Free The Last Voice You Hear by Mick Herron

doesn’t mean you know, it means you’ve stopped thinking about it. You’ve reached the limits of your understanding, and that is all. But what she said was, ‘I don’t follow.’
    ‘She was forty-three, dear,’ the woman said, and that dear was a harsh addition.
    Zoë tossed her cigarette so it bounced neatly down a drain. Forty-four, herself. She didn’t pretend not to take the woman’s meaning, but knew it didn’t apply to her.
    ‘You want to come in, don’t you?’ said the woman.
    ‘I was looking for a way to ask,’ Zoë admitted.
    ‘What do you want with him when you find him?’
    ‘I just . . . Somebody wants to know that he’s all right,’ she said. ‘Somebody cares,’ she added.
    The woman gave this some consideration. ‘I suppose that’s not so common I can ignore it.’
    ‘I knew you’d see it that way,’ Zoë said, opening the gate.
    The woman’s name was Alma Chapman, and in the light of her kitchen, she was fiftyish for certain. This kitchen was small and cluttered; emphatically lived in. On its table sat a half-full ashtray and a half-empty bottle of gin, and neatly sandwiched between them was a paperback called DeTox In 28 Days . Zoë, largely held together by toxins, knew a lost cause when she saw one. Magneted to the fridge were two wedding photos; both featuring Alma, though with different grooms. Alma saw her notice. ‘Have you been married, dear?’
    ‘Once,’ she said.
    ‘Divorced?’
    ‘He died.’
    ‘They’re not terribly reliable, are they?’ She began rolling another cigarette. ‘He must have died young.’
    (He had died at his desk, when a vile man, now deceased, had cut his throat.)
    ‘Pressure of work, was it?’
    ‘Something like that.’
    Alma looked to her photos. ‘I’m glad I married,’ she said. ‘And I’m glad I did it twice. One bad experience, I might have been unlucky. Two’s a policy basis.’
    ‘Right.’
    ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a man-hater. Marriage, though, that’s taking it a little far.’ She turned back to Zoë. ‘You ever think of marrying again?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You should. You’re still young enough. You don’t think all men are bastards, do you?’
    ‘No, I think most people are bastards,’ said Zoë. ‘It leaves less room for error. You say you saw him in the garden?’
    ‘If it was him. Maybe Caroline snagged another towards the end. Like buses, sometimes, aren’t they?’
    ‘I’ve heard it said.’
    ‘Maybe it’s a conspiracy. Men show up occasionally, throw the odd fuck about, it keeps us from getting over them, and planning a revolution.’
    Zoë shrugged.
    ‘You’re not a believer.’
    ‘I think most conspiracy theories are invented by the government,’ said Zoë. ‘To spread paranoia and uncertainty among the masses. What did he look like?’
    ‘If it was him.’ She thought about it. ‘I didn’t get much of a look. He seemed ordinary. Hair a little long. He was standing by the pond, Caroline has a pond. Just standing staring at it. He was twirling his hair round his fingers, that’s why I remember it being long. Fair hair.’
    ‘Age?’
    ‘I’m not good on ages. He was a grown-up. Who’s looking for him?’
    ‘Caroline’s boss.’
    ‘This is the one who cares?’
    ‘Seems to. I don’t suppose . . .’
    ‘You want to get in, don’t you?’
    ‘You have a key?’
    Alma Chapman said, ‘This could be one big wind-up, couldn’t it? You could be the coolest burglar ever. I’d look a right idiot then.’
    ‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Zoë.
    Alma gave a short laugh: a surprisingly tinkly one, like a dying coal fire. ‘I’ve got a key, yes. I suppose, legally, it’s her sister’s now, isn’t it?’
    ‘If that’s who she left it to.’
    ‘Next of kin. I expect so. Caroline was a stickler for doing things right.’
    Like leaving the spare with the neighbour, thought Zoë. ‘I think her boss is much the same.’
    Alma said, ‘You think something bad’s happened to