The Verdict
OLIVIA ISAAC-HENRY

Published by ONE MORE CHAPTER

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © Olivia Isaac-Henry 2019

Cover Design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

Cover Photographs © Shutterstock.com

Olivia Isaac-Henry asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © August 2019; ISBN: 9780008317768

Version: 2019-07-19

For Keith

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1: 2017 – Central London

Chapter 2: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 3: 2017 – Central London

Chapter 4: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 5: 2017 – Central London

Chapter 6: 1994 – Archway, London

Chapter 7: 2017 – Archway, London

Chapter 8: 1995 – Archway, London

Chapter 9: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 10: 2017 – Archway, London

Chapter 11: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 12: 2017 – Archway, London

Chapter 13: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 14: 2017 – Archway, London

Chapter 15: 1995 – Archway, London

Chapter 16: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 17: 2017 – Archway, London

Chapter 18: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 19: 2017 – Maida Vale, London

Chapter 20: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 21: 2017 – Central London

Chapter 22: 2001 – Kingston upon Thames

Chapter 23: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 24: 2017 – Guildford Police Station

Chapter 25: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 26: 2017 – Guildford Police Station

Chapter 27: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 28: 2017 – Guildford Police Station

Chapter 29: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 30: 2017 – Guildford Police Station

Chapter 31: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 32: 2018 – Bronzefield

Chapter 33: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 34: 2018 – Bronzefield

Chapter 35: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 36: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 37: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 38: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 39: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 40: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 41: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 42: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 43: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 44: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 45: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 46: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 47: 1995 – Archway, London

Chapter 48: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 49: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 50: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 51: 2017 – Dulwich, London

Chapter 52: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 53: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 54: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 55: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 56: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 57: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 58: 2017 – Dulwich, London

Chapter 59: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 60: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 61: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 62: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 63: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 64: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 65: 2018 – Guildford Crown Court

Chapter 66: 1994 – Guildford

Chapter 67: 1995 – Flaxley, Worcestershire

Chapter 68: 2019 – Guildford

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

Prologue

Stumbling down the hill, filthy and too exhausted to even lift the shovels dragging behind them, they looked up to see a red glow starting to stretch along the ridge above. Dawn was breaking.

‘Hurry up,’ he said.

At the bottom of the hill, she managed to haul herself over the stile, only to tumble down the slope on the other side and fall face down in the road, her fingernails bloodstained, her mouth and nose clogged with dirt. She could have fallen asleep there and then, not caring if she were seen.

A hand reached under her armpit and hauled her to her feet.

‘Keep moving.’

What was the point in moving or any attempt at concealment? He wouldn’t lie buried for ever. Someday, maybe tomorrow, maybe next week or next year, someone would find him.

Chapter 1
2017 – Central London

It feels like centuries since I was young. I look around my office; Miranda is scrolling through Tinder while drinking a coffee. Her lithe body falls across a hard-backed wooden chair as if it were a hammock.

Paulo wears mustard-coloured jeans, his feet up on the desk, the soles of his boots splayed towards me. The urge to kick them off becomes so great, I have to look away.

‘Yeah, I know, yeah,’ he drones into his phone, too loud and irritating to tune out.

What right do they have to youth? They do not value it. They will waste it, as I did mine, and one day wake up, middle-aged, in an office full of people who believe them to be obsolete, an irrelevance. They will stare at the calendar and not believe the year – how did we reach 2017 so quickly? And then the day, Wednesday – how many hours until the weekend?

I used to wonder what these millennials thought about me, then I realised, I’m invisible, they don’t think about me. On the first day Miranda made some polite enquiries. I tried to ignore her lisp as she asked, ‘Are you married, single?’

‘Separated,’ I say.

‘So, what you gonna do about it?’ she asked.

‘About what?’

‘Being single?’

‘Nothing,’ I told her.

She gave me an odd look.

‘Well, Jonathan’s going to be on the desk next to you,’ she said. ‘It’s easier if you’re together.’

Easier because we’re around the same age? I’m sure Jonathan would balk at the idea. He wears slim-fit maroon trousers and goes sockless in slip-on shoes, believing he’s not so different from the kids around us. At least I’m not suffering under that delusion.

Since that first day, Miranda’s barely spoken to me. And whenever I ask what she and other members of the team are laughing about in the corner, she says, nothing, and slopes off, like a kid caught cutting class.

She chats to Jonathan, despite his age, but then he is her boss. Today she’s telling him about her cousin’s upcoming trip to Vietnam.

‘My son was there in his gap year – loved it,’ Jonathan says. ‘But Cambodia’s more interesting. Took a trip out there a few years ago – Angkor Wat – amazing.’

Bless Jonathan. If you’ve been to the moon, he’s been there twice.

‘My cousin’s going to be working, not just travelling,’ Miranda says.

‘I suppose your son’s at that age now, Julia,’ Jonathan says.

He catches me off guard. I’m unused to being included in conversations.

‘Sam’s only seventeen, still doing A levels – not sure what he wants to do afterwards,’ I say.

‘Uni, gap year?’

‘Still undecided.’

‘You need to look into it now,’ Jonathan says. ‘At least a year in advance. Have a chat with him. Are you close?’

You’re a whore. I hate you.

‘He’s growing up. Doesn’t need his mum so much these days.’

‘You always need your mum,’ Miranda says. ‘I’m twenty-five and I still talk to mine every day.’

I wish you were dead.

‘I think you need some independence, before you become close again,’ I say.

‘That’s difficult these days,’ Miranda says. ‘Because no one can afford to leave home. I only managed it because I found this property guardian job.’

Jonathan turns the conversation back to his son and the flat he’s helping him to buy. I make a coffee and slip out of the door. No one notices.

Outside, it’s a bright day, with only a hint of rain in the air. A man in a padded jacket enters the Sensuous Bean next door, my co-workers’ preferred coffee shop. Sometimes they take their laptops and work in there. My café is the green in the square of Georgian houses behind the main road. A small patch of grass with benches provides fresh air and somewhere to sit and drink. The tall poplars surrounding it are turning to rust in the early October chill. Their leaves swirl around the square, hugging its corners and clogging its drains. A toddler jumps into a great pile of them, kicking whorls into the air and giggling with glee. He reminds me of Sam at that age, in his red jacket with the hood falling back from his head.

Loitering by the bin is a man dressed entirely in khaki. He’s constantly hanging about the square, a roll-up wedged between his forefingers. I’ve always suspected he’s a drug dealer. People come and stand and talk to him for half a minute or so, money changes hands, and the people wander off. It all seems very friendly, not how I imagined the trade to be carried out, with knives and Rottweilers. I’ve spent so many coffee breaks here, khaki man and I are now on nodding terms.

Today, a few workmen, in thick boots and high-vis jackets, are sitting around chatting and drinking tea from polystyrene cups. One of them, who hasn’t bothered to take off his hard hat, is chatting to a man in mustard-coloured jeans. I do a double take and realise it’s Paulo from the office. He turns and sees me, gives me a nervous smile and looks a little embarrassed. Is the man in the hard hat Paulo’s bit of rough? Not everything’s about sex, my mother, Audrey, always tells me. She’s right, not everything, but it’s what most things boil down to. That and greed.

A bleep from my phone distracts me. I check straight away, in case it’s Sam.

Jules, we’re back! Come over tomorrow and we’ll talk. XXX

My oldest friend, Pearl, is the only person I can forgive for not being Sam, but I wish he’d contact me. Missing him has become a physical ache. I’ll text her back later.

I’m walking to the next free bench when my phone beeps again. An unknown number this time, probably informing me I’ve been mis-sold PPI – whatever that is.

I open the message. I must have misread it. I stare at the phone and force my eyes to focus. I read it again.

It’s a photo link to a news website, a picture of lush, rolling hills, dotted with clumps of beech trees. Clouds cross a bright sky, casting shadows over the dells and copses. Above the photo is a headline: Surrey University Students Discover Body Buried on North Downs.

My throat constricts. Black spots start to float in front of my eyes. The square, its leaves, its inhabitants disappear. I drop the coffee.

Chapter 2
1994 – Guildford

Julia stood outside Guildford train station, twisting a flimsy A–Z in her hands and trying to orientate herself towards the six locations, ringed in red biro, where she’d arranged viewings. Her two criteria were that the room must be clean and close to the train station. Guildford was to be a place of work only, the room she sought somewhere to rest her head. Her life would be in London. At weekends, she’d stay over at Pearl’s, and catch the late train back on weeknights.

After a couple of wrong turns, Julia found the first place. What the advert had described as a charming cottage was, in fact, a tiny terrace house. The landlord was waiting outside. Rotund, and in his late fifties or early sixties, he was more of a yokel than the Surrey stockbroker type she’d expected.

‘Jeff,’ the man said and stuck his hand into hers.

‘Julia,’ she replied.

‘You’re the first to see it. If you like, you can help choose the other tenants.’

So far, so good.

Jeff wrenched open the rusted gate into a small front garden, overrun with weeds. Inside, the house was empty, except for a thick-pile beige carpet on the floor.

‘I’ve ordered new furniture,’ the landlord said once inside.

A sofa and coffee table may have helped to hide some of the stains or distracted from the thick dust on the skirting boards.

‘Did the last tenants wreck it?’ Julia asked.

‘Who?’

‘The previous tenants, it doesn’t look like they took care of the place.’

The man scowled. ‘My wife’s always been a stickler for housework,’ he said. ‘If it’s a little dusty, it’s because we moved out a couple of weeks ago and there’s been no chance to run a cloth over it.’

Julia eyed the sticky mug ring on the mantelpiece and caught a whiff of dog hair rising from the carpet.

‘What do you think?’ Jeff asked, after giving her a tour.

‘The bedroom’s a bit small,’ she said.

The second room on her list was in a similar Victorian terrace to the first. Two male PhD students, from Surrey University, were already living there. It annoyed Julia that she hoped at least one of them was good-looking and single. The first hope was wiped out as she entered the house, and she never got around to asking about the second.

Ewan, twenty-six and reading physics, showed her the room, which was large and had its own sink. Promising. And while the place couldn’t exactly be called clean, it wasn’t filthy, and the location was convenient.

Ewan sat her down in the kitchen and made her a cup of tea.

‘This is Simon,’ he said. ‘He’ll be your other housemate.’

Simon sat at the other end of the table to Julia, his face hidden behind some academic tome.

‘Hi,’ Julia said.

Simon lowered the book, peered over the top, but didn’t respond.

‘So, what do you do?’ Ewan asked.

‘I’m about to start as a …’ Simon distracted her by putting down his book, placing his elbows on the table, his head in his hands and devoting all his energy to glaring at her. ‘As a software developer at Morgan Boyd Consulting.’

Had she done something wrong? She looked directly at Simon and smiled. He continued to glare. Ewan appeared unaware of his housemate’s open intimidation.

‘We’re kind of quiet in the week, but go out on Friday and Saturday,’ he said.

Simon’s expression remained fixed and hostile. A mild panic ran through her. Was this a trap? Did these men lure young women in with the offer of a room, do away with them and stash their corpses under the floorboards? Perhaps her tea was drugged. Perhaps Simon kept his dead mother mummified in the basement. She’d seen Psycho.

Julia put down the mug. ‘You know, it’s lovely but … er … too far from the station.’

‘It’s a three-minute walk,’ Ewan said.

‘Thanks.’

Simon was still staring at her. Julia picked up her bag and ran out down the hall, towards the door.

‘Is it the mess? We’re thinking of getting a cleaner,’ Ewan called from the kitchen.

Julia slammed the door behind her and ran to the end of the road before turning back. She almost expected to see Simon racing from the house to hunt her down. The front door stayed shut. She walked around the corner and out of sight before stopping to catch her breath. As soon as her breathing had slowed down, she laughed out loud. Psycho – she was being ridiculous. People aren’t murdered in cosy commuter towns. Perhaps all Simon had wanted was to keep Ewan to himself. Perhaps he’d end up murdering Ewan in a fit of jealous rage. Again, Julia laughed. Her mother, Audrey, always told her she had an overactive imagination and it was possible that, for once, she was right.

Three more places were left on the list. One turned out to be more of a cupboard than a room, the other was next to an MOT servicing garage, open six days a week. By the time Julia headed towards the last potential room, she had scratched ‘clean’ and ‘near the station’ from her list. As long as there was no heavy machinery next door and it was free from homicidal maniacs, she’d take it.

