It’s dark by the time I reach my apartment – our apartment – and I’m emotionally exhausted by the nagging suspicions in my mind about the scene that I witnessed today. I am also bloody starving. I go straight to the kitchen and open the fridge, still in my coat. Sighing as I view the contents, or lack of, I hear the words of that bloke, the nasal American one off the telly who has his own range in overpriced pasta sauces – fuck, what is his name? Anyway, his catchphrase is ‘who lives in a house like this?’ I take a ready-made chicken jalfrezi from the ‘selection’, puncture it with a fork and throw it in the microwave. Rach would’ve hated the way I eat now, she was a chef after all. Fuck, what is that American guy’s name?

The two coppers that came to me the night she died, Bob Jenkins and Dave Smart, now I will never forget their names. I didn’t know them personally, but I do now. That kind of encounter bonds people together. Bob was a big bear of a man, Welsh with a beard and a soft lilt, and Dave was indicative of his surname, in a decent suit with slick hair. I felt sorry for them, because there’s nothing remotely redeeming about telling a person that their loved one is dead. It’s a no-good situation all round and believe me, no one, not even some of the hardest men I’ve met on the force, can say that they don’t feel anything when they draw that particular short straw. So, I kind of knew, when they turned up on our doorstep, and Bob was holding her helmet, the Triumph one, and some stuff in a sealed bag. Rach’s things. I remember just looking at them and feeling pity. That was my overriding emotion in that moment, pity. For them. For having the shitty task of telling me the woman I loved and adored was dead.

I boot up my computer and log on to the sad singles website I joined in a mad moment of despair, and I think about having a beer. Instead, I take the last clean glass from the cupboard and pour myself a generous slug of Jack. It was Rachel’s tipple of choice so I still keep a bottle stashed away in her memory. She could drink me under the table when the JD came out, which wasn’t that often. Neither of us were big boozers, but she had a good constitution for Jack Daniels, considering she was half my size.

I silently toast her, take a slug and check my messages. I have five new ones. Promising.

Linda, forty-eight… nice enough face but too old, sorry Linda. There’s Elaine, forty-four, funny nose but big smile… again maybe too old, for kids anyway. And Sarah, thirty-six, age about right and— oh hang on now, I like the look of Florence. She’s a blonde, thirty-two, from North London. Local, which is handy. The picture quality is bad though, dark and grainy, and I can’t really make out her features all that clearly. Shame. In the age of the selfie, you’d think that she could manage a half-decent profile shot. Anyway, I read her blurb. It’s witty and warm, not too long. She says she’s got a thing about London parks, and loves to eat al fresco; she watches documentaries and hates soap operas; one of her favourite things is walking barefoot on beaches; and apparently the best thing you can wear in life is a smile, (or failing that Louboutins!). Something about her captures my interest. I think it’s the paradox of walking barefoot on beaches and wearing towering stilettoes. It reminds me of Rach.

I send Florence a wink anyway. Nothing to lose.

My phone rings. I swallow the rest of the Jack and answer it.

It’s Chris Baylis, a particularly tenacious DS who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.

‘Baylis. What’s happening?’

‘Hello Gov. Well, quite a lot it seems. Vic’s been on the phone. She wants you to go down there. Says she’s found “something of interest”.’

Baylis is talking fast, excited, and he’s tripping over his words like his mouth can’t keep up with his brain. I like this about him.

‘I think we’re looking at a homicide, boss.’

‘I’m on my way,’ I reply.

‘And there’s something else.’

‘Go on.’

‘Cyber have thrown some stuff up on Baxter’s phone…’

‘And…’ I pause ‘… a woman, right?’

‘Looks that way, Gov.’

I smile. Rach was right. Damn it, she always was.

‘Okay Baylis, thanks. I’m leaving now. Oh, and Baylis…’

‘Yes Gov?’

‘What’s the name of that American plank who snoops round people’s houses, he did a TV show and his catchphrase was “who lives in a house like this?”’

There’s a second’s pause.

‘Loyd Grossman, Gov.’

‘That’s it!’ I say. ‘That’s the bloke!’ And I grab my coat just as the microwave pings.