Lime Basil & Mandarin. It’s a nice combination: citrusy and earthy, unique and heady on the nose, which is probably why it’s always stuck in my memory. The assistant in Jo Malone is all over me like a cheap suit, asking me who it’s for, explaining the top notes of the fragrance and all of that business. It’s wasted on me. She might as well be talking Lime Basil and ‘Mandarin’, literally. Clearly she’s on commission and I feel a bit sorry for her, it must be a drag having to be so upbeat all the time in the hope of making a sale. Still, I feel pleased with myself because my gut, or more accurately, my nose, hasn’t let me down. I checked with housekeeping at La Reymond and they gave me a list of all the complimentary toiletries that should’ve been in Baxter’s suite that afternoon, only they couldn’t be specific about the particular bath oil that had been used: the list simply stated ‘a selection’ of Jo Malone products. But I knew I’d smelt that smell before. Rachel used to have a candle with the same fragrance. She lit it occasionally, generally before we had people over because it made the whole apartment smell good. I remember commenting on it once and she told me its name. It was irrelevant at the time, words said in passing you know, but I must’ve logged it subconsciously, the name and the smell. Rach liked it for the scent of basil; as a chef she was into her herbs and spices. Cost a fortune these candles, she told me. And, the best part of one hundred quid later, I leave the shop realising she wasn’t wrong. I buy the bath oil, and a candle – for Rach and for our apartment – and I know that when I light it I’ll have to try to think about her and not Nigel Baxter’s body in the bath. Now I think of it, I’m pretty sure I smelt it on my fleeting date with Florence too. I guess it’s popular, which is great for Jo Malone – and pretty shit for me.

Craig Mathers infiltrates my thoughts as I leave with my purchases. I don’t know why I went to his mother’s house last night. I’m not entirely sure what I wanted to happen and with hindsight I gave myself a bit of a fright. I could feel the anger and resentment rising inside me like a thermometer as I made the journey, the sense of injustice that he, Mathers, is alive and breathing, that he gets to go home to his mother and father, to his girlfriend; he gets to laugh and eat and smile and sing and to make love, to be normal again. He gets to put the past behind him; he has the chance to start again, to forgive himself and move on. I imagine he already has – forgiven himself, I mean – and I imagine the things his family, his girlfriend, say, the reassuring words of love and support they give him: ‘you’ve done your time, son, you’ve paid for your mistake, now it’s time to start over, time to start living, to forgive yourself and move on.’

Well, I’m here to remind him; I’m here to make sure he never forgets what he’s done, the lives his actions have affected, the ripple effect of my girl’s death. I want Mathers to know that while his family may have given him absolution, I absolutely have not and never will. They say you dig two graves when you seek revenge and for the most part of my life I have agreed with this statement. But now, now I get it, the crimes of retribution I have witnessed, the natural human desire to hurt someone who has hurt you, destroyed your family, your life, your future. I understand what drives a person to even the score now. And I don’t like it, I don’t like the way it makes me feel, but I feel it nonetheless. Murderous thoughts enter my head as I make a sharp right; I imagine Mathers standing in the middle of the road, his rat-like features bleached out by my high beams, his forearm covering his face to protect his eyes as I put my foot down on the accelerator…

Mathers’ mother’s house was a fairly modest semi situated down a suburban cul-de-sac near Southgate. It was secluded and out of the way. A nice road I suppose, the sort of road a builder who’s not done too badly for himself would live – the sort you’d expect. I had parked up by a tree a few houses down, making sure I had a clear view of the Georgian-style front door. There was a light on at the front, people at home. I stared at the house, unable to take my eyes off it for a second in case I missed something, what I don’t know. I couldn’t say how long I sat there, watching, waiting, but after a while a woman left the house. I didn’t recognise her, but I presumed that it was Mathers’ mother. Upon seeing her, I now remember her from the court case, a brassy-looking blonde woman who wore garish suits and heavy make-up, a bit ‘Peggy Mitchell from Eastenders’ I had thought at the time. She made eye contact with me once throughout the manslaughter case and I recall thinking how sad she seemed. We never spoke but I got the impression she was a salt-of-the-earth type of woman, a little coarse but kind, and that she was sorry; for me, for her son, for herself. This woman’s hair was darker though, shorter maybe, which made me think it might not be the same woman. She had a dog with her, one of those English bulldogs with the eye patches and snub noses. She was across the street and I turned away, grabbed my phone and pretended to look at it until she passed. I checked my watch and realised I’d been sitting outside the Mathers’ house for almost two hours. It jolted me back to reality and once she disappeared in the rear-view mirror, I started the engine and drove away.

On the drive home I gave myself a talking to and decided that I never wanted to see that man’s face again, and that it was stupid and reckless of me to drive over there but it’s a battle of wills between the cognitive dissonance I feel, a cerebral stand-off in my brain, literally, between good and bad. And I’m frightened it will be a battle to the death…

When I arrive back at mine and Rach’s empty apartment after my pricey shopping trip, I run myself a hot bath, put one of those delicious ready meals that reminds me I’m alone in the microwave, and light the Jo Malone candle. I feel spooked so I decide to have a drink. I fancy getting drunk, blotting out my feelings, feelings that have led to thoughts – dark, black thoughts that are already taking me to places I don’t want to go to. Craig Mathers is a living breathing free man, alive and well, and Rachel’s still dead.