Downs Avenue was a steep, winding road on the edge of town, further from the train station than was ideal. On one side of the road, houses of varying styles and sizes stood at the bottom of sharply sloped drives. On the other lay the open hillside of the Downs.

Julia had not seen them before, the low-rolling hills, covered with meadow flowers interrupted by clumps of trees, lusher and more inviting than the hills at home.

On reaching number 72, she thought she had made a mistake and rechecked the address. Downsview Villa, 72 Downs Avenue – it was the right place. The house was in a modern style, with a nod to Georgian, detached, double-fronted and set over three storeys. Far grander than anything she’d expected. Julia rang the bell and waited a moment before swathes of fabric floated across the frosted glass of the front door. A slender woman of medium height opened it. A classical beauty, with high rounded cheekbones and long curled eyelashes. Around Audrey’s age, Julia thought, fifty or so, but her mother would never dress like this. A printed silk scarf was wrapped around the woman’s head and fashioned into a turban and she wore a matching dress, long and flowing. Was she on the way to a fancy-dress party, or perhaps rehearsing for a play? Julia waited for her to speak, but the woman remained bolt upright at the door, one arm stretched across its frame.

‘Hi. I’m Julia. I’ve come about the room,’ she said, when it was clear the woman wasn’t going to speak first.

The woman’s spine relaxed a fraction and she looked Julia up and down for some moments before saying, ‘Julia? You don’t look like a Julia. My name is Genevieve.’

The retort, You don’t look like a Genevieve, would have been ill-applied. No one could look more like a Genevieve. Julia would have been very disappointed if she were named Mildred.

Unsure how to respond, Julia stayed silent, half expecting the woman to turn her away, but she said, ‘Come in,’ stepped back and flung her arm out to usher Julia inside 72 Downs Avenue.

Chapter 3
2017 – Central London

The Georgian square I’m standing in, the small green, the autumn leaves, all feel distant. Someone is screaming at me.

‘You dozy cow! Look what you’ve done.’

I stare transfixed at the photo link on my phone.

‘It’s all over him. He could be scarred for life.’

I recognise those hills and those beech trees on my screen.

Someone grabs my arm and yanks me backwards.

‘Are you on drugs or something? I said you’ve scalded my son.’

A woman wearing a puffer jacket thrusts her face into mine. I pull away and look down. It’s the toddler from earlier, his red coat stained and dripping with coffee.

‘I … I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’

She still has hold of my arm.

‘I don’t think he’s hurt.’ It’s Paulo. He gently detaches me from the woman’s grip.

‘What – are you a doctor?’ she says.

Paulo kneels down to the boy. ‘Are you hurt, pal?’ he asks.

‘Wet,’ the boy says.

‘See, he’s just wet. No harm done, eh?’ Paulo says.

‘No thanks to her.’ She glowers at me. ‘Look – she doesn’t even care – high as a kite at eleven o’clock in the morning.’

‘Let me deal with this,’ Paulo says.

He picks up my coffee cup from the ground and pulls me onto the nearest bench. Some survival instinct impels me to place the phone face down on my lap. I sit there, shaking.

‘Bad news?’ Paulo asks.

He glances at the phone. I keep the screen downwards.

‘Yes. I mean no. It’s nothing.’

‘Anything I can do?’

‘Thank you. I’ll just sit for a moment.’

‘Sure.’ He looks concerned. ‘I’ll be over there if you need me.’ He points to his friend.

The mother’s still glaring at me, after he leaves. I think she’s going to come over, but the boy is pulling at her sleeve and pointing at a squirrel running up a tree and she turns away.

I flip the phone over in my lap and press on the link. It takes me to a news website.

Environmental Science students from the University of Surrey have discovered human remains while taking soil samples on the North Downs, just outside Guildford. Police have confirmed that the death is being treated as suspicious but refuse to speculate further.

No further information is being circulated at this time.

I knew this day would come. I always thought I’d face it with grim resolve and a rational, cool pragmatism. It feels like I’ve been hit by a train. My lungs won’t draw air, my limbs are weak and shaky.

I need to act normally. I’ve already been foolish. Paulo might remember this. Tactfully, he’s turned away from me and is talking to his friend. I have to pull myself together. I steady my hand, go to the phone settings and delete the message and browsing history.

Once I’ve managed to stop shaking and am able to breathe, I put the phone in my pocket and walk over to Paulo. He looks up as I approach.

‘Everything all right now?’ he asks.

‘Fine. Sorry about all the drama. Some family trouble, I over-reacted. It’s all good now.’

‘Great,’ he says. ‘See you back at the office.’

A light drizzle has started. Drops slide down my neck. I shiver and turn up my collar. The man I saw outside the Sensuous Bean slips into the nearest newsagent. I’m alert to him now. Is it a coincidence he arrived at the same time as the text? It doesn’t matter. I must act normally – whatever that is.

I have to calm down and think. The shock of the news, the picture of the Downs bathed in golden light, the shaded dells hinting at the darkness, the tightness in my gut – all this has stopped me from asking the most important question. Who sent the text?

Chapter 4
1994 – Guildford

Stepping past Genevieve and into Downsview Villa for the first time, Julia was struck by its sense of space. The entrance hall was double-heighted, stretching to the roof and opening up the whole house. A window spanning both floors flooded the room with light. It was as far from her friends’ poky dives in North London as Audrey’s was from the dog hair and coffee-mug rings of the charming cottage she’d viewed earlier.

‘And where have you come from today?’ Genevieve asked.

‘Flaxley, Worcestershire. You won’t have heard of it. It’s a tiny place just south of Birmingham.’

Genevieve’s face expressed a mixture of horror and pity.

‘Oh dear, never mind, you’re here now and you’ll very much like it – so much greenery.’

‘There’s greenery in the Midlands too.’

Julia suddenly missed the fields and woods in which she’d played, growing up.

‘I thought it was all factories,’ Genevieve said. ‘Queen Victoria used to insist the curtains of her railway carriage were lowered when travelling through Birmingham. Like me, she was unable to tolerate ugliness. I’ve never been north of Cheltenham, except for Norway, but that’s something quite different. Have you ever been?’

Julia was unsure if Genevieve was referring to Cheltenham or Norway. But as she’d visited neither, she simply said, ‘No.’

‘You’re young, there’s still time,’ Genevieve said.

Perhaps the first house hadn’t been so bad. The mug stain could be cleaned and the dog smell Shake n’ Vac’d from the carpet.

‘Can I see the room?’ Julia asked.

‘First, you must see the rest of the house.’

Genevieve skipped around her and opened the door on the other side of the hall.

‘This is the kitchen,’ she said. ‘My lodgers are free to use this room. The lounge and dining room are for my personal use, but the kitchen is large enough for you all to socialise in. And there’s a television if that interests you. Can’t bear the dratted thing myself.’

The room was large, its mahogany cabinets outdated but not unpleasant. Patio doors opened onto a terrace with steps leading down to a well-maintained garden. At the far end, a woman in a burgundy body warmer pottered about clipping at plants and placing discarded stems into a bucket. Another woman, Julia’s age or a little older, twenty-five perhaps, was sitting at a wooden table in front of the doors, eating a cheese sandwich. Her mouth was full, and she merely lifted a hand in greeting.

‘This is Lucy,’ Genevieve said.

‘Hi, I’m Julia.’

‘You can ignore her,’ Genevieve said curtly. ‘She’s leaving us.’

Lucy shrugged and smiled.

‘I’ll show you the room now.’

For a woman in her fifties, Genevieve was light on her feet, as if she’d been a dancer. She floated up the stairs and Julia had trouble keeping pace. The staircase was in two flights. The first led to a landing running along the large window at the front, before going up another flight to the first floor. A separate staircase led to the attic.

‘My rooms are on the top floor and the bathroom is at the back of the house,’ Genevieve said. ‘And this one will be yours.’

The bedroom was on the far side of the staircase. Genevieve opened the door and allowed Julia to enter before her. The room was small, with a single bed and a double wardrobe. The walls were magnolia, the carpet beige, and pine-scented furniture polish hung in the air. It was neat and orderly, too bland to be objectionable. It would do.

Julia walked to the window. A green bank rose sharply above the hedge on the opposite side of the road. She couldn’t see the tops of the hills but was aware of their presence and how abruptly the town ended and gave way to open countryside. Genevieve followed her gaze.

‘The Downs,’ she said. ‘I told you, I can’t tolerate ugliness. It’s wonderful to wake every morning to this beauty, the pure blue colour of the sky you only get here. I grew up just down the road. I don’t suppose many people appreciate it as I do. Even when I lived in the Alps, I longed for the Downs, to lie on the grass on a summer’s day and look up at the clouds blowing across the sky.’

It was a performance, Genevieve’s lines rehearsed and repeated many times before, an impression reinforced by her switch to a pragmatic tone when the discussion turned to business.

‘It’s two hundred and eighty-five pounds a month including bills,’ she said. ‘Payment sharp on the first of every month and two months’ rent in advance.’

Julia was tired. And if Genevieve was a little annoying, at least the place was clean, and she wouldn’t be sharing with Norman Bates.

‘I’ll take it,’ she said.

‘Wonderful,’ Genevieve said. ‘Come downstairs and we’ll sort it all out.’

They returned to the kitchen.

‘I’ll need the deposit now. Make the cheque out to Genevieve D’Auncey,’ she said. ‘I’ll just pop to the lounge and get my receipt book and you can sign the contract.’

Julia took her chequebook from her bag and sat at the table, as Lucy was finishing her sandwich.

‘So why are you leaving?’ Julia asked.

‘Moving in with my boyfriend.’

A shard of pain sliced across Julia’s chest. Until two months ago she’d used the same casual tone as Lucy to say, ‘I’m moving in with my boyfriend.’ As if it were the most normal thing in the world. Instead, here she was with strangers, two hundred miles away.

Julia realised Lucy was looking at her and expecting her to speak.

‘What’s it like here?’ she asked.

‘OK,’ Lucy said. ‘Genevieve’s a bit …’

‘Theatrical?’

‘I suppose,’ Lucy said. ‘That as well.’

‘As well as what?’ Julia asked.

‘She’s fond of—’

Light footsteps, scampering across the hall, signalled Genevieve’s return.

‘Ah Lucy,’ Genevieve said as she entered the room. ‘Haven’t you anything to do?’

By way of reply, Lucy stood up and took her plate to the dishwasher.

‘Who else lives here?’ Julia asked.

‘Well, there’s Alan,’ Genevieve said. ‘Been here five years – a fixture you could say – though he’s not in much. And the other three rooms will be free once Lucy’s left. You’ll be taking one of them, of course. I wasn’t sure when you first came to the door, but now I can see you’ll be perfect. I have a good sense about people. It’s a … a …’ She wound her hand in a circular motion from the wrist but didn’t finish her sentence. Out of the corner of her eye, Julia saw Lucy smirking. ‘Yes, you’ll do very well,’ Genevieve concluded.

Julia finished writing out the cheque and handed it to Genevieve, who folded it and slipped it under her silk turban.

‘I’ll see you in two weeks,’ she said.

Chapter 5
2017 – Central London

On returning from the park, I go back to my desk. All I can think about is the text, concentrating on work is impossible. Without leaving a cyber trail, I have to find a full news report about the body unearthed on the Downs. I’ve already been careless with Paulo and using my phone. I’m itching to leave but I must not arouse suspicion by any unusual behaviour. Why did you leave work early on 4th October?

Only two people on the planet could have sent that text, and both know not to contact me. We agreed, twenty-three years ago, how to behave if it ever came out: no phone calls, no unusual activity, no change in routine. Few people had mobile phones back then, and we made no specific stipulation regarding texts, but the principle remains. And it’s difficult to believe either of them could be so stupid.

Sitting at my desk becomes intolerable. I stare at the laptop, then remove my glasses and rub my eyes. The screen blurs into streaks of black and white. I replace the glasses and reread my current e-mail. It makes no more sense in focus.

How can I find out more, without using my phone or laptop? We were careful to leave no trace at the time. I can still smell the acrid fumes as we found every photograph and negative we’d ever taken in that place and burnt them. I must not be careless now, but I have to find out more. Do they have a name? Do they have suspects?

