Gregory's Game by Jane A. Adams Page B

letters safe for him. Later, he’d kept the habit when he wanted somewhere neutral for his mail to go to, but not in the past year.
    He wandered through to the hall to pick up the letters. Ian was chatting to Kat in his study and Nathan carried the letters through into the kitchen and filled the kettle again. He spread the letters on the table and fished out the one addressed to him.
    Nathan Crow. c/o Professor Ian Marsh .
    It had, he realized, been forwarded from the house on Church Lane.
    Gripped by a feeling of foreboding, Nathan opened the envelope. It contained just a single photograph, taken somewhere that was definitely not England, probably not even Europe. At first glance, he recognized only one person in the picture.
    Slipping the photograph back into the envelope he studied the date and postmark. Marseille, just over a week ago …
    Hearing Ian come out of the study he shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket and turned his attention to the kettle. ‘How about I take you to the local pub for dinner?’ he suggested. ‘I’ll bet you’ve got nothing in the house.’
    â€˜Nothing I can be bothered to cook,’ Ian agreed. ‘That sounds like a perfect idea.’
    â€˜How did Kat take it?’
    â€˜Upset, of course, and she’s going on the Internet to try and find out more than I could tell her. I think she’ll come back on Wednesday. I think the family bonding thing is becoming a bit too much of a good thing.’
    Nathan smiled and nodded. In his pocket the envelope seemed to burn.

TEN
    N aomi volunteered twice weekly at the local advice centre. She’d been doing that since a couple of months after leaving hospital. Her knowledge of the law had made her useful and her willingness to train up on welfare benefits and unemployment legislation made her doubly so. She sometimes thought that, once people had got over the shock, the fact that she couldn’t see them actually made it easier for some to talk.
    She knew she was doing a good job; knew she was useful; knew she helped to solve a lot of problems for a lot of people – which made it even harder when she realized she could do nothing to help Alec.
    Her usual taxi driver, George Mallard, noticed she was quiet as he drove her home from her Monday session.
    â€˜How’s that man of yours getting on now?’ he asked.
    George, Naomi thought, was unerring in his ability to pinpoint the very thing she didn’t want to discuss.
    â€˜He’s fine,’ she said. ‘Well, fine-ish. I think now he’s feeling better he’s at a bit of a loose end. He’s talked about going back to university, or retraining for something.’
    â€˜Well, he’s a bright bloke,’ George said. ‘I’m sure he could do anything he set his mind to.’ He laughed. ‘Just as long as it’s not taxi driving. That’s my area of expertise.’
    â€˜You know,’ Naomi said, ‘I think that’s about the only thing he’s not considered.’
    George pulled up and got out to help her as he always did, bending to pet Napoleon before checking she had all her bags and was all right going in on her own.
    â€˜I’m fine, George. See you Thursday?’
    â€˜Be me or the lad,’ he said, referring to his son – still ‘the lad’ despite being well into his thirties.
    Naomi smiled, thanked him and allowed Napoleon to lead her up the steps and into the shared hall, then on up the stairs to their flat. She had the sense that Alec was absent even before they reached the door. Fumbling for her key, she let herself in and then called out. ‘Alec. We’re home. You OK?’
    Silence. Emptiness. ‘Okaay.’
    She released Napoleon’s harness, heard his feet on the wooden floor heading for the kitchen. A moment later, the sound of him slurping at his water bowl. So Alec was definitely not there then. Had he been, Napoleon would have gone to say