‘Bridget Lafferty,’ she said. ‘Nice to meet you,’ and it sounded genuine.

  I was utterly dumbfounded. My mind was filled with alternate universes, hypnotism, hallucinations, or that it was all a terrible dream. My instincts were screaming at me to get out of here now while I still could. Sadly, all that took a few seconds and by the time I pulled myself together again, Bridget and the world had moved on.

  ‘Shall we go into my office?’

  She had one of those glassed-in affairs. Something that gave her a good view over the general office and the filing cave behind it. There would be no hiding anything from her. There was a desk – suspiciously tidy from my point of view – with the usual desk furniture: in- and out-trays, pen holder, desk calendar, a screen – nothing I wouldn’t expect to see. The only solid wall was behind her, with a door in it, flanked by three filing cabinets. There was just the faintest whiff of Chanel No. 5 about the place, triggering memories I really didn’t need just at this moment.

  Bridget took a file from under her arm. ‘Let’s just check I’ve got the right person, shall we? I once got all the way through an interview and it was only at the end, when she produced her documents for me to pass on to our personnel department, that I realised I’d been interviewing the wrong candidate.’

  She smiled, inviting me to laugh with her, so, because I hadn’t a clue what to do next, I did. ‘Whatever did you do?’

  ‘I discreetly put down the file, distracted her, picked up the correct file, smiled and carried on as if nothing had happened.’

  ‘Impressive,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to look away while you check?’

  ‘No need.’ She looked down at a list of names pinned to the front of her file. ‘I’m only guessing, of course, but I don’t think you’re Thomas Coulter.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I am, either. Maxine Forrest.’

  She ostentatiously ticked off my name on her list of four. I was one from the end – the last being Thomas Coulter, presumably.

  ‘I’m head of Admin Services. Which, sadly, means that everything that goes wrong is my fault. My department covers everything admin-related. I apologise for my office but it is actually my choice. Senior staff all hang out on the top floor and this is as far from them as I could get.’

  Well, I could relate to that.

  She smiled. ‘Can I ask how you like to be called?’

  ‘Maxine is fine.’

  ‘Take a seat, Maxine.’

  She closed the door behind us, cutting off all the building sounds. This office was clearly soundproof. I made myself comfortable, and bearing in mind I’d come for a clerical job where organisational skills would be a key qualification, I ostentatiously placed my notebook and pen on the desk between us.

  She busied herself setting out her papers thus giving me a chance to study her properly. Yes – the same dark hair, cut in a glossy bob. The same vivid blue eyes. I put her age as younger than me – although I’ve jumped around the timeline so often I’ve really no idea what my true age is any longer. She was slightly taller and slightly thinner but most people are. You’d really have to work at it to be any shorter and fatter than me.

  She looked very smart. I was conscious of my cheap suit and shoes. Her crisp white blouse was uncreased – and clean. No idea how she’d managed that. Anything I wear that’s white usually has a shelf life of about twelve minutes. On a good day. I wasn’t going to look down at my own shirt. I didn’t want to know.

  She wore a tight black skirt and comfortable walking shoes. Her jacket hung off a peg behind her and smart court shoes were lined neatly against the wall underneath. Everything was tidy and in its place.

  She smiled again. ‘So – Maxine, can you tell me a little bit about yourself.’

  It was all on my application form. She was checking I was literate and could string two words together. I gave her a potted version of what she’d read. And I didn’t make the mistake of going on too long. Five or six sentences covered my historical and archaeological experience, all drawn from my early life before I joined St Mary’s. I talked up some of it but only a little. Most of it was genuine.

  After I’d finished, she was silent for quite a long time, frowning. Bugger. Surely I hadn’t blown it already.

  ‘Maxine, forgive me, I have to ask. You do know you’re massively overqualified for this job, don’t you? Why haven’t you applied for a research job upstairs? They’re always looking for people like you. You wouldn’t even have to go in at entry level. Not with your experience. And this is not a permanent position, you know. Six months – possibly ten – but certainly no more.’