A pay as you go from a phone shop would accept cash, but they would probably have CCTV, and all mobiles have serial numbers so that each handset has an individual identification. How do criminals go about it? I think of the khaki-wearing drug dealer. He must be in constant communication with buyers and suppliers. I need to go and see him. I start to invent fake emergencies – burst pipes, a family death – just to get out of the office. I get lucky when Jonathan snaps his laptop shut.

‘Got a meeting with Ulrich,’ he announces.

He should be gone for a couple of hours at least.

I wait a minute in case he returns for his keys or wallet then leave the office. I check behind me as I pass the Sensuous Bean. The man in the padded jacket has gone. Probably, he was just someone passing through, another face in the crowd.

It’s raining hard now and the square is clear of visitors except for the man I’m looking for. He’s sitting on a bench, the glow of his roll-up just visible under a large golfing umbrella.

I cross the green to reach him. He looks up and smiles in recognition.

‘More coffee already?’ he says.

‘No. I came to see you,’ I say.

‘I see. And what can I do for you?’

He shuffles along the bench and pats the space next to him. The wood is dry beneath the umbrella and I sit down. He stinks of weed. I try not to wrinkle my nose.

‘Tell me,’ he says.

‘I was wondering.’ I’m suddenly aware of the formality in my voice, the clear and precise enunciation of my mother ordering a slice of Victoria sponge. ‘I need to get hold of a phone.’

His face splits into a broad smile.

‘Do you now – and what made you think I could help?’

‘I don’t know.’ I can’t admit to watching his drug sales. ‘I just thought you might.’

He gives the faintest nod. ‘You come here to drink coffee, one of those tech lot, been here a few months.’

No one in London notices other people’s comings and goings. One of the things I love about it. My mind returns to that feeling of being observed. I make a move to stand up. He places a hand on my forearm. It’s not a menacing gesture, it’s even comforting in some way.

‘Don’t worry, love. I’m not a stalker. Got to watch people in my game – keep an eye out – know what I mean? I’m Garrick, by the way. Everyone knows me around here.’

He extends his hand and I take it.

‘Garrick, like the theatre?’ I say.

‘My mother was a hoofer back in the Sixties. Tells me I was conceived there.’ He smiles. ‘And your name is?’

‘Audrey,’ I say.

I don’t know why I’ve given my mother’s name, perhaps because I’m speaking like her.

‘And what is it for, this phone, Audrey – up to a spot of adultery?’

I don’t answer. Garrick grins.

‘Not a problem, Audrey. No information required. It’s not as though you’re going to be moving in on my patch, are you now?’ He laughs at his own joke. ‘How about you go to the cashpoint up near the station, withdraw two hundred pounds, go for a little walk and by the time you come back I may have a phone for you.’

‘Two hundred?’

‘That’s the price.’

Two hundred pounds – I’ll be living off boiled rice for the rest of the month.

‘It needs to be a smartphone,’ I say.

‘Are you sure? Some people prefer the old-style ones, harder to trace.’

‘No. It has to be a smartphone.’

‘As you desire, milady.’

He takes a shallow bow and withdraws the umbrella, so that it no longer shields me from the rain.

‘I’ll be seeing you, Audrey.’

I stand and walk towards the Tube and the nearest cashpoint.

Garrick won’t want to speak to the police any more than I do. I look at the road behind me as I cross. A man in a dark-coloured padded jacket is standing at the corner of the street, under the newsagent’s awning. The same man as before? The rain leaves his face and figure indistinct. He could be anyone.

Once I’ve taken the money from my bank account, £14.38 is all that’s left before it hits my overdraft limit. God knows what I’m going to do for money. I can’t ask Audrey for any more. I could borrow from the petty cash until my next payday but knowing my luck I’d be found out and get dismissed, which is all I need. I stuff the money into my bra for safekeeping and turn around. A few people are milling about in the rain, but the man in the padded jacket is gone. I still can’t get over the feeling of being watched.

Garrick’s gone when I return. I walk across the square and back to the main road but still can’t see him. I’ve started to circle back when I hear a whistle. I turn around. Garrick’s slouched in the doorway of one of the Georgian houses. As I walk towards him, he forks two fingers, peers down them and scans the road.

‘Sometimes I choose to stay out of sight,’ he says.

Considering the stench of weed, he’s remarkably lucid.

‘Do you have it?’ I ask.

‘If you’ve got the money.’

I pull the money from my bra, which raises a smile from Garrick. After I count the twenties into his hand, he raises the notes to his mouth, kisses them, leers at me and says, ‘I’ll treasure these.’

I step back, having visions of being dragged into the house.

‘I’ve brought the exact money and nothing more,’ I say.

Garrick looks amused.

‘No need to worry. I never harm paying clients – wouldn’t stay in business if I did.’

He disappears into the house and returns only a few seconds later with the phone. It’s an old Samsung Galaxy, badly scuffed, but I’m hardly going to have it on display.

‘I’ve turned the Wi-Fi off for you – no point to an untraceable phone if all your searches come up through your router. You’ll need to set a PIN. And there’s twenty pounds on it. If you want more, go to FoneFirst down the road. They’re very discreet.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Anything else, just ask.’

I’m about to turn away, hoping to God I’m never this desperate again, when I have a thought.

‘You know how you said you keep an eye out for people in the area?’

‘Necessity of the trade,’ he says.

‘You’ve not seen anyone new around?’

‘There’s always someone new.’

‘I think a man is following me.’

He leans back on the wall and lights a spliff.

‘Is that so?’ he says.

‘Have you seen anyone?’

‘That first time you spoke to me a fella was watching. Just being nosy, I think. Not police – I can always spot them.’

‘Can you describe him?’

‘He didn’t come close enough to have a good look. All I noticed was that he was older, had grey hair and wore a dark jacket.’

‘A padded jacket?’

‘Couldn’t say.’

His eyes have moved beyond me, looking for his next trade.

I race back to the office and head straight for the toilet and lock the door. I take out Garrick’s phone and open the web browser. Body found on North Downs – is the headline on the BBC South East webpage. Underneath is a video link. I turn the phone’s volume to low and press play. The familiar rolling landscape comes into view. The journalist is wearing a green wax jacket and corduroy trousers, as if he were interrupting walking his gun dogs to give this report. Behind him stands a beech copse and behind that, a radio mast on a distant hill. Through the trees white tents are visible and people of indeterminate gender move about in plastics suits.

A body was discovered today by a student from the Environmental Science Faculty at the University of Surrey.

The journalist’s voice takes on a false gravitas. He wants to be the next John Simpson, reporting on international conflicts, not bypass protests and increased drunkenness in the town centre.

Police have confirmed that the remains are human. There’s been no comment on the cause of death, but it has been confirmed that it is being treated as suspicious.

Police refuse to speculate on whether this could be Hayley Walsh – the teenager who went missing in Crawley three weeks ago.

The shot changes to a man in late middle age, wearing a grey suit. At the bottom of the screen the caption reads: Detective Inspector Frederick Warren.

DI: We’re making inquiries into all missing people in the area.

Reporter: Is this a recent death?

DI: We’re not jumping to any conclusions right now.

Cut back to the reporter standing in front of the copse.

And that’s all we have to tell you at the moment. We’ll be keeping you up to date as and when we have more information.

The clip ends.

I remember that hill. It’s a little different now, perhaps the beeches have grown, but the copse stands on the route we used to take to the pub. On cloudy nights the only light was the streetlamps from the town reflecting against the sky – a lonely, dark, isolated spot.

I watch two more clips from different sites. Their reports are much the same. No clue as to the identity. But on a local newspaper site, one word differs from all the other reports.

It’s believed the remains indicate a violent death.

Violent. A lonely, violent death.

Someone bangs on the door.

‘You’ve been in there ages. Are you ill?’ Miranda’s voice.

‘I’m fine.’

I leave the cubicle and scuttle back to my desk. Jonathan’s back and, fortunately, hasn’t registered my absence.

I shift in my chair and look at the clock on the wall. The hands appear to be ticking backwards. I really have to go but Jonathan expects long hours. Miraculously, at six o’clock, Miranda becomes my unlikely saviour.

‘Anyone fancy a drink? I’m going to the Huntsman.’

She pronounces it ‘Huntsthman’. Jonathan looks up.

‘I’ve been here till ten, the last two nights,’ Miranda says defensively.

I expect Jonathan to roll his eyes, but he says, ‘Could do with a drink myself.’

I never socialise with work. Instead, I stay late to create elaborate charts that will go unread, and no one presses me to join their trip to the pub. I wait for the office to empty before pulling on my coat.

The sky’s a smudgy grey, and the drizzle diffuses what little light there is into a yellow haze. To the left I can see the fuzzy profile of two smokers standing outside the Huntsman. One of them looks like Paulo, though it’s impossible to be sure through the mist, and I turn in the opposite direction, towards the Tube.

A man stares out of the Sensuous Bean’s window. He lowers his head to his coffee cup as I pass. A padded jacket is thrown over the arm of his chair. Is it the same man as earlier, the one Garrick saw, or am I being paranoid?

I reach the entrance to the Tube and I’m about to pull out my Oyster card when my phone bleeps in my pocket.

The unknown number.

IT’S HIM.

Chapter 6
1994 – Archway, London

Two hours after leaving Genevieve and Downsview Villa, Julia arrived at Archway Underground station, North London. The surrounding streets, noisy and litter-strewn, stood in contrast to the bourgeois avenues of Guildford. Pearl shared the same draughty house with the same seven people as in her final year at university. Despite all having jobs now, they continued to live off junk food and alcohol, as evidenced by the polystyrene cartons and beer bottles scattered about the place. It was a long way from the immaculate rooms of Downsview Villa, where the carpets might be dated, but at least they weren’t covered in fag burns and stained with chilli sauce. Strangely, some part of Julia envied Pearl’s overspilling bin and rattling windows. It symbolised city living, youth, vibrancy and independence. In going to Guildford, she couldn’t help thinking she’d swapped one dull backwater for another, with a different middle-aged woman hovering over her instead of Audrey.

Audrey, ever present and ever critical – Julia never thought of her as ‘Mum’. ‘Mum’ was used by daughters capable of pleasing. Whose mothers didn’t tell them being dumped by their boyfriend was their own fault, who didn’t always take the side of step-siblings over flesh and blood, because wasn’t it their father, not hers, paying for everything? Why was she so difficult and contrary? Why did she have to study computer science instead of something feminine, French perhaps? Couldn’t she have nice friends instead of misfits like Pearl and Andre? No, in her mind, Audrey would never be ‘Mum’.

A housemate let Julia in, and she made her way up to the room on the top floor, where Andre was already sprawled on the bed, a bottle of Holsten Pils in his hand. Pearl was sitting in front of the mirror, getting ready for their night out. She had shaken off the remains of parochial teenage misfit in the last couple of years and now smoked roll-ups and drank German lager, instead of the Consulate menthol and Diamond White she’d preferred in sixth form. Her hair had changed from a short, jet-black crop to a choppy, dirty-blonde shoulder-length bob.

‘We used to call that cut a shag,’ Audrey said when she first saw it.

Pearl had turned to Julia and smirked.

‘Well, it does get me laid,’ she’d said.

Today, Pearl was wearing a powder blue baby doll dress and enormous black boots. She leant towards the glass to smudge her eyeliner and muss her hair. An enviable look Julia couldn’t pull off. Dishevelled, she looked more like a librarian gone to seed than a hard-partying rock chick. Half of her longed to be forty, when the tailored dresses and slender-heeled shoes, which actually suited her, would be more acceptable. As it was, she had twisted her hair into two long plaits and wore a loose vest top, jeans and new blue suede Converse, and hoped a little of Pearl’s don’t-give-a-fuck cool rubbed off on her.

‘I want to meet her,’ Pearl said, when Julia told her about Genevieve’s eccentricities.

‘Me too,’ Andre said. ‘She sounds like a hippy version of Audrey.’

‘Please don’t compare that woman to my mother. At least not in front of her. Can you imagine Audrey in a turban?’

‘She’d look adorable,’ Andre cooed.

‘She’d have an aneurism,’ Julia said.

‘Who else is going to be living there – any guys?’ Pearl asked.

‘Someone called Alan, but he wasn’t in.’

‘A pity. Never date someone you’re sharing with, but he might have friends.’

‘I’m not looking,’ Julia said.

‘Well, you should be.’

