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Then there’s an email from her mum, subject line Weekend of the 12/13?
Han, lovely to talk to you the other day. Quick question—how would the weekend of the 12–13th be for a flying visit? I’ve got those clothes I was talking to you about and you might as well have them before you have to buy new. Reduce, reuse, recycle! Mum x
Hannah suppresses a smile and is about to tap back a quick response when a new email alert flashes up on her phone, and the sender ID makes her stomach flip. It’s from Geraint Williams, and the subject line says Update.
Ignoring her mother’s message, she opens up Geraint’s, feeling the baby inside her give a little shuddering jolt as she does. Her nerves are affecting them both.
Dear Hannah, hope you are well and that our conversation the other day didn’t stir up too many difficult memories.
I’m sorry to email again, but you did ask me to let you know if I found out anything I felt you should know and—well, I’ve found something. Someone, in fact—November Rain. I think you should meet her as she has some information about the autopsy results that could be important. I’m nervous about putting too much in writing—and I think it would be better for you to hear it from the horse’s mouth anyway as you may have questions.
I know this is short notice, but I wondered if you could make today? The reason is, November is London-based, but happens to be in Edinburgh at the moment for work, however she is flying back this evening. So this is probably your last chance to meet face-to-face for a few weeks.
Please let me know. I am also in Edinburgh all day today and could make any time. November is working, but tells me she could make space for a meeting anytime before 5 p.m., when she leaves for her flight.
Please let me know.
Geraint
Fuck. Hannah closes down the phone and stares off into the middle distance, chewing her nail furiously. Fuck. Geraint probably doesn’t know what he’s asking—he would assume she has Saturdays off like everyone else. And yet—a chance to find out what happened at the inquest, a chance to discover whether April really was pregnant, maybe even who the father was—who is this November? Is she a pathologist? Hannah certainly can’t google. The name sounds completely improbable—more like a drag queen than a forensic expert, although she supposes even pathologists can have Axl Rose fans for parents. Even so, Dr. Rain would seem more appropriate for a professional contact. November sounds like a friend—or a colleague. Maybe it’s another journalist. The thought makes her uneasy. Is she being lured into an interview she doesn’t want to give?
Hi Geraint, she writes back, and then stops, pondering her next move. I am actually working today, could you tell me a little bit more about this? Is there a reason you can’t explain over the phone? Hannah.
There’s a pause, and she’s just about to return to her mother’s email when a reply pops into her inbox.
Sorry, Hannah, I totally understand but I don’t actually have all the info myself, it’s sort of sensitive. Plus I think November really wants to meet you and explain in person. Understandably.
Hannah shuts her eyes, feeling a mix of frustration and annoyance, but there’s not much she can do short of refuse to meet this person, and there’s no denying it, she does want to find out about the autopsy results. If April really was pregnant, this could change everything. At last she opens her eyes again and presses reply, trying to quash her irritation. No point in antagonizing Geraint before she has even met this mysterious person.
Okay. It’s a bit tricky to get away, but I could come and meet you and November late morning. It would have to be fairly brief, though—I can’t leave my colleague alone in the shop for too long. Where would suit? Somewhere close to the bookshop if possible. Hannah.
There. If things unfold in a way that she doesn’t like, she has a cast-iron excuse for cutting and running. She will have to clear it with Robyn, but late morning is when she usually takes her lunch hour on Saturdays—the shop doesn’t get busy until around twelve, and they have a Saturday girl called Ailis who comes in at eleven and can handle the till.
The reply pings back almost before the email has left her outbox.
Great. 11.30 okay? November is staying at the Grand Caledonia Hotel just off the Royal Mile so perhaps we could meet there. They have a coffee shop in the foyer. Do you know it?
Hannah raises an eyebrow. She does indeed know the Grand Caledonia. It’s easily the most expensive hotel in Edinburgh. Not quite what she had imagined a journalist would choose for work. Geraint, for example, looks more like a Holiday Inn type of chap. Still, it’s only a ten-minute walk and the coffee is certain to be good.
Sure, she types back. I’ll see you there.
* * *
WHEN SHE ARRIVES AT THE shop Robyn is already there—she opens up on Saturdays, as it’s Hannah’s night to stay late—and when Hannah explains that she’d like to take an early lunch to have coffee with a friend, she nods, breezily unconcerned.
“Yeah, sure, no probs at all. Ailis will be in by then so we can easily hold the fort. Take your time.”
It’s raining hard, a miserable day in fact, so trade is slow and at 11:20 Hannah grabs her coat and her umbrella from the staff room and tells Robyn and Ailis she won’t be long. The rain increases as she hurries towards the Lawnmarket, and she arrives at the Grand Caledonia looking like a drowned rat.
Under the gilt-edged canopy she stands, shivering for a moment and shaking off her umbrella as the doorman holds the huge shiny black door open for her, and for an instant she has a sharp flashback to the night at the private members’ club in Oxford, the kindly old doorman offering to call her a taxi on April’s father’s dime. She shuts her eyes. She can’t think about this right now. She’s already regretting turning up for this without probing Geraint further. If she walks in with her head full of Oxford memories and grief…
“Can I take your umbrella, ma’am?” the doorman asks, and Hannah shakes her head, knowing she’ll end up leaving it.
“No, thank you, I’d rather hang on to it. Is that okay?”
“Of course.” He hands her a plastic sleeve and she slides the umbrella inside, reflecting that even if the umbrella doesn’t drip, she certainly will, and enters the hotel.
The foyer is vast and marble and gold, like a banking hall, with an enormous chandelier in the center. A huge staircase winds up to the right, and glancing up, Hannah sees that some kind of photo shoot is taking place—a giant gold umbrella is reflecting light up the stairs, where someone is clearly having their picture taken against the sweep of the staircase.