The apartment is cold and I switch the heating on. It’s April, and that’s kind of depressing. Rachel always wanted to live in a warm climate; we talked about it a lot. She fancied California; LA would’ve suited her down to the ground, ‘right up my boulevard’, as she used to say. Barefoot and bohemian, she was cut out for beach life and she’d have loved riding the open roads on her bike. I’d have struggled a bit more I think. ‘I’ll bring out the gypsy in you yet Danny Riley,’ she’d tell me and I’d say I could be like that Ponchorello from Chips, riding up and down the highways. I used to love that TV show as a kid. I wonder if anyone else has noticed how much the actor who played him looks like Bruno Mars, back then anyway. A real pin-up was Poncherello. All the girls from my primary school had a crush on him and I wonder, a little miserably, as I pull the plastic off my processed shepherd’s pie and pour myself a far too generous tumbler of neat Jack and ice, what he looks like now. I think about googling him, Poncherello, but then my phone beeps. It’s Fiona mentioning how nice it was to see me today, which I translate as her wanting to know if I’m okay after what’s she told me. She wishes me luck with the online dating too, which is good of her after spectacularly cock-blocking me today, or whatever it is the kids refer to it as these days. She says it will do me good, getting back out there. It reminds me to message flirty Florence. I suppose I should come good on my offer of dinner, although I have to admit – and this doesn’t happen to me very often… I got the distinct impression she would’ve skipped dinner. I check the time: it’s gone midnight. Too late to send a text. According to ‘Rachel’s Rules’, as I used to call them, women would consider messages any time after 11 p.m. to be a booty call. I liked her rules; they made sense. How much I wish I could’ve lived a lifetime by them. I would have abided by every single rule.

I decide to message Flirty Flo tomorrow instead. I doubt she’s waiting up for my call anyway. Still, as I get into the bath and start on my Jack I can’t help thinking about the fact I haven’t had sex in almost two years. My body is screaming out for it, well, a certain part of it is anyway, not wishing to be crude. But although I joke, I do miss the touch of a woman; skin-to-skin contact, soft hair resting on my chest… it’s not just the animal act, I miss the intimacy too. Yet as much as my physical needs are screaming out to be heard, my mind keeps silencing them. Because I know, deep down somewhere inside of me, I know, that if I was to touch another woman, even without any deep emotional connection to her, a part of me would be letting Rachel go. And realistically, I wouldn’t really want to sleep with a woman I didn’t feel a deep connection with; it would be like betraying Rach even more. So I’m fucked – or rather, I’m not fucked – whichever way you look at it. I guess I’m just not ready, and it scares me that I might never be. So I masturbate, I have to relieve the pressure somehow. It’s only been in the past few months that my libido has returned, a gradual trickle, a pull I’m unable to ignore but which makes me feel guilty and grim. I don’t want to feel turned on without her, I don’t want to come alone. I think of her as I go about doing what I do; I imagine her skin against mine, her intimate scent and how I felt inside her. As I close my eyes, I visualise my fingers on her, holding her thighs while she’s on top of me, looking down… Her breathing is heavier, her small breasts gently bouncing, her nipples stiff as my lips make contact. I’m close to coming now, I feel the familiar sensation in my stomach as it builds, guiding me towards it, and I look up at her face, at those big wide eyes and thick lashes, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose… ‘Mmm, mmm, yeah…’ her noises get me there and as I come I imagine looking up at Rachel again, but this time her face has changed slightly, her voice too, ‘shall we get a hotel, Daniel? Do you want to fuck me, Daniel?’

It’s not Rach anymore, it’s Florence… Florence Williams.

I’m still for a moment afterwards, I guiltily wipe the vision from my mind and place the Jo Malone candle on the side of the bath; afterwards I add a little of the oil to the water, not too much; I don’t want to smell like a tart’s handbag as the boys down the nick say. Nigel Baxter comes into my thoughts now; I don’t want to think of him either but I do, I can’t help it. Baxter betrayed his wife, poor, unsuspecting, loyal Janet; he gave in to his most base carnal desires and this subsequently led him to his unknowing demise. Murdered in a bath, just like the one I’m in now. Dance with the devil and your feet get burned, as my dad always says.

The Jack’s gone to my head already so I take another mouthful as I sink into the warm oily water. Baxter wasn’t killed for money; his bank account hasn’t been touched and his statements show no unusual or unexplained withdrawals. He wasn’t being blackmailed, which would be the obvious motive, given his alleged penchant for deviant behaviour. I think of the bear again, its little black eyes shining like beads. The killer’s calling card. Goldilocks. She left it there, as many killers do, for a reason. But what? If it wasn’t for money to blackmail the poor bastard, then why?

I’m relieved when I hear Rachel’s voice again: ‘Sometimes Danny, there is no why.’