‘Pearl’s gone all Cupid’s arrow because she’s got some news herself, haven’t you, Pearlie?’ Andre said.

‘No,’ she said and scowled.

‘What?’ Julia said.

‘Nothing,’ Pearl said.

‘Are you seeing someone?’ Julia asked.

Pearl and Andre glanced at each other.

‘Not exactly,’ Pearl said.

‘He’s called Rudi,’ Andre said. ‘They’re inseparable.’

‘Not inseparable. I’m not with him now, am I?’

Pearl smeared lipstick across her mouth, with no attempt to stay inside the lip line.

‘You see him most nights,’ Andre added.

Julia felt suddenly jealous that Andre knew all about Rudi and she didn’t. She and Pearl had always been the closest of the trio, perhaps because they were both girls, or perhaps because Pearl was an only child, and Julia had been too, until the age of nine, whereas Andre was one of four. Now, it seemed, their physical distance had resulted in an emotional one. Pearl used to tell her everything. It would get back that way, once Julia moved nearer.

‘How long has it been with this guy, Pearl?’ Julia asked.

‘Not sure.’

‘Two months,’ Andre said. ‘She’s only pretending not to remember.’

‘Two months!’ Julia said. ‘That’s a marriage for you, isn’t it, Pearl?’

Andre laughed, and Julia was about to, when she checked herself. Although Pearl was smiling, something in her expression made Julia think she’d been offended.

‘You really like him, don’t you?’ Julia said.

Andre stopped laughing too. ‘Do you?’ he asked.

Pearl shrugged and turned back to the mirror without replying. Andre threw Julia a confused look.

‘What is it?’ she mouthed.

‘I don’t know,’ Andre mouthed back.

‘Er … guys, I can see you in the mirror,’ Pearl said.

‘So, what’s going on, Pearl?’ Julia asked.

‘I didn’t want to say anything. It’s really bad timing, me getting a boyfriend so soon after you and Christian split up. I didn’t want to upset you.’

Julia felt sick. She couldn’t lose Pearl to coupledom. Not just now.

‘Nothing’s going to change,’ Pearl said. ‘We didn’t stop hanging out together because of Christian.’

That was different, Julia wanted to say. They still lived with their parents and Christian used to come out as part of their group.

‘No one would ever put you three together as friends,’ he’d said.

He was right. At school, their bond had been that none of them fitted in. Before Pearl was effortlessly cool and desirable, she had been weird-looking. Tall and spidery thin, with hands and feet too large for even her height, her domed forehead, large wide-set eyes, narrow chin and small mouth gave her an odd and unnerving appearance. Craig Carter, the school bully, said she looked like an alien. ‘E.T.’, he had called her, and it stuck.

Only at sixteen did her features start to make sense – ethereal rather than alien, her figure willowy not lanky. Jolie laide, Audrey called it, that peculiar, off-beat beauty, androgynous and without symmetry, beloved of avant-garde fashion shoots.

Andre always preferred hanging out with girls and was taunted for being a ‘poofter’ long before he realised he was, in fact, gay. At which point, he embraced his sexuality, modelled his clothing on Quentin Crisp and any boy taunting him was met with, ‘You weren’t saying that in the bushes last Saturday night, were you, darlin’?’

Unlike her two friends, Julia felt she had yet to blossom. Awkward and shy changed to slightly less awkward and slightly less shy.

‘We’ll find you someone tonight,’ Pearl said. ‘Or I’ll introduce you to one of Rudi’s friends. We could go on double dates.’

‘I told you, I’m not interested,’ Julia said.

‘Well, whatever, nothing’s going to change. When are you moving to this new place?’ Pearl asked.

‘The beginning of June,’ Julia said.

‘Yay! The old gang back together every weekend,’ Andre said. ‘And without Craig Carter hanging around.’

Julia looked at Pearl. Would she be with Rudi every weekend? She tested the water.

‘I can’t crash at Pearl’s all the time.’

‘Of course, you can,’ Pearl said.

‘And if not, you can stay at mine,’ Andre offered.

Andre shared a dank basement flat in Finsbury Park. Julia had once come across a slug on the bathroom floor.

‘She’s staying at mine, aren’t you, Jules?’ Pearl said.

She really did love Pearl.

Chapter 7
2017 – Archway, London

It’s nearly seven o’clock and the Tube is still busy when I get off the Northern Line at Archway station. My thin jacket’s insufficient against the chill. I pull it tight around me and turn the collar up, while casting an envious eye over the woman in front of me wrapped in a cashmere scarf.

I loiter at the exit and check no one’s followed me. Perhaps Audrey was right, I shouldn’t have moved back to this area. Too many memories. It’s only two streets down from the house I shared when I first came to London. The area’s supposed to be gentrifying, which just means the prices have gone up, otherwise it’s not changed since I left, with Turkish kebab houses, Greek cafés and Irish pubs. Lorries spew their fumes into the cold night air as they rumble up the A1 towards Suicide Bridge, a soon to be obsolete sobriquet for the vast iron structure that spans the Great North Road, as an anti-jumping fence is to be erected.

After a couple of minutes I’m shivering and, certain no one has followed me onto the Tube, I head home. Even if my pursuer is imaginary, the texts are real. Turning into my road, I half expect to see a police car, but the street is empty, apart from a few people like me, hurrying to get home, out of the cold and dark.

My flat is on the top two floors of a tall Victorian property. The lounge and kitchen are on the lower floor, the bedroom and bathroom in the attic. I can only afford it because it belongs to friends of Andre, who had nightmare tenants and were willing to take a considerably lower rent from someone who didn’t get raided by the police for growing cannabis. There are still holes in the ceiling where they hung the lights.

Once back inside, I fetch a half-empty bottle of Californian white wine from the back of the fridge. In the local saver shop you can buy it for £3.49. Chilled to nearly freezing, it has no taste.

I sit at the kitchen table, unscrew the cap, fill my glass and stare out of the window at the blurred City skyline in the distance. I finish it quickly and pour another. Many years ago, I set myself a limit, no more than two glasses of wine on a work night. This rule, I’ve broken three times: when my husband discovered my infidelity; when my son called me a whore; and again today, when an unidentified body of someone who died a violent death is discovered on the Downs outside Guildford.

IT’S HIM.

Not her, not the missing schoolgirl, Hayley Walsh – him.

The landline rings. My head’s a little fuzzy from the wine. I go to the lounge, lift the receiver and wait for a low voice, to repeat the menace of the text.

‘Hello, darling.’

It’s Audrey. I should have known. She’s the only person who calls me on the landline.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘How are things with you?’ she asks.

‘Fine.’

‘You don’t sound fine.’

‘You always say that,’ I reply.

‘I can’t help worrying about you, Julia. Neither can your father.’ Robert Hathersley is not my father. ‘I know you made your bed, as they say, but it doesn’t mean I don’t care.’

I ignore the implied criticism.

‘Did you ring for a reason?’

‘Do I need a reason to ring my daughter?’

I wait.

‘I spoke to your husband today. Am I still allowed to call him that?’ she says.

‘How did he seem?’ I ask.

‘He’s not happy.’

‘But did he sound upset, anxious?’

‘I imagine he’s all of those things after the way you’ve treated him.’

My husband could never stand my mother. Only since our separation have they started having cosy chats together. To him, Audrey’s just another weapon to use against me. Not that she sees it like that.

‘I made myself clear I’m one hundred per cent on his side in this matter,’ she says.

‘Your support is always valued.’

‘Well, I can hardly condone your behaviour, Julia. I’m old-fashioned enough to believe fidelity in marriage is important. And it’s just as well I did take that line, because he let me talk to Sam.’

My heart jumps. ‘How is he?’

‘How do you think? Angry, confused – he’s a teenage boy. I had one of those once and they’re like that at the best of times. Not just boys either – you and your sister were moody little madams.’

I hate being lumped together with my step-siblings and try to get her back to the point in hand.

‘Mum – Sam.’

‘Oh yes. Well, he said he’s OK. Studying hard for his A levels. We didn’t talk about you know what, but I know he misses you. I’m sure if you called him, or wrote to him …’

You’re a whore. I hate you. I wish you were dead.

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Which means no.’

I walk back to the kitchen and top up my glass. ‘It’s too soon. I need to give him time.’

‘Oh well, it’s up to you. But if he were my son …’

‘I’ve got to go, Mum.’

‘Wait a moment, Julia. Before you do, I was thinking, I mean asking, if I could come and stay tomorrow night.’

‘You hate London. And you know it’s only a one-bed flat.’

‘There’s an exhibition on at the Tate Modern and Vanessa Miller – you know, my old friend, we used to work together at Rackhams – said she was going.’

‘You hate modern art more than you hate London.’

‘I do not hate modern art. You’re always telling me what I do and do not like. I’m open to all kinds of art.’ As long as it predates 1900. ‘And don’t worry about the sleeping arrangements. I can take the sofa.’

Audrey Hathersley would as soon sleep on a park bench as a sofa.

I can’t think of a good excuse for putting her off and she did lend me the deposit for the flat, which she had to lie about to Robert to get hold of. Besides, having company might do me good – stop me rattling around in my own head.

‘Have my bed. When are you coming?’ I ask.

‘Vanessa and I are going to the midday viewing then having a spot of lunch. I’ll be there by five. I can let myself in.’

After I’ve hung up, I return to the kitchen and ferret around for something to eat. There’s half a packet of crackers left and a little cheese in the fridge. I eat them with the remains of my wine. I’m just finishing the glass and thinking about going to bed when the landline rings again. I pick it up, expecting Audrey’s forgotten something.

‘Hello,’ I say.

Silence.

‘Hello.’

Sharp breaths hiss at me through the receiver. I’m about to put the phone down, when a voice whispers, ‘Better get your story straight.’

A low, rasping voice. An unnatural voice, not the caller’s own. Not a text to my mobile phone, a call to my landline – a link, a specific location. Whoever’s making contact knows where I live. It’s intimate and menacing. I want to ask who it is, but the words won’t escape my mouth. The line goes dead.

I rush to the window and look outside. A black and white cat is scratching at the door of the house opposite, desperate to escape the damp chill of an October night. Headlights swing from the main road and onto our street, briefly spotlighting the cat, which ceases its scratching as if ashamed to be caught in so undignified an act. The lights power past and it’s left yowling for its absent owners. Nothing else moves. I look at my mobile then the landline, waiting for it to ring again. It doesn’t.

I reread the text from earlier. It’s still there, it’s real, I’m not losing my mind. I need a plan. It can only be a matter of time before this person states their intention or someone joins the dots.

Chapter 8
1995 – Archway, London

Ghosts do not exist. It was Julia’s imagination that heard the tread of heavy workmen’s boots behind her as she walked down the dimly lit streets of North London. Paranoia caused her to spin around to find a deserted pavement. Since escaping Guildford, she sensed a pressure on the edge of her bed that woke her in the night and made her turn on the light, expecting to see Genevieve sitting there, tearful and confessional.

‘I knew Dominic would come back,’ she had said. ‘I hadn’t understood the form.’

Maybe Genevieve was right, maybe they all came back in one form or another.

But recently the footsteps behind her hadn’t been heavy. And when she spun around the street wasn’t empty. A man would pull his head under the hood of a winter jacket and duck into a doorway.

There had been no contact between her, Gideon and Alan, a blessing mostly. But a tiny part of her wanted to speak to them. Did they hear the dull thump of Brandon’s boots behind them when they crossed a street? Did they catch the scent of beer and sweat as they opened their eyes in the morning? She wanted to ask them, does knowing you’re going insane mean that, actually, you’re not?

Julia had finished work late that night. The pub, just off Goodge Street, had been busier than usual and it had taken forever to empty the drip trays, wash down the bar and hoover the floor. By the time she emerged from Archway Tube station, with sore feet and an aching back, it was gone twelve. The entrance hall funnelled the wind. Discarded crisp packets and flyers spiralled above her, in mockery of autumn leaves. Julia pulled her collar up against the cold and bent her head to the wind as she crossed Junction Road and descended the hill.

When Pearl had moved in with Rudi, she suggested Julia took over her room in the shared house on Fairbridge Road. Julia had accepted. The last of Pearl’s housemates had moved out the following month. The new ones were strangers. Julia liked it that way – they left her alone.