  I smiled. ‘I know, but research isn’t the sort of job I’m looking for. I’m looking for something quiet and simple that I can switch off from at the end of the day.’

  ‘Well, we can give you quiet and simple but again – why?’

  ‘I travel,’ I said. ‘That’s what I really like to do. I go all over the place. When my money’s run out, I come back to this country, find a nice job with no stress and no responsibilities. Then I work like stink to get some more money under my belt – that usually takes around six months – and then I shoot off on my travels again.’

  ‘Anywhere in particular?’

  ‘Not really. Wherever the fancy takes me. I usually avoid large centres of population.’ I patted my hair. ‘Sometimes I’ve been a long way from basic facilities.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, I did wonder, but didn’t like to say anything just in case . . .’

  ‘In case I was suffering from a bad case of mange.’

  ‘Something like that, yes. Did you do it yourself?’

  ‘No, I’m blessed with a short-sighted flatmate with blunt scissors and delusions of adequacy.’

  ‘Well – it’ll grow.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ I said, gloomily.

  ‘Just in time for your friend to hack it all off again with a ceremonial khopesh.’

  ‘Please don’t give him ideas.’

  She laughed. This seemed to be going well.

  And then the phone bleeped.

  I jumped a mile.

  She frowned. ‘I’m sorry – I said to hold all calls. Will you excuse me, please?’

  I nodded, hoping for a moment to get myself back together again.

  She listened for a while and then said, ‘When? And where? . . . OK, got it.’

  She yanked a piece of paper out of her top drawer, scribbled LC 0900 20/05 and tore the sheet in half. Right there and then. Right in front of me. I can’t tell you how weird it felt to see that message actually created. To know that somehow it would find its way into the pod for Markham to find and for me to write all over in my own blood.

  I actually felt a little queasy.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, putting down the phone.

  I smiled weakly and we picked up where we’d left off. As if I hadn’t just had my second massive shock of the last ten minutes.

  I cleared my throat. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t seem overeager but I have to tell you this job is perfect for me. A temporary contract suits me very well. That way I don’t inconvenience my kind employers when I decide to push off and explore Nepal. Or Iceland. Or Japan.’

  ‘But how will you manage for accommodation? How can you afford to live here in London on what we pay?’

  ‘I’m flat-sitting. A friend of mine is married. An unwise seven-year contract that I suspect isn’t working. Well, I know isn’t working. She wants to be able to return to her flat – you know, when the contract is up. She doesn’t want strangers in the place so I flat-sit for her when I’m in the country. It works really well for both of us. I get a reasonable place to live, she knows her property is safe and maintained, and there won’t be a problem getting the tenants out when she calls time on her marriage.’

  She closed my file. ‘Oh my God – can I have your life?’

  We both laughed. I took a chance. ‘That depends on whether I get this job or not.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you a little bit about Insight while you’re still keen. We’re quite small – nowhere near as big as bully boy across the street – the BM – but we’re very prestigious.

  ‘There are three main departments: Admin – which is us; Policy – which comprises the professional staff and the mystique with which they surround themselves; and Finance. They’re in a separate building in Chelsea and we never see them which suits everyone.

  ‘Obviously, we in Admin do most of the work. We’re responsible for reception, including the switchboard. We manage appointments, people’s diaries, arrange meetings and conferences. We sort out travel arrangements, itineraries, tickets, visas – everything. This is a filing post but you will occasionally be asked to cover elsewhere.’

  I nodded.

  ‘The main Admin offices are on the second floor, along with Procurement, who like to regard themselves as belonging to Finance. I’ve had to tell them several times that they’re part of Admin and to get over it. And then there’s the jewel in the crown – filing.’

