Even the piles on the faded green sofa threatened to crush him. What do they say? If you haven’t looked at something in over a year, you probably don’t need it? He felt that way, he should throw it all into the bin. He could always re-type a file he needed, couldn’t he? He sighed and went to sit down. The seat squeaked out a response. Rolling forward to turn on his computer, he crushed a few papers under the wheels of his chair.

Opening a search engine, Theo typed the words Why Run Backwards You’ll Vomit and waited to see what the Internet could tell him. It surprised him that the phrase was well known, a mnemonic used for indoor telecommunication wiring.

There was a knock at the door. Dorland walked into the room and shut the door behind him. “Have the trees been shaving in here again?”

“Always a witty response with you, smart arse. Don’t make me make this your next assignment.” Theo’s arm swept the room. “Have you found something for me, Dorland?”

“As far as I know, Mr. Tipring has never been married nor had children. He worked as an electrician under the name Tipring Electricians, but I believe he worked alone. He wasn’t rich but made enough for a single man to live comfortably.”

Theo nodded. “So really, we have nothing. I hope CCTV gives us something. Did you know, Dorland, that Why Run Backwards You’ll Vomit helps telecommunication personnel remember the colors white, red, black, yellow, and violet when they’re wiring a house? The sequence of second group colors can be remembered with the mnemonic: BOGBRuSh, which stands for blue, orange, green, brown, and slate. It’s part of a twenty-five-pair code.”

“It’s a code?” Dorland asked. “That’s funny.”

Theo knew Dorland mentioned the code because of Sophia Evans. In his last major case he had to seek out the help of Miss Evans and it had complicated his life, not only his professional but personal. “Well, it’s probably unrelated to our case anyway.” He closed his browser and sat back. He hadn’t thought about Sophia in almost a month. Well, almost. After that case with her, the capture of the librarian serial killer, he had an almost weekly urge to ring her up or stop by her flat. He didn’t need the reminder, not when the situation with his wife had taken a turn for the better—she had agreed to see the neurologist. Perhaps she could get her memories back.

No, he had to push Sophia from his mind.

Chapter Thirteen

At half past six, Sophia stood outside her Sands End flat with the keys in the lock and debated going inside. Perhaps she should stay in her father’s old flat down the hall. Her father used to live there until he desired a larger place to live with his girlfriend. It sat scarcely furnished and perfect for her to work on assignments without worrying her friends or family would stumble on anything. And right now, her flat was a disaster.

Since Marc’s death she had lost the desire to clean and tidy. She let her dirty clothes carpet the floor and her unmade bed. The dishes piled up beside the sink. Unopened letters littered the worktop and coffee table. It was better to stay at the other flat because a cluttered room distracted her; she couldn’t think with a mess anywhere in the house. She blamed the state of her flat for the shit she felt every time she came home. Not the fact she was . . . alone.

Unlocking the door, she kicked off her shoes in the doorway and they bounced off the back of the sofa. She went around the sofa and plopped down with a thud. From her bag she retrieved her mobile and texted Liam: Don’t come. Will contact you tomorrow about the Merc. She could take his car back to the flat in the East End the next day. Besides, she’d rather not see him now.

That was when she noticed. No letters or books cluttered her tables. She rose and looked into her kitchen. No dishes were in the sink. The house was spotless. What the hell?

Only one person would have the nerve to have her flat cleaned without her permission. Grabbing the phone off the charger, she entered the kitchen and pressed the button down on the electric kettle. After scooping a spoonful of ground coffee into the French press, she headed toward her office.

A button blinked on her cordless phone.

“Darling,” the message said, “it’s your father. How are you? Don’t be upset about the flat, I know you like your privacy but when I came to check if you were still alive, I worried I wouldn’t find you under that mess. Elda did a good job, eh? She’s amazing, that woman. I’ll have her come round more often if you like. Ring me, will you? Donna’s thinking of having a dinner party and she wants you to come. Please come this time. It’s this Saturday. Love you, darling, and don’t forget: ring me.”

“Oh, Dad,” Sophia said aloud. She had only seen him twice after Marc died but he rang her up two or three times a week. Although she had no desire to dine with him and his girlfriend, she was glad he cared enough to invite her. She smiled and erased the message.

What an exhausting and boring day. How many more days would she have to endure this? Did she have to endure this? Surely she could put her foot down. Her time was worth more than this. Sure, she wasn’t in her bosses’ best books. But they were coming round. Already they realized the shooting wasn’t her fault. It was a team effort. She couldn’t be expected to foot such an important mess-up alone. She wasn’t a trained agent. And it could explain why Liam was punishing her for the cock-up.

The kettle button popped up behind her and she made herself a cup of coffee and headed toward her bedroom to catch up on the episodes of East Enders. How could the lives of the crazy characters on the show be a comfort to her? Surely her life wasn’t more complicated than that?

Crystal constantly asked her why she didn’t just agree to a dinner with Liam. It was the principle and that he drove her mad. Marc made her want to laugh, whereas Liam left her wanting to cry and rock in the fetal position. Marc had intelligent conversation. Liam only wanted to talk about work. Work. They had to work together and she had to be able to trust him. Besides, he didn’t invite her to dinner because he loved her. He just felt guilty for forcing her into a relationship with Marc which turned out horribly wrong.

What she needed was a new case. Not a surveillance mission but another case that utilized her skills. She needed a new case like her Yuri—the Russian who sent her encoded letters, who used her skills as a cryptanalyst. But she had to wait until she received the go-ahead from the powers above—the shrinks that had to sign the release forms—before they would hand her anything new. In the meantime, she would have to be satisfied with watching a boring woman tweet and crochet.

Unless . . . unless she could occupy her time with cases of her choosing. Hopping off the bed she went over to her laptop and went over the files of a newly deceased Maddock Tipring that Crystal had emailed.

Chapter Fourteen

Laughter and Fasolada greeted Theo when he arrived at his home in Palmer’s Green shortly after ten. Better laughter than the anger he expected because of postponing dinner to a late hour. He hadn’t heard that laugh in a long time. Slowly, he made his way to the kitchen. His wife, Agneta, stirred a pot on the stovetop, her shoulders shaking wildly, trying to keep herself under control. His mother cut cheese on the worktop.

“What’s so funny?” Theo asked in Greek.

“Celine has gone and added sugar to the soup instead of salt,” said his mother.

“It all looks the same, white and crystally.” She laughed her defense.

“That’s why the containers are labelled, dear.”

Agneta lifted the sugar bowl. “Shoo-gar.” She attempted the English word. She liked to be called Celine after she lost her memory because she said she didn’t feel like an Agneta; it didn’t fit her personality anymore. But what did she know about her personality? Still, he respected her wishes and hoped someday she could go back to her real name.