Pearl often phoned and even came to the house. If she hadn’t been busy decorating her new place in Maida Vale, she would have been more persistent in her calls, which Julia failed to return. Like Audrey, Pearl saw too much.

Andre had moved back home to live with his parents while he studied for a Master’s in business administration. He could rarely afford trips to London.

Working two jobs kept Julia busy, stilled her mind and gave her an excuse to avoid all of them. The new exciting careers she’d dreamt of when living in Guildford had turned into working as a receptionist by day and a barmaid by night. She hardly spoke to her customers at the pub and had only the most functional conversations on the reception desk. Perhaps ghosts were only the mind pushing out loneliness.

On her infrequent days off, she would walk for miles and miles, up Highgate Hill or the Great North Road underneath the Hornsey Lane Bridge – Suicide Bridge they called it – a popular spot for self-destruction. Julia would end up in Hampstead or Alexandra Palace and carry on walking to exhaustion and beyond. Only when physically drained would her body allow her to sleep. Pills terrified her. How easy it would be one night to decide that she couldn’t face the next day and be found by one of her housemates, her face contorted, a paper envelope in her hand.

As she approached her house, she saw a man waiting on the pavement outside. It wasn’t Gideon or Alan – wrong build. She felt sick. Could it be Brandon’s father? No, this man wasn’t old enough. He was mid-thirties, wore corduroy trousers and a blue parka.

Julia walked past and opened the gate, without acknowledging him. She was halfway up the path when he said, ‘Ms Winter.’

‘Yes,’ she said automatically.

‘My name’s Mike Lancaster. I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m trying to find someone. A Mr Brandon Wells. His parents haven’t heard from him in fourteen months. They’re extremely concerned and have hired me to try to find him. I thought I’d start by speaking to everyone who shared his house in Guildford. See if he’s been in touch. You lived there at the same time I believe.’

‘The police already asked me about this, back in Guildford. He stole some money.’

‘The family aren’t convinced by that version of events, especially as they’ve heard nothing from him.’

‘Then they should contact the police. I can’t help you, Mr Lancaster. Now please, I’ve been on my feet since seven this morning.’

Lancaster came through the gate and held out a card.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘My contact details, in case you do remember anything.’

Julia took the card without a word and walked to the door, pausing as she placed her key in the lock. Lancaster was still waiting, watching her. She turned to him.

‘Have you been following me?’ she asked.

‘No.’

‘You have – for the last month, at least.’

He responded with a cough that suppressed a laugh.

‘Ms Winter, I was paid to find you and ask about Brandon. The Wells’ budget doesn’t stretch to long-term surveillance. Would I find something out if it did?’

‘Goodnight, Mr Lancaster.’

Julia shut the door behind her. Through the spyhole she watched his distorted image move away under the glow of orange streetlamps. His size and gait were not that of her pursuer. Ghosts don’t exist. If Mike Lancaster hadn’t been following her, who had?

Chapter 9
1994 – Guildford

It would have been difficult to find two women of the same age who contrasted more than Julia’s mother and Genevieve. Despite driving two hundred miles to Guildford in an overstuffed car on a hot day, Audrey’s navy blue suit remained crease-free, and she only needed a hat to look as if she were going to church. With her neatly curled crop, a splash of Rive Gauche and discreet gold stud clip-ons – Audrey considered pierced ears to be vulgar – she could have stepped straight out of the 1950s.

For Genevieve, the 1970s were an unending inspiration. She answered the door in loose silk trousers and a kimono-style top, the fabric impregnated with the scent of lemon and cinnamon. Julia was relieved she’d at least dispensed with the turban. Instead, enormous gold and jade earrings swung to her shoulders. Her hair was pulled away from her face and a single long plait, which Julia assumed to be a hairpiece, hung to her waist.

‘You must be Julia’s mother. Delighted.’ Genevieve tilted her head and flicked her eyes upwards, in an almost flirtatious manner. ‘Do come in,’ she cooed, oblivious to Audrey’s incredulous look. ‘May I offer you a cup of tea, Mrs Winter?’

‘It’s Hathersley. And no thank you,’ Audrey replied in an icy tone.

As before, Genevieve behaved like a theatre director giving a backstage tour.

‘The bathroom,’ she said with a dramatic sweep of the arm as if it were Sir Laurence Olivier’s dressing room, leaving Audrey’s eyebrows disappearing under her hairline.

‘Does she smoke marijuana?’ she asked Julia when they were unpacking together in the bedroom.

‘How should I know?’

‘She looks the sort. If there’s anything like that going on, you move out straight away. Go to a hotel. I’ll send you the money.’

‘It’ll be fine. I don’t need looking after, Mum. I’m twenty-three. You were married with a kid at my age.’

‘That doesn’t stop me worrying. Things are different now. Twenty-three is young. I’ve still no idea why you had to move so far. If it was to get away from Christian, you could just as easily have gone to Birmingham or Worcester, not the other end of the country. I can’t see how it’s any easier to find someone new down here than at home – probably harder, they’re not so friendly, unless they’re like your landlady, which is not the sort of company you want to keep.’

Audrey gave the door the disapproving look she’d like to have given Genevieve.

‘Finding someone new? That’s the last thing I want.’

‘Now, Julia, you don’t want to end up like your Aunt Rena.’

‘I’d love to be Aunt Rena.’

‘Julia, no!’

For Audrey, Aunt Rena was a sad example of what could befall a woman who didn’t secure a man young enough in life. In her fifties, single and childless, Rena was to be pitied. ‘I’d feel a little more sympathy for her if it wasn’t all her own fault. If she had just made an effort with any of her men, I’m sure one of them would have married her.’ The fact that Aunt Rena seemed perfectly content, had travelled the globe, published several bestselling travel memoirs, and was currently residing in Buenos Aires with a younger man called Norberto was scant consolation to Audrey. And any attempt to persuade her Rena could be happy was met with utter incredulity.

‘I just mean, I don’t want to end up with someone on the rebound,’ Julia said. ‘I need to give it some time.’

‘Not too much time,’ Audrey said.

Arguing was pointless. Audrey’s opinions were as inflexible as her spine, and Audrey Hathersley never slouched.

Julia stood back and let her mother organise her clothes, alphabetise her books and move the bed to use the available space more efficiently. Only as Audrey was leaving did Julia realise she didn’t want her to go. They had never been apart for any significant length of time. Aunt Rena told her that Audrey had suffered several miscarriages and, before Julia arrived, Audrey had believed she was unable to carry a baby to full term.

‘Even after you were born, she hovered over your cot. Convinced you were about to stop breathing,’ Rena said.

And fourteen months later, Julia’s father died. She couldn’t mourn a man she’d never known, but it must have devastated Audrey, though she never spoke about this period in her life. The wrench at their separation must have afflicted Audrey as much as Julia. But displays of emotion weren’t Audrey’s way. She considered them as vulgar as pierced ears. Julia could think of no reason for asking her to stay longer, and as she had said earlier, she was twenty-three, an adult, not in need of her mother.

‘I better go, it’s a long drive,’ Audrey said. ‘Give me a hug.’

Julia gave her a longer squeeze than usual and was engulfed by the scent of Rive Gauche. Audrey handed her fifty pounds in cash, ‘for emergencies’, then went out to the car. Julia followed her and watched as the little blue Fiesta chugged to the end of the road.

Genevieve had gone out to meet a gentleman friend and the house stood empty. Julia returned to her room, sat on the bed and looked out of the window. Audrey would be getting onto the motorway by now. In a couple of hours, she’d be hundreds of miles away.

What was she doing here? Escape to overcome heartbreak should have meant adventure – not a corporate job at a medium-sized firm in the Home Counties. She should have gone to France, lived in Paris, the Latin Quarter, had an affair with a handsome artist called Emile, who lived in a small flat above a café. They’d stay in bed till noon, making love and smoking Gauloises. Later, they’d amble downstairs to the café, share a bottle of wine with friends and talk politics and philosophy until the late evening, before falling back into bed.

Instead she was fetching an iron from the utility room to press the clothes for her new job at Morgan Boyd next week. She took the iron and ironing board to her room and allowed it to heat up as she fetched coat hangers from the wardrobe and pulled her work blouses from her case.

Her escape didn’t have to be France. She could head south to Portugal or Spain, work in a bar and send a postcard to Christian – Wish you were here?

Mechanically, she pressed the blouses, the steam having little effect on the deep creases. She could leave now. Repack and catch a train to London. Pearl would let her crash on her floor until she found a job. She stopped ironing. London was no more likely than France. It wasn’t lack of language skills stopping her. It was cowardice. Julia craved safety and certainty, a proper job with steady money. Adventure was for other people.

She hung the blouses in the wardrobe, returned the iron and board, then sat on the bed and pushed her back to the wall. The elation she’d felt at leaving home, the hope of catching up on exciting life experiences, evaporated. She no longer felt the thrill of sticking two fingers up at Christian and his new girlfriend, Ellie – See, I don’t care, I’ve got a new life. Christian and Ellie would be glad she was gone. They could carry on their perfect lives without the anxiety of running into Julia at unexpected moments, prodding their consciences, a reminder of their lies and broken promises.

It was Saturday night and Julia was alone, in a house and in a town where she knew no one. She was the only one suffering for her choice. Tears bubbled up and she couldn’t stop herself sobbing. What on earth had possessed her to come to this place? She wished she’d gone back with Audrey. She wished she’d gone home.

Chapter 10
2017 – Archway, London

Better get your story straight.

The caller has been careless and left their number, a mobile. I could ring it back. Not from my phone and not from Garrick’s phone – I don’t want to provide any link between it and me. I consider the payphone on St John’s Way. It’s a bit of a walk and it’s dark and if I am being followed … Part of me doesn’t want to know who this is. Can it be the same person who’s sending the texts, and are they warning or threatening me? I shouldn’t have started drinking. I need a clear head. I try to think of a scenario in which the texts are the result of some hideous coincidence but there’s no wriggle room. Someone knows. The best thing to do is nothing, to wait and see, though that hardly constitutes a plan.

I feel so alone, even my husband would be a comfort. I remember now why I married him.

Upstairs, I go through the motions of going to bed: wash my face, clean my teeth, comb my hair. I put on Radio 4, hoping to find friendly, familiar voices to soothe me. Tonight, all voices serve as an irritant and I switch it off. I look at Garrick’s phone again. A new article has appeared. The investigation has moved on. Hayley Walsh has turned up in France with her schoolteacher. Suitably lurid headlines accompany this discovery, which is of more shock value than the corpse. Given the state the body must be in, the police can’t have believed it was a recent death. And despite knowing little about forensic science, I’m pretty sure it couldn’t have been mistaken for a fifteen-year-old girl, even on a superficial examination.

I scroll down the other search results – more mentions of Hayley – then I see it in a local Surrey paper, Speculation Growing About Body on the Downs. The first mention of a name.

The opening paragraphs tell me what I already know, and the article is padded out by an interview with the student whose soil sample resulted in the body’s discovery. Althea Gregory says she ‘couldn’t believe it’, and there’s a picture of her looking pleased with herself and her fifteen minutes of fame.

Only the latter part contains anything of interest.

Speculation is growing that the body is that of missing backpacker Brandon Wells, last seen in August 1994. Sources within the investigation have confirmed that this is a viable line of inquiry and they are currently in touch with police in his home country of New Zealand.

I scroll down to see further results. BBC South East has a clip.

The same journalist as before stands on the same spot on the Downs. Behind him, the ridge of the hill glows yellow. The shot pans down to a small copse. Yellow tape flutters at the edge of the trees and, just visible through the trunks, is a white tent.

Police have refused to rule out that the body found is that of missing backpacker Brandon Wells, last seen in 1994. Locals may remember his parents coming over from New Zealand and putting pressure on the police to launch an investigation. However, it must be emphasised that these are early stages in the investigation and DNA tests will be required before continuing this line of inquiry.

I put down the phone.

Nineteen ninety-four. Twenty-three years ago. Brandon Wells. Guildford.

It won’t be long now.

It’s him. Better get your story straight.

Chapter 11
1994 – Guildford

Julia spent the entire weekend in Guildford, alone. Genevieve had disappeared with a man, whom she briefly introduced to Julia as Edward. The elusive Alan was yet to return, and Lucy would be working in the Netherlands for the next fortnight.

Monday morning’s seven o’clock alarm came as a blessing. Julia was better suited to work than solitude.

