ANDREW TAYLOR
THE OFFICE OF THE DEAD
This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.
Harper HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by
HarperCollinsPublishers 1999
Copyright © Andrew Taylor 1999
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013 Cover photography © Mark Pennington
Andrew Taylor asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
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Source ISBN: 9780006496557
Ebook Edition © APRIL 2013 ISBN: 9780007502035
Version: 2019–02–25
For Vivien, with love and thanks
CONTENTS
Copyright
Dedication
Part I: The Door in the Wall
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
Part II: The Close
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
Part III: The Blue Dahlia
44
45
46
47
48
49
About the Author
Author’s Note
Praise
Also by the Author
About the Publisher
‘I’m nobody,’ Rosie said.
It was the first thing she said to me. I’d just pushed open the door in the wall and there she was. She wore red sandals and a cotton dress, cream-coloured with tiny blue flowers embroidered on the bodice, and there were blue ribbons in her blonde hair. The ribbons and flowers matched her eyes. She was very tidy, like the garden, like everything that was Janet’s.
I knew she was Rosie because of the snapshots Janet had sent. But I asked her name because that’s what you do when you meet a child, to break the ice. Names matter. Names are hard to forget.
‘Nobody? I’m sure that’s not right.’ I put down the suitcase on the path and crouched to bring my head down to her level. ‘I bet you’re really somebody. Somebody in disguise.’
‘I’m nobody.’ Her face wasn’t impatient, just firm. ‘That’s my name.’
‘Nobody’s called nobody.’
She folded her arms across her chest, making a cross of flesh and bone. ‘I am.’
‘Why?’
‘Because nobody’s perfect.’
She turned and hopped up the path. I straightened up and watched her. Rosie was playing hopscotch but without a stone and with an invisible pattern of her own making. Hop, both legs, hop, both legs. Instead of turning to face me, though, she carried on to the half-glazed door set in the wall of the house. The soles of her sandals slapped on the flagstones like slow applause. Each time she landed, on one foot or two, the jolt ran through her body and sent ripples through her hair.
I felt the stab of envy, almost anger, sharp as John Treevor’s knife. Nobody was beautiful. Oh yes, I thought, nobody’s perfect. Nobody’s the child I always wanted, the child Henry never gave me.
I’d