  She waved her hand in the direction of the giant cave. ‘Our filing system. It’s massive. It probably distorts time and space. We call it the Cave. We haven’t actually lost anyone in there yet but it’s only a matter of time. In fact, hacking your way through rainforests or navigating featureless deserts will have been ideal experience for this job.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ I said. ‘Unknowingly, I’ve been training for this my whole life.’

  We both laughed again.

  ‘It’s a simple system,’ she said. ‘Files are numbered and arranged in order of century, geographical location, event and date. For instance,’ she unlocked her top drawer and pulled out a pink file, ‘Magna Carta would be 13th century, area 044 – which is England – followed by the date. Which gives us 13/044/15/06/1215 and then the actual number of the file – one, two, three, twenty-seven or whatever. The file is then cross-referenced with anything a researcher thinks is relevant – say, King John, Runnymede, the Great Charter, William Marshal.’ She held up the file again. ‘As you can see, this is file twenty-four.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘I should perhaps say that my speciality is Ancient Civilisations, with secondary and tertiary areas being British and European Middle Ages, and the Tudors. I’m amazingly ignorant about anything after the 17th century. I’m not sure how accurate I could be when it comes to file numbering.’

  ‘You can relax. All that sort of thing is done upstairs. The researchers take responsibility for the setting up, assembling and numbering of files. All we do is retrieve and deliver the files themselves, keep the shelves in order, make sure everything’s accessible and keep track of everything taken out. We’re very protective of our material.’

  She replaced the file and locked the drawer. ‘Another import­ant thing. We operate a tidy-desk policy here. You clear your desk at the end of every day, lock all your material away and hand the key to me.’ She gestured at a locked key box on the wall behind her.

  I blinked at the Cave again. ‘What have you got in there? The Bank of England gold reserves?’

  ‘Much more valuable than that. Original documents, signatures, seals, some artefacts and so on. Not world-shattering stuff by any means, but it would be valuable to someone.’

  I nodded. ‘Not to cast any aspersions but the British Museum is within spitting distance.’

  ‘And we do occasionally,’ she said. ‘Spit, I mean. When they pip us to the post on something we particularly wanted or use their massive clout to try and bully us. On the other hand, Insight is small, agile, innovative and fast. We don’t do too badly.’

  I’ve always known the academic world is cold-blooded and cut-throat but this was a revelation. ‘And how do they respond to that?’

  ‘A frigid memo in a dead language usually.’

  ‘They don’t send the boys round to break your legs?’

  She drew herself up. ‘We at Insight do not respond to threats.’

  ‘And I bet you have your own team of leg-breakers.’

  ‘Of course we do – what respectable academic establishment doesn’t?’

  ‘I am entranced by this fresh insight – see what I did there? – into the working methods of respectable national institutions.’

  She said darkly, ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘In that case, sign me up. I’m a dab hand with medieval weapons. I could knock you up a trebuchet out of two desks and a fax machine. And I’m not a bad shot, either.’

  We both laughed again. For her it was just another interview. I was pretty certain cold sweat was gluing me to my seat and I’d never be able to get up when the time came. Because I was talking to a dead woman. And I really liked her.

  My impression of Bridget Lafferty – right up until the moment she tried to kill me – was that she was a lovely person. Warm, open, friendly, smiling, intelligent, sympathetic . . . the lot. You knew instinctively she’d be a great boss, going in to bat for her people, fighting her corner for funding . . . and she liked me. There was a connection. You can always tell.

  ‘One more thing,’ Bridget continued. ‘No electronics are allowed in the working areas. Or handbags, either. Lockers are provided in the staff area behind reception. You won’t even need your purse. You’ll be issued with an ID card. Simply swipe at the vending machines or when the sandwich man comes round and it’ll be deducted automatically from your pay at the end of the month.’

  ‘So, to be clear – nothing comes into the building?’

  ‘Nothing past reception, no. And nothing goes out, either. No one is allowed to take work home. Occasional spot checks are carried out at the door by security staff. Any of this likely to be a problem?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  She began to stack her papers together.