With only one cup of coffee inside her and wearing a new suit and crisply pressed blouse, Julia headed out of the house, her desire for company overcoming her first-day nerves.

‘A word please, Julia,’ Genevieve called, as she was halfway through the front door.

Dressed in emerald silk pyjamas and with a full face of make-up, she struck an incongruous figure in the grey morning light.

‘It’s my first day, Genevieve. I don’t want to be late.’

‘I shan’t keep you a moment,’ she said. ‘I don’t mind today, but in future could you use the side door – the silver key on the fob I gave you. It takes you through the garage and into the kitchen. The hallway gets so mucky with all you young people coming in and out.’

‘You want me to use the tradesmen’s entrance?’

‘The side door,’ Genevieve said. ‘Alan and Lucy don’t mind.’

She gave a little tinkling laugh, which sounded false and forced. Was she drunk? It was eight in the morning. Julia remembered Lucy’s wry smile when she’d said, ‘She’s fond of—’ Booze, was that what she had been going to say? Audrey had accused Genevieve of being a pothead, but it seemed she was just a common or garden lush. Julia didn’t have the time to argue.

‘Fine. I’ll use the side door,’ she said.

Genevieve came out onto the step as Julia walked up the drive.

‘Do enjoy your day,’ she said brightly.

The position at Morgan Boyd Consulting had been a sideways move. Julia had more experience than her manager expected, and she handled her workload with ease. The other two graduates, Bee and Fraser, asked her advice on several points, and later invited her out for drinks at a wine bar in the town centre, where they shared a meat platter, downed a couple of bottles of wine and filled her in on the office gossip.

Fraser then started mimicking their boss Jim’s obscenity-ridden outbursts. To the office in general, ‘What did I fucking do to deserve having to work with such a bunch of fucking incompetent fucks?’ To his PA, Penelope, when she forgot his wife’s birthday, ‘I should just sack you and get some useless tart from Office Angels – at least she’d be easy on the eye.’

‘How does she put up with it?’ Julia asked.

‘Fraser reckons she’s in love with Jim,’ Bee said.

‘No way.’

‘Jim’s an ugly tosser, but who else has she got to fantasise about? Middle-aged, divorced, her kids have left home.’ Fraser counted off Penelope’s deficiencies on his fingers. ‘She probably hasn’t had it in years. It’s sad, the way she’s always angling for invitations to the pub.’

‘Maybe she’s just lonely,’ Julia said.

‘Then she should find people her own age to hang out with,’ Fraser said. ‘What would we have to talk about – knitting, Songs of Praise?’

‘You know who you really should seduce, Fraser, and do us all a favour?’ Bee said. ‘Jim’s wife. I’m sure she had her eye on you at the Christmas party. A toy boy would keep her happy, which would keep Jim happy, which would get him off our backs.’

‘Suddenly Penelope’s not such a bad prospect,’ Fraser said. ‘What about you, Julia – do you have a boyfriend, girlfriend, crush?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘No one.’

‘There must be somebody,’ Bee said.

Julia thought of Christian. Most likely he was wrapped in Ellie’s arms right at that very moment. She downed her wine and made her excuses.

She stumbled back to Downsview Villa at around eleven. Remembering to use the side door, and without turning on the light, she crept through the garage and into the kitchen and hall where the streetlamps provided just enough illumination to see the stairs. As she neared the top, a shard of light fell across the landing. A door opened, and a man stood silhouetted in its frame. Genevieve came out and pulled it shut behind her. The landing fell dark again. She turned and started to ascend the stairs to the attic rooms, then stopped.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s only me,’ Julia said.

‘Who?’

‘Julia, Genevieve. It’s Julia.’

She continued to the landing and switched on the light. Genevieve’s face was wet with tears.

‘What’s happened?’ Julia asked.

Genevieve moved towards her, holding her arms straight out in front, as if bracing for a fall. At the last moment she wrapped them around Julia, placed her head on Julia’s shoulder and started to sob.

‘Genevieve?’

She made no response. Julia looked to the door, from which Genevieve had come. It was only a few feet away. The occupant must be able to hear her crying. A little drunk and unsure what to do, Julia decided it best to lead Genevieve to her bedroom and sit her on the bed.

‘Has something happened, Genevieve?’

‘No. Nothing. I know people think I’m …’

Her voice was weak and fractured.

‘Think you’re …?’ Julia prompted.

‘Alan was quite horrible. He doesn’t understand.’

‘Understand what?’

‘Is it so bad for a woman my age to enjoy the company of younger men?’

Julia’s thoughts were fuzzy. She wished she’d said no to the second bottle of wine.

‘I … err … you mean …’

‘It’s not sexual,’ Genevieve said.

‘No?’

‘It’s their vitality, their beauty, their strength.’ It sounded sexual. ‘And now Dominic isn’t here … I was an actress, you know. I was in a Polanski film. My agent said I had Hollywood potential. I gave up all ambition for Dominic. He was everything to me. I miss him every day.’

‘Dominic – your husband?’ Julia asked.

‘My son,’ Genevieve said.

Did women really value their sons for their vitality, beauty and strength? Audrey would never describe Julia’s stepbrother in that way. She’d describe him as a sweet and clever boy, a catch for some lucky girl when he got older.

‘Is Dominic coming back soon?’ Julia asked.

Genevieve frowned.

‘Is he at university?’

‘No,’ Genevieve said. ‘He’s in Switzerland.’

Genevieve’s voice had hardened, the confessional tone gone, discouraging further questions, which, in any case, Julia was too tired to ask.

‘Why don’t you give him a call, if you miss him?’ Julia said.

‘Hmm.’

Genevieve remained seated on her bed. Julia wasn’t sure what to say. Perhaps she still wanted to talk about Alan.

‘The thing is …’ Julia said. ‘I mean, if you go into someone’s room at night, they might think …’

‘I’m sorry,’ Genevieve said. She stood up. ‘You have work tomorrow, and I’m keeping you awake.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Julia said.

‘I’ve been so silly.’

‘It doesn’t matter, Genevieve. Really, any time.’

Genevieve dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘Goodnight then,’ she said.

Julia waited for Genevieve’s footsteps to disappear up the stairs to the attic before going to the bathroom. The landing light had been turned off, but she caught the flash of white gloss on Alan’s doorframe glinting in the streetlight, before the soft shunt of wood on wood.

She was too tired and too drunk to care if he’d overheard her conversation with Genevieve. Julia hadn’t said anything she shouldn’t.

After washing her face and cleaning her teeth, she returned to her room, slipped into bed and lay back with the blinds open, watching the night sky.

Poor Genevieve, she must have been a beauty in her youth, captivating men, not seeking them out in the dead of night, to be rebuffed and humiliated. Not dissimilar to Penelope at work. But Genevieve did not long occupy her mind as wine and exhaustion tugged at her eyelids.

Julia wasn’t concerned with the fading of youth. Middle age seemed as far away as the moon above her. A place to which other people travel but she would never venture herself.

Chapter 12
2017 – Archway, London

There’s a moment when I wake, still cosy and warm under my duvet, that I forget, and all that lies ahead of me is the Tube and a laptop screen. As I roll over to switch off the alarm, I remember the missing backpacker Brandon Wells, the texts and the phone call.

It’s him.

Better get your story straight.

A warning or a threat? Again, I can’t think of anyone who could have sent the text, who would have sent the text, nor who would have called me. My mind starts whirring – the last thing I need is Audrey coming to stay, but it’s too late to put her off now.

I’m stuck in a meeting all day with Jonathan and Ulrich, who were at university together and are old friends. The only words I speak are an introduction, my name and role in the project. Then I just sit there as they run through figures and statistics. Occasionally, Jonathan asks, ‘Isn’t that right, Julia?’ and I nod without registering the question. My phone lies still and silent. I’m starting to hate the sound of these men’s voices, their charts, deadlines, projections and the occasional aside about uni days – Wasn’t Jonathan a lad, eh?

All I can think about is Garrick’s phone. I’m continually aware of its weight in my pocket, as if it’s calling to me. Has anything new arisen? Will I leave this office to find police officers waiting for me? My fingers tingle with frustration, and still Jonathan and Ulrich go on and on about leverage, bandwidth and accountability.

Eventually, they even bore themselves and decide to dedicate the rest of the day to swapping tales of their riotous youth.

‘We’re going for a quick drink,’ Jonathan says. He looks at me, slightly nervous. ‘You don’t want to come, Julia, do you?’

I’m tempted to say yes just to annoy him. Instead, I tell him I have work to do.

The second they leave I head straight to the toilets.

As always with such torturous waits, they’re in vain – no new information has been reported from Guildford. I’m disappointed, though I should be relieved. I’m becoming over reliant on Garrick’s phone, I won’t be able to keep it for ever. And I worry about my own phone. How would a stranger interpret the anonymous texts? What assumptions would be made about their being sent to me? At some point I’ll have to dump the phones as I did Brandon’s lump of a Nokia, over twenty years ago.

I wonder what happened to it. For how long are phone records kept? Has the Nokia been smashed to pieces or is it fifty feet deep in some Kentish landfill? Does it hold a trace of me, a hair, a fragment of fingernail?

My phone rings. Another false alarm.

‘Hi, hon,’ Pearl says. ‘You didn’t reply to my text. Are you coming round tonight?’

‘Audrey’s coming to stay.’

‘Tomorrow then.’

‘Rudi won’t mind?’

‘’Course not. Come for dinner. We need to catch up with all your shit.’

Pearl thinks my shit is the end of my marriage. She’s been in the States for the past three months. She wanted me to go over there and stay with her when she heard about my separation, but I had to be nearby in case Sam needed me. Which he hasn’t.

‘I won’t be able to get there until eight.’

‘You work too hard – and the girls will be in bed by then.’

‘I can’t get out of it,’ I say, ‘but I need to see you.’

‘I’ll keep a plate of something warm.’

Audrey’s small blue case is in the lounge when I get home. It’s the one she’s had for as long as I can remember. Her efficient packing means that she could easily be staying one night or one month.

She comes in from the kitchen and hugs me. I catch the scent of Rive Gauche. It doesn’t matter how much she irritates me, the waft of perfume and the hug always gives me a moment of inner calm. A memory from childhood, when a mother’s love and home-baked biscuits could shoo away the world’s ills.

‘I’ll take your bag up to the bedroom,’ I say.

‘I really can take the sofa, you know,’ she says.

‘Don’t be silly.’

I put the bag down next to the bed and check Garrick’s phone. Nothing new.

When I come down, Audrey’s poking around in the lounge then follows me into the kitchen.

‘This flat’s much nicer than I thought it would be. I remember that awful place you rented in Archway before,’ she says, looking out of the window. ‘This has a fantastic view. It’s not very big, but you don’t need much space and I suppose it’s only temporary.’

‘Tea?’ I say. ‘How was the exhibition?’

‘Oh, very good, very interesting,’ she says distractedly.

I knew she’d hate it. The trip isn’t about broadening her tastes in art. She’s down here to see me. The first visit since my separation.

‘We’ve got pasta for dinner. Is that OK?’

‘Lovely,’ she says. ‘I suppose this is what they call a bachelor pad – spinster pad doesn’t have the same ring, does it?’

‘No.’

‘Though technically, you’re not a spinster.’

‘Divorcee pad doesn’t sound any better.’

‘You’re not divorced. There’s still time to make it up. Sam might be close to adulthood, but he still needs his mother. This flat’s nice but wouldn’t you rather be home?’

‘It’s not an option.’

The kettle boils. I pour a little into the mug for Audrey’s tea and the rest into a pan for the linguine.

‘Have you spoken to Sam yet?’ she asks.

I see his face twisted in disgust. You’re a whore. I hate you.

‘I think he needs more time, Mum.’

‘Patching things up with your husband would be a good start.’

‘I’ve told you, that’s not going to happen.’

I filch the tea bag from Audrey’s mug, put the milk in and hand it to her. Her nose wrinkles a fraction.

‘I don’t have a teapot, Mum,’ I say.

She says nothing, takes the tea, rests it on her lap and tips her head to one side. I know what’s coming.

‘I still don’t know what you were thinking, Julia?’

‘Don’t start,’ I say.

I plunge the linguine into the water and start slicing some tomatoes.

