He clasped Rachel’s naked rump, her arms tightened around him and he lifted her from the desk. She gasped and raised her lips to his. Her nipples rubbed against his chest, smooth and hard, sweat-slick. Rachel groaned. Her body stiffened, pelvis pressed down into his. Murray felt the soft leather of her shoes, the spike of their stilettos as they spurred him on.
    ‘No,’ he said, ‘don’t or . . .’
    Her ankles gripped him tighter. Murray felt a draught touch his exposed rear and a thin slice of light cut into the room, illuminating Rachel’s face, her eyes slitting against the sudden brightness, looking beyond him to the opening door. Murray felt her hands pushing him away. He followed her gaze, unsure of what was happening, and saw the intruder standing in the doorway, face shadowed in the gloom of the room. Murray heard him release a soft shuddering sigh akin to the groan that had escaped his own lips only a moment before.
    ‘Fuck!’ Murray’s curse acted like a sniper’s near-miss. The figure darted swiftly away. Murray extricated himself and stumbled into the hallway, almost catching the door before it closed. He shouted something as he ran, some bark of protest, his unfastened shirt flapping open, the air of the darkened corridor cold against his chest. But whoever it was had vanished, lost in the murky hallways that made up the old buildings. The only comfort Murray had was that he’d remembered to hold onto his trousers instead of letting them ambush him by the ankles and send him sprawling, like the comedy lover he so obviously was.
    ‘I’ve no idea who it was. Probably a porter doing his rounds.’ Rachel stepped behind the desk and began to pull on her abandoned