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EIGHTEEN
18
If, for a contented mind, time is peace, then for a fevered one, it is the opposite. The nearly three hours or so it took us to return to London were close to torture. The more I thought about Paris, the more I wondered what was wrong.
We cross-referenced everything Katrin Cajthamlova had told us and what she said to the press and social media. She never told the same story twice. The inconsistencies were acute, but they were there.
But why?
Was she scared?
Or was she playing us?
Once we had arrived at St. Pancras, Blanche, we intended to catch the Northern Line train from Kings Cross to Woodside Park and continue with our work over a Chinese Takeaway, but only as we walked from one mainline station to the other did I realise that we had a tail.
I thought I had sensed it on the Eurostar, but it took me some time to be sure.
We stopped at a paper shop, bought a paper without actually looking at it, tucked it under my arm, and
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