CHAPTER THIRTY
The package arrived one Monday morning in August. I should have been at work, writing reports on high-yield corporate bonds or some such nonsense. But I wasn’t. I was sitting on the sofa at home watching TV and having a couple of drinks. I’d told Gerry Kelly I had a meeting first thing.
For one precious week, I had the flat in Maida Vale to myself. Annabel was in New York for an old school friend’s hen party. (When would it be her turn?) I wanted to take advantage of the unaccustomed freedom by extending the weekend a little. Then the office would be more bearable when I eventually got there.
Except I never made it to the office because the package threw me off track. Food poisoning, I told Gerry. “That’s the second time in two weeks,” he said. “Maybe you should see a doc