‘If you said you’re sorry – that it was a mistake …’

‘I’m not sorry. It wasn’t worth it because it’s made Sam hate me. I told you, my marriage was over years ago.’

‘And what about him – this Hugh person – did you think about him and his wife? How do you think she felt?’

In truth it wasn’t until Hugh’s wife confronted me in the lobby at work – What sort of woman was I? Did I really think I could break up their marriage, fifteen years and three children? – that I remember crying similar tears years ago over Christian, when he betrayed me. Her face showed anger, but also fear that her husband would leave. I’d forgotten that some women love their husbands. That not all marriages are a slow tussle of one person imposing their will on another, seeing how much the other can bear. This woman loved Hugh. Only then did I feel ashamed.

‘You could start over, afresh. I’m sure he’d take you back. Say that you were feeling neglected, you wanted to make sure you’re still desirable,’ Audrey says. ‘All women feel like that at your age. We just don’t …’

She raises her eyes to the ceiling and searches for the words. I decide to help.

‘Just don’t shag your son’s rugby coach,’ I say.

‘Have affairs,’ she says firmly. ‘You think you’re being very modern, don’t you, Julia? When ninety-nine per cent of your marital problems are down to your attitude. If your husband was neglectful, it’s because you made it clear you don’t need him. You’re so masculine.’

‘Remind me to shave my beard off.’

‘And sarcastic.’

‘You’re feminine, Mum, always let Robert rule the roost. How did that work out for you? Is he still changing secretaries every few years?’

She ignores my dig.

‘What I’m saying is, all marriages go through rough patches. Often much more serious than yours. You can both get through this.’

‘Neither of us want to get through this. We’ve not been happy for years, and anyway he’s found someone else.’

‘Who?’

‘Plain Jane.’

‘Well you’re definitely in with a chance of getting him back. You’ve still got your looks. My genes, no need to thank me. Though a little make-up wouldn’t go amiss. You should be making more effort now you’re separated, not less.’

I smile. ‘Jane’s not really plain,’ I say. ‘I just call her that because she’s so boring. I think they were seeing each other before.’

‘Maybe you should try being a little more boring. It’s all very well being a career girl—’

‘No one’s used that expression since 1979. In the same way that no one says “lady doctor”.’

‘So what am I supposed to call female doctors?’

‘Doctors?’

‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you, Julia? I don’t know why you always have to be so hard on me.’

‘Not as hard as you are on me. Sam’s going to grow up hardly knowing who you are, the amount you work. Is it any wonder your husband’s had enough? I’m not taking your side in all this.’

‘They’re called home truths,’ she says. ‘And I may be hard on you but at least I don’t sneer.’

‘I—’

Audrey raises a hand.

‘Don’t deny it. Poor Mum, the little woman at home in the kitchen who gets into a tizzy if her husband’s dinner’s not warm enough and worries that her windows aren’t as clean as next door’s.’

‘That’s not true,’ I say.

‘And it’s not just the words I use or being a housewife. It’s everything. Oh, she reads Joanna Trollope and Maeve Binchy, while you’re reading something with no plot that’s won a prize, thinking it makes you clever.’

‘I like those books.’

‘Well I like Maeve Binchy and Joanna Trollope. There’s nothing wrong with them.’

‘I never said there was.’

‘No, but I see you smirking every time I pick one up. It’s the same with television or even the curtains. If I was clever and educated, I’d like better television and have better curtains. Well, where’s your cleverness got you? Halfway to a divorce and relying on a handout from your stepfather to put a roof over your head. And you look down at me for not being independent.’

‘Touché.’

‘And why haven’t you got any money after all your years working?’

‘Sam has to stay in the house, and I have to help pay for it and Sam’s upkeep.’

‘No savings?’

‘Sam’s starting university soon.’

‘He can’t cost that much. I know you’re at fault …’

‘Yeah, we covered that.’

‘But you should be able to live decently. What would you have done if I hadn’t been able to lend you the money for the deposit?’

‘You did, and I’m doing OK.’

I go to the stove. The pasta’s turned to mush. I hold up the soggy mess. Audrey shakes her head. Another example of my domestic ineptitude.

Audrey looks out of the window. It’s clear tonight and the lights of the City outline its buildings against the inky sky.

‘I suppose when Sam does leave home, you’ll get your share of the house,’ she says.

‘Hmm,’ I say.

After dinner we go to the lounge and watch Audrey’s favourite television programme. It’s about an English couple renovating a French château. There’s about a hundred episodes. After the first advert break I sneak off to the bathroom and check the phone. Nothing new pops up.

I come back to the lounge and slip the phone down the side of the sofa. After three episodes of the château programme Audrey says, ‘I’ll go up and read. It’s been a long day. I’m leaving early tomorrow. I’ll ring you when I get back.’

‘I’ll be at Pearl’s tomorrow,’ I say.

‘Friday then, when you’re free.’

I kiss her goodnight. When she’s gone, I retrieve the bottle of vino cheapo lurking at the back of the fridge and pour myself a glass.

I’m a third of the way down when the buzzer goes.

It must be for the previous occupants – no one ever calls for me. I decide to leave it. It buzzes again.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Rex and Sol have gone.’

‘Is that Ms Winter, Julia Winter?’ a male voice says.

‘Who’s this?’

‘I’m Detective Inspector Warren and I’m with Detective Constable Akande of Surrey Police.’

The intercom crackles.

‘What’s this about?’ I ask.

‘Perhaps we could come up and speak to you?’

‘It’s getting late,’ I say.

‘It is rather urgent, Ms Winter.’ Another voice, female – this must be Akande.

‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’ I ask again, though I know what they’re going to say.

‘We’re here to talk to you about Brandon Wells.’

Chapter 13
1994 – Guildford

Julia didn’t get to meet Alan until Wednesday at breakfast. She had a spoonful of Fruit ’n Fibre in her mouth when he sauntered into the kitchen, still in the process of doing up his tie. He was much as his silhouette had suggested, of average height and a little too thin. He must have been older than he looked because, in grey trousers and a white shirt, he had the appearance of an overgrown schoolboy.

‘Hi,’ he said and was out of the door before Julia could respond.

She ran into him again that evening, when she came in from work. He was sitting at the kitchen table, watching television.

‘Hello, again,’ Julia said.

He turned slowly from the TV and scanned Julia, as if seeing her for the first time.

‘Hello,’ he said and turned back to the TV.

Maybe he was shy, and she should be the one to instigate conversation.

‘I’m Julia, by the way,’ she said.

‘I know,’ he said without looking at her.

‘And you’re Alan, right?’

‘Well deduced.’

His eyes remained fixed on the television. Julia was sure he wasn’t actually watching the soap opera that droned on in the background. She tried again.

‘Is there much to do around here? Do you go out much?’

This time he did make the effort to look at her.

‘You’ve got to be joking,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I’ve got a girlfriend back home. All the girls round here are right slags and the guys are no better.’

His expression made it clear Julia was included in this derision.

The prospect of sitting alone in her room all evening wasn’t great, but it was better than being with Alan.

She was about to leave when he switched off the TV and swung his leg over to sit astride the bench. She automatically turned to face him.

‘What do you think of Genevieve then?’ he said.

Julia was sure whatever her opinion, he would deem it contemptible.

‘She seems nice,’ she said neutrally.

Alan pulled a disappointed face, as if this was exactly the sort of wishy-washy comment he’d expected of someone so dull-witted.

‘I saw Genevieve leaving your room the other night,’ he said.

Julia remembered his sly closing of the door as she went to the bathroom.

‘She didn’t try it on with you, did she?’ he asked.

The question shocked Julia. She knew that was exactly what Alan had intended and managed to feign nonchalance.

‘Why would you think that?’ she said.

He tipped his head to one side. ‘No reason. I thought she might swing both ways. She seems the sort and she certainly can’t resist young flesh.’

He smiled and stood up as if to leave. Julia didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of riling her but couldn’t hide her irritation.

‘If Genevieve’s behaviour bothers you, why are you still here?’ she asked.

Alan stopped and looked at her, a sneer twitching at the corner of his lips.

‘Who said it bothers me?’

‘I wouldn’t like it, someone coming into my room at night.’

Alan raised himself up and looked more superior than ever. ‘Ah, but she did come into your room at night.’

‘Not for that reason,’ Julia said.

He laughed. ‘If you say so. And anyway, as far as I’m concerned, Genevieve can drop in any time she likes. She’s hardly going to overpower me, is she?’

‘What are you talking about – she’s just missing her son,’ Julia said.

‘And what exactly do you know about her son?’

‘He’s in Switzerland.’

‘In Switzerland. Technically accurate, I suppose,’ Alan said.

God, he was infuriating.

‘What do you mean – is he in jail or something?’ Julia asked.

‘It’s a bit more permanent than that.’ Alan slowed down his speech as if waiting for her clunking brain to catch up. ‘He’s dead.’

This time Julia couldn’t hide her shock.

‘Why didn’t she say?’

‘Hello.’ Alan waved his hand in front of Julia’s face. ‘This is Genevieve. She and reality have never been the best of friends, y’know. And Valium and vodka aren’t helping the situation.’

Julia had thought Genevieve affected and melodramatic. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be grieving.

‘What happened to him?’

‘He was on a climbing expedition in the Alps. There was an avalanche. The body was never recovered, which is why she can kid herself he’s coming back.’

‘There’s no chance?’

‘No one survived.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘It was six years ago. You’d think she’d have moved on.’

Julia thought of Audrey’s miscarriages. The absent children, never spoken of.

‘She lost her son,’ she said.

‘And how is pretending he’s still alive helping her?’ Alan said. ‘You know she keeps his room exactly how it was, buys him birthday and Christmas presents for when he comes back?’

‘What about Dominic’s father?’ Julia asked.

‘Never on the scene, as far as I can tell. Genevieve was cuckoo long before the whole thing with Dominic. You know she changed her surname to D’Auncey by deed poll. That’s Dominic’s father’s name. He never married her, already had a wife and he wasn’t going to leave her. And who could blame him?’

‘Poor Genevieve,’ Julia said.

‘Ah yes, the poor Genevieve narrative,’ Alan said. ‘The script she wants us all to stick to. Well, you can if you like. I’ve better things to do with my time.’

He ended the conversation by turning from her and exiting the room, leaving Julia unsure what to believe.

Chapter 14
2017 – Archway, London

I hunch next to the door and listen as two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs, one a dull thud, the other a light, barely audible tap. The last time I’d been interviewed by the police, over twenty years ago, I had the arrogance of youth on my side. Now, my heart’s pounding and my palms are clammy.

As they come closer, I can hear panting and pauses. Finally, I open the door to a man in late middle age, with a heightened complexion and moist brow, his gut spilling over his trousers. The other is young, slim and slight. Barely out of breath, she’s obviously been slowed down by her boss. They introduce themselves again.

Warren has a northern twang, too soft to identify any specific location. Akande is a South Londoner, trying to sound Home Counties. She has eyes the shape of a cat’s, sharp and sly. The dislike is instant and mutual. My instinct is to slam the door in their faces, but I have little choice other than to invite them in.

‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ask.

Warren looks at my glass of wine. It’s late on a Friday night. He can’t normally work these hours. A glass of wine would be his preferred option, or perhaps a pint of bitter. He sees me watching him.

‘Just water, thanks,’ he says.

‘Nothing for me,’ Akande says.

‘Take a seat,’ I say as I head to the kitchen.

I watch the detectives’ reflections in the window above the sink. Neither has sat down. Warren is standing where I left him and Akande is moving about the room, looking at my small collection of books, then at my phone on the table. She looks at Warren expressively. He doesn’t react. Perhaps he’d be more interested if she found the one stuffed down the side of the sofa, a poor choice of hiding place. They have no right to take it, no warrant has been produced. But other than love cheats, who needs a secret phone?

I’ve been away from them too long. I fill the glass and return to the lounge.

‘So, you’re from Surrey,’ I say on my return. ‘How can I help?’

My voice sounds strained, my words contrived.

I should have been bold and said, ‘I suppose you’re here about Brandon,’ or, ‘If you hadn’t contacted me, I’d have contacted you.’ My breezy manner won’t fool them. They deal with liars every day.

‘I don’t know if you follow the news,’ Warren says. He’s still a little breathless from climbing the stairs. ‘And perhaps you don’t get the Surrey news up in London, but I understand you used to live in Guildford.’

‘A long time ago,’ I say.

‘At 72 Downs Avenue, owned by a Mrs Jennifer Pike.’ He observes my confusion. ‘Perhaps you knew her as Genevieve D’Auncey.’

A swish of silk. The scent of lemon and cinnamon.

‘Yes, of course. It was very sad.’

Again, my words sound forced, like lines learnt and repeated.

‘You shared the house with four other lodgers. Gideon Risborough, Alan Johns, Lucy Moretti and …’ He pauses. ‘Brandon Wells.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What do you remember about Brandon?’

‘It was a long time ago.’

‘Anything?’

‘He left suddenly. Genevieve’s sister thought he’d stolen some money.’

‘Are you aware that, in 1995, his parents contacted the police and reported him as a missing person – his last known address being Downs Avenue?’

‘You know, I’d forgotten until you mentioned it,’ I say. ‘But, yes, a man did come and speak to me. I can’t remember his name.’

‘Lancaster,’ Akande says. ‘Michael Lancaster.’

‘It could have been.’

Corduroy trousers, blue parka; he waited outside my house, not two streets from here.

‘Do you recall what you told him?’ Akande asks.

‘I don’t know if I had anything to tell. Brandon’s leaving, well it was all overshadowed by the whole thing with Genevieve.’

‘Brandon never told you he was going, even though you were close?’

‘Who said that? We weren’t close. Not at all.’

‘He told a friend he was seeing a girl in the house. Her description matched yours.’

I don’t reply straight away. Akande waits.

‘I don’t recall Brandon having any friends. I can’t remember meeting any. He just hung around with people in the house.’

‘So, when you say you weren’t close at all …’ Akande says.

‘I wouldn’t have expected him to remain in contact after he left, even if he hadn’t stolen that money.’

‘You hadn’t argued.’

‘We had nothing to argue about.’

Warren looks unconvinced. ‘There were no conflicts – what about the male occupants of the house?’ He refers to his notebook. ‘Alan Johns and Gideon Risborough – did Brandon argue with them?’

‘I really can’t remember. Why are you asking me all of this?’

Warren looks to Akande.

‘A body’s been found on the Downs, less than a quarter of a mile from the house you shared. We believe it to be Brandon Wells.’

A dull thud lands in my guts. However much I expected this, it’s a shock, hearing the words from a policeman. The identity of the body is no longer confined to website supposition and all hope that the past week was some surreal nightmare is erased.

‘It can’t be him,’ I say.

‘Forensics are sending DNA confirmation, but we’re pretty certain that the body discovered is Brandon Wells.’

I place my hands on the back of the sofa to support my weight. What else will Forensics find?

‘Do you know how? I mean, what happened to him?’ I ask.

Warren looks at me hard, trying to gauge my reaction. ‘We’re undoubtedly looking at a homicide, though we’re not releasing further details at the moment. But you can see why we need to talk to all the people Brandon knew from that time,’ he says.

‘Have you spoken to the others?’

‘Both Mr Risborough and Mr Johns are on holiday in Italy, with their families.’ Does either of them notice me wince? ‘But we’ve spoken to Lucy Moretti. Was there anyone else living in the house back then?’

‘Only Genevieve.’

‘We’re also trying to find any photographs from that time,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose you have any?’

My nose burns in memory of the acrid smoke from the small bonfire we made, fulfilling our pact to destroy all records of the time. The thought of current social media existing back then makes me shudder. Whenever I saw Sam posting on Facebook or whatever the hell kids use these days, I used to say, ‘You’re only seventeen. You don’t know when you’ll want that information to disappear.’

He’d laugh at me. ‘Why would I want it to disappear?’

‘Ms Winter?’

Warren asked me a question – what was it?

‘Sorry … I …’

‘I asked if you had any photographs from that time,’ he says.

‘No. I didn’t own a camera,’ I say.

‘Unfortunate.’

‘Do you recall exactly when Brandon left?’ Akande asks.

‘You know what happened to Genevieve?’ I ask.

Akande nods.

‘There were so many people coming and going,’ I say. ‘Everything was muddled. I was working hard, seeing friends, trying to find somewhere else to live. I can’t be sure when he moved out. I think it was Genevieve’s sister who noticed he’d gone.’

Akande glances towards Warren. He runs his fingers around his collar and takes a deep breath. ‘A friend in London heard from Brandon in the fourth week of August,’ he says. ‘Brandon was going to move into his place over the bank holiday weekend, but never turned up. The friend didn’t think anything of it at the time, thought Brandon had changed his mind. We’ve worked out this was Saturday 27th August 1994, the last definite contact we have from Brandon. Twenty-three years later his body is found buried on the hillside opposite Downsview Villa.’

Warren continues to study me.

‘I still can’t believe it’s him,’ I say. ‘No one wished him harm. And if they had, he was a big lad – he could take care of himself.’

The detectives exchange glances. I’m being played. I must stay calm.

The stairs creak and I realise Audrey’s awake.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the detectives.

I leave the lounge and meet her on the small landing. She’s wrapped in my dressing gown, which is far too big for her. I rarely see her like this, without the armour of tailored clothes, her face free from powder and lipstick. She looks small and vulnerable.

‘I thought I heard voices,’ she says. ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘It’s nothing, Mum. Just some trouble across the road – kids. Go back to bed.’

‘Really, I don’t like you living here, Julia. It’s dangerous.’

‘Please, Mum, it’s not a big deal. Get some sleep.’

When I return, Warren and Akande are whispering to one another. They stop when I re-enter the room.

‘I wasn’t aware you lived with your mother,’ Warren says.

‘She’s just staying over,’ I say.

Something about her presence has made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s reminded of his own mother, because his tone’s almost apologetic as he explains, ‘You see the significance of where he was buried – not four hundred yards from where he lived. It’s unlikely he left then somehow ended up back there.’

‘I suppose so,’ I say.

‘It’s more probable he was killed while still living there,’ Warren says.

‘But what happened to his stuff?’ I ask.

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’

‘And he took that money.’

‘Someone took the money,’ Akande says.

‘You see where this leaves us?’ Warren says.

‘Not really.’

‘Brandon was killed while he lived at 72 Downs Avenue by someone who had access to his room.’ Warren pauses. ‘And perhaps Mrs Pike’s money.’

‘Which suggests someone living in the house,’ Akande says.

She allows the words to hang between us.

‘That’s not possible,’ I say. ‘Someone would have noticed.’

‘You’d think,’ she says.

‘You said yourself, the house was in confusion,’ Warren says. ‘All sorts of people coming and going.’

‘No one in the house would have wanted to harm him,’ I say.

‘Who else had the opportunity to clear out his room?’ Akande says. ‘We really do need to get to the bottom of any disagreements.’

‘Honestly, I can’t remember any.’

‘Three boys and two girls living in a house and there were no conflicts, no jealousies?’ Warren says.

‘Nothing major.’

‘What about minor?’

‘I …’

‘Don’t remember?’ Akande crosses her arms.

‘It was over twenty years ago. What can you remember from back then – were you even at primary school?’

Akande opens her mouth to reply, but Warren gets in there first. ‘Did you know, Ms Winter, that Mrs Pike had been giving Brandon money?’

I tear my gaze from Akande’s sneering face and back to Warren.

‘She let him off the rent, because he wasn’t working,’ I reply. ‘She took a shine to him.’

‘Was there any resentment about it?’

‘Not from me.’

‘Ms Moretti recalls a good deal of resentment,’ Warren says.

‘Memories vary.’

‘They certainly do,’ Akande says under her breath.

‘One more thing,’ Warren says. ‘You left Guildford in September that year. Not just the house but your job too – why was that?’

How did they discover so much in such a short space of time?

‘The whole thing with Genevieve shook me up. I just wanted to get away and forget about everything.’

Akande raises her eyebrows.

‘You know, it’s getting late,’ I say. ‘And I’m not sure how much more I can tell you.’

‘We’re pretty much done,’ Warren says. ‘Just one more thing – your phone.’

‘What about it?’ I say too quickly.

Akande notices and looks at my mobile sitting on the table. They can’t know about the other one, though it’s less than three feet away.

‘Can we get your number please?’

I breathe again. ‘Of course,’ I say and recite my number.

Does my voice tremble? Do they notice?

‘Thank you,’ Warren says. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

I don’t close my door until I’ve heard them descend all the stairs and the front door shuts.

I knew the police would contact me. I should have been better prepared.

My landline starts ringing. I dive to answer it.

‘Hello.’

Nothing.

‘Hello,’ I say again.

The line goes dead.

Chapter 15
1995 – Archway, London

Pearl’s presence lingered in the room Julia had taken over from her after leaving Guildford. Her Magritte print still hung on the wall and used gig tickets were tucked behind the mirror. Julia missed her and Andre. But not enough to risk meeting them.

She closed the door and wedged it shut with a chair. Not that anyone was likely to come in. She removed her shoes and a couple of large bags, lifted the wardrobe floor and removed the envelope. She took it over to the lamp and pulled out its contents.

A clever place to conceal something. Brandon had only betrayed his hiding spot through carelessness. She would never have found it without the backpack strap trapped in the gap.

There was a knock on her door. No one ever visited her in Archway.

‘Who is it?’

Silence. The knock sounded real. Not a ghost. Not an echo amplified by her mind. A solid knock, the door vibrating slightly against the frame. She knew that knock. She stood, staring at the door, half expecting it to fly open. Another knock.

‘Who is it?’

‘Me.’

She knew that voice.

‘Just a moment.’

She hurriedly replaced the envelope and its contents and put the shoes and bag back on top of it. Sliding the chair from under the handle, she opened the door. It was the first time she’d seen Gideon since Guildford.

‘We agreed no contact,’ she said. ‘Ever.’

‘I need to see you.’ He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘There’s a private detective—’

‘I know.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Yes. How did you find me?’

‘I had your home number from Genevieve’s address book. Your mother told me.’

Bloody Audrey.

‘What did you tell Lancaster?’ Gideon asked. His jaw was tense.

‘Nothing,’ Julia said.

‘You’re sure?’

‘Why would I talk to him?’

Gideon seemed to relax. He took a moment to look around the room.

‘Why are you living in this dump?’

‘It’s cheap,’ Julia said.

‘But you’ve got … I mean …’ His brow creased in confusion. ‘What have you done with it?’

She looked away from him and didn’t answer. Just moments ago she had it in her hands.

‘You can’t leave it lying around,’ he said.

‘I can’t spend it,’ she said.

‘Guilt won’t turn back the clock. Nor will grand gestures. Alan and I invested it in the business.’

‘Alan? We weren’t to have any contact.’

‘Let’s just say he’s not coping too well. I thought if he worked for me, I could help him out.’

‘Keep an eye on him.’

‘Support him. You could work for me, if you like.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘I could pay you enough to live somewhere better than this.’

He spread his arms to indicate the small room, its tiny ineffectual radiator emitting more noise than heat, the worn carpet and sagging, single bed.

‘I don’t know how you can live in that town,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t know how you can just carry on. It’s getting worse. I hear him. I smell him. Don’t you?’

Fear flashed across Gideon’s face. ‘I think you’re unwell, Julia.’

‘And what about his parents? They’re looking for him. We could still go to the police, say it was an accident.’

Gideon moved so fast, Julia had no time to react. He thrust her against the wardrobe door. Her head banged onto the wood. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

‘But it wasn’t an accident, was it, Julia?’ he said.

She wanted to push him off but was afraid what her struggling would provoke.

‘You don’t talk about this to anyone,’ he said. His eyes drilled into her. ‘We were protecting ourselves. We were protecting you. What would have happened if Alan and I hadn’t turned up?’

‘Everything all right up there?’ someone called from the bottom of the stairs.

‘You’d better go,’ Julia said.

‘Hey, is everything all right?’

‘Thanks, Mica. Gideon’s leaving,’ Julia shouted.

Gideon let her go and glanced at the wardrobe behind her.

‘You need to be careful,’ he hissed, then turned and left.

Mica came up the stairs and put his head around the door. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Mica asked.

‘No,’ Julia said. ‘He’s no one.’

Mica nodded and left.

Julia closed the door behind him and went to the wardrobe, removed the envelope once more, then took out a pen and paper. She retrieved Michael Lancaster’s contact card from her coat pocket and started to write the letter she knew she must write.

Dear Mr and Mrs Wells