It’s a beautiful evening, there’s a soft, warm wind left over from a sunny day: ‘balmy’ I think the word is. I know a place. I know many places, but for some strange reason I’ve thought of this place. And we’re walking there, through the park, together. We’re drunk, or at least I definitely am and I’m pretty sure she is too because she’s taken her shoes off and keeps running ahead of me, forcing me to catch up with her. It’s nice to be with a woman again, a vibrant, fun woman who seems so alive and in love with life. It’s making me feel alive too, or maybe that’s the saki and beer, but I feel some sort of a release in her company that I haven’t felt since Rachel died, a trickle of hope that I might one day be happy again. And I’m getting the feeling that she might be the type of woman who could distract me; she’s clearly leading the way, in every sense, even though I suggested this particular hotel that we are heading to, but only at her request that we get one at all.

I keep getting wafts of Florence’s perfume as she runs ahead of me, without self-awareness, like a girl half her age. She smells of summer and abandon. And I remember doing this, or something very similar, with Rachel when we first met. I don’t recall the exact moment I fell in love with Rachel, although looking back I think I loved her from the very beginning. The clear memory I have was of holding her hand and realising how much it would hurt to ever let it go.

We’re arm in arm as we enter the Portobello Gold. I ask for the top room, the one with the private roof terrace, and luckily for us, the woman behind the bar says there has been a cancellation and it’s available. We order drinks to the room.

The view from the room’s small roof terrace is one of my favourite London views. Don’t ask me why, I know there are millions of arguably better spots across the capital but there’s something about this particular point that gets me right in the chest and provokes an emotional response. Perhaps it’s the distant view across West London of mismatching urban buildings, the rich red of the low sunset bouncing off brickwork, the church spires, and the glorious Victorian homes juxtaposed with imposing tower blocks. Eclectic, non-uniform, all mixed in together, just like the city itself.

Florence likes the roof terrace too, she says it’s quaint and quirky with its miniature, Astro-Turfed putting green and creative artisan furniture. She throws her body into mine and I wrap my arms around her small waist as we stare out across Portobello. She’s giggling and so am I, caught in the moment, like it’s unreal and happening to someone else.

I try and stroke her hair, but she pulls away from me and runs back into the apartment, pulling her dress over her head as she does. It’s a clear invitation to follow her, and I do, into the bedroom, watching. She’s naked in seconds, discarding her clothes almost with disgust, like she shouldn’t have been wearing any in the first place. I undo my shirt and take it off, fall onto the bed with