  ‘Any questions?’

  I flicked open my notebook, to the first of my prepared questions.

  ‘Is there a dress code?’

  ‘Oh, yes, thank you for reminding me. We walk miles in this job. Miles and miles. It’s a big building and the lifts don’t work half the time. Wear comfortable shoes. In fact – Top Tip for the day . . .’

  I hope I didn’t jump. For a moment it could have been Markham talking.

  ‘Top Tip?’

  ‘Bring in a second pair and change after lunch. Something with a different heel height eases the strain on your feet and ankles.’

  ‘Good to know.’

  ‘Otherwise, apart from no jeans or leggings, you can wear whatever you like. Make sure it’s self-cleaning. We have extensive filter systems in the Cave, but it’s still dusty. You’ll be covered in it by the end of the day. Am I putting you off?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Nothing I wasn’t expecting.’

  ‘You’ll be paid at entry level, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘Your wages will go into your bank account on the last day of every month. HR will need the usual two pieces of photo ID in line with government regulations. Your citizen’s ID card is acceptable, together with passport, driving licence, NI card, anything like that. And we’ll require verification of your address from the council. All the usual stuff. Still interested?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Very much so. It sounds the ideal job for me. I hope I’m the ideal person for the job.’

  ‘Well, my main concern was your overqualification or that you’d misinterpreted the job description, but both of those misgivings have been addressed. If I offered you the job, would you accept?’

  ‘Like a shot.’

  ‘I have one more person to see but we can let you know yes or no by the end of the day.’ She stood up. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘All right.’ I stood up. Or rather, I peeled myself from my seat. I was certain my face was glistening with sweat. I could only hope she’d put it down to interview nerves.

  ‘Nice to have met you,’ she said, smiling.

  Dammit – I liked her. A lot.

  ‘And you,’ I said.

  ‘Just let me check I have your contact details . . . yes, it’s all here.’ She extended her hand. ‘Thank you for coming today.’

  ‘Thank you for seeing me.’

  ‘I’ll introduce you to Eddie who will show you out.’ She lowered her voice. ‘It’s not a toupee.’

  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Who should I congratu­late on Eddie’s non-toupee-wearing status?

  Eddie was the guy sitting opposite the empty desk – potentially mine, I hoped. He didn’t stand up.

  Bridget had lied to me. He was wearing a toupee. He had to be. No one could have hair like that. Two-tone. A grey fringe at the back and hanging around his ears with a strange, nut-brown thatch of a completely different texture on top of his head. It had to be a toupee.

  ‘This is Eddie Middleditch. Eddie, could you show Maxine out, please.’

  Smoothly, he blanked his screen, stood up and, without waiting for me, headed for the door.

  I glanced uncertainly at Bridget.

  ‘He’s not very chatty,’ she said. ‘Bye.’

  I scooted after him.

  As I reached the stairs, I looked back.

  Bridget had returned to her office and was talking animatedly on the phone. As I watched her, she picked up the piece of paper and stared down at it. Given where I’d found it, I couldn’t help a twist of unease. I was just turning away when she looked up and saw me watching. For one moment we looked at each other. Then she smiled, gave me a small wave and turned away.

  ‘I think I’ve got the job,’ I said to Markham when I met him on the steps of the British Museum – which, I might add, I was seeing through new eyes these days.

  ‘So I should hope,’ he said. ‘You’d really have had to work at it to screw that one up.’

  ‘Actually, I very nearly did,’ I said. I looked around and then sat beside him on the step. ‘We’re in the right place, anyway. It’s definitely them.’

  ‘You were only inside half an hour. You can’t possibly know that.’

  I lowered my voice. ‘Bridget Lafferty – who interviewed me – is the woman who tried to kill us at Home Farm. The one who fell down the stairs with me.’

  He stared. To the uninitiated it simply appeared as if he’d gone into a light trance, but I knew better.

 

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