FOUR
Eve pulled up in a space outside the house where she lived in Hazel Avenue, just off the Uxbridge Road. She switched off the engine, gathered up her things and hurried up the steps to her front door. The building was four storeys high, in the middle of a terrace of almost identical late-Victorian houses, almost all of which were divided into flats. Inside, the common parts had recently been redecorated and the hall smelled strongly of fresh paint and new carpet, which blotted out the dank odour from the street. She collected a couple of pieces of post from the mat, put the rest on the small shelf above the radiator and climbed the several steep flights of stairs to her flat at the top. She didn’t mind the walk up and had chosen the flat because it was more private, with nobody clattering around above her, no footsteps thudding past on the stairs. The tenant immediately below was often away and the only noise to disturb her was the occasional pigeon up on the roof, its cooing carried loudly down the chimney.
As she reached the top landing, she bent down and checked the small strip of invisible tape that she had stuck across the bottom of the door and the frame on her way out. It was still in place. It was something she had been doing for years and it had become automatic. She often told herself she was being irrational, that she had no need to worry any longer, but at the back of her mind was still the idea that one day it might save her life. Reassured that it hadn’t been touched, she peeled it off and let herself into the flat. It was light and airy, with a sitting room and galley kitchen at the front, and a bedroom and bathroom at the back, overlooking a drab patchwork of concrete yards and muddy gardens. She kept the blinds drawn most days, as much for privacy from the houses opposite as to shut out the view of other people’s lives. The flat was rented and had come fully furnished in a bland, functional way, with inoffensive carpets and neutral colours and furnishings. She had added a few touches here and there: some olive-coloured silk cushions to soften the hard, angular sofa, a large glass vase for fresh flowers, which sat in the centre of the round dining table and a new, very expensive coffee maker after her old one had broken. There was nothing characterful, or memorable, or even particularly pleasing about the space, but it didn’t bother her. It was comfortable and she had everything she needed, although even after ten months, she still had the feeling of being in transit. Nowhere had ever really felt like home. The solitude was what was important, the ordered predictability of living on her own. She hated sharing it with anyone, even for a short time. She didn’t need someone to come home to, to worry about where she was, to question her about her day, or even just fill the space with the basic warmth of another human presence. It felt just fine as it was. Jason had commented on several occasions about the lack of personal things. He wanted to know more about her and he said the place gave nothing away. It was ‘like a hotel’; she didn’t see anything wrong in that. It wasn’t ‘homey’ he said, by which she gathered he meant it lacked colour and clutter and endless useless possessions. She had tried to explain that she didn’t like bright colours and that objects, knick-knacks, meant nothing to her. She didn’t need any mementos either, anything with a connection to the past, that would twang her heartstrings each time she saw it and make her want to curl up inside. It was one of the many things he hadn’t understood.
She turned on the overhead lights and carefully unlaced her muddy boots, putting them in the kitchen sink to clean later. She stripped off her wet clothes down to her underwear and hung them over a couple of chairs next to the radiator in the sitting room. For a moment, Jason’s presence filled the room. She pictured him sprawled on the sofa just ten days before, a glass of red wine warming in his hand as he discussed the ins and outs of the case they had been working on. Work was the main thing they had in common, as far as she could tell, although maybe that was unfair. What had started as just a bit of fun had somehow morphed into something more, at least on his side. In the short space of time they had been together, she had gone out of her way not to know him, to keep him at arms-length, and yet somehow a small part of him had wriggled its way in and was still there. Death played tricks with the mind. She hadn’t loved him and yet the shock of what had happened, losing him so suddenly, so violently, had awakened all sorts of uncomfortable thoughts. For no reason, she would hear his voice, little snippets of conversation burbling away and odd images kept popping unexpectedly into her head, catching her unawares, making her wish he were still there. The framed photograph of him, which he had presented her with one evening, stared down at her from the top of the small bookcase where he had put it. All the things that had so attracted her to him – his youth, his warmth, his energy and his easy-going smile – were so plain to see. It pained her to look at it.
He had been keen to have one taken of the two of them together, but she repeatedly refused and he had become angry. ‘You’re so bloody secretive, Eve. I want to know everything about you. Everything.’ He had pulled her towards him, almost shaking her. ‘Don’t you want pictures of the people you care about?’ No. She wanted to say, They’re in my head, they’re wrapped tightly around my heart, they’re with me all the time.
He had made very little physical impression on the flat and she was glad of it. She had disposed of the few personal things he had left behind: a couple of work shirts, a pullover, a toothbrush and a razor. She had also deleted every contact with him on her phone. It was easier that way, nothing to snag uncomfortably on the order of her day and give a stab of regret. She crossed the room to the bookcase and picked up the photograph. With one last glance, she put it away face down in the bottom drawer of her desk.
It was too late in the day for coffee, not that she expected to sleep well that night. Instead, she made herself a strong cup of tea with milk and took it over to the large window, which overlooked the street. As she did most nights, she opened the blinds and stared out at the darkening skyline, with its roofs and chimneys and glittering lights, the white glow of Wembley Stadium just visible on the foggy horizon. But the sense of peace she usually felt was absent. Everything had been turned upside down by what had happened in Park Grove. Somehow, she had to find out how Jason had heard that Liam Betts was supposedly staying at the house. Had he made a mistake? Or had somebody given him false information? Before joining the murder investigation team, he had worked for several years in one of the Met’s organized crime squads. It seemed likely that that had been the connection. But so far, her contacts had drawn a blank. She had also tried speaking to Jason’s close friend, Paul Dent, a few days before the funeral. He still worked in the same unit, but he had been particularly defensive when she asked him if he knew where Jason’s information had come from. It wasn’t from anyone there, he had said categorically. It was clear from the way he spoke that he blamed her for the problems in Jason’s marriage, as well as his death. Having seen him at the funeral at Tasha’s side, she realized it was pointless pursuing it any further.
She was about to pull down the blinds when she saw a large, dark-coloured saloon car pull up in the street outside her house. A similar-looking car had been on her tail all day, taking little trouble to conceal itself. She had assumed it was press-related, although it looked far too up-market to be anything to do with Nick Walsh. A moment later, a man got out from the back, glanced up at her window, then climbed the stairs to the front door and rang her bell. She closed the blinds and turned away. She didn’t want to speak to anybody. He rang the bell again, this time leaning on it for several seconds. He must have seen her from the street and wasn’t going to give up. She went into the hall and picked up the intercom receiver.
‘Yes?’
‘Miss West? I’d like to speak to you please.’ His voice was crackly and distant over the intercom, the thick London accent still audible.
‘Who is it?’
‘My name’s Alan Peters. I have a message for you.’
‘Who from?’
‘I can explain. May I come up?’
‘No. I’m busy.’
‘I’d rather not talk to you about this out here in the street.’
‘Then you’ll have to come back another time.’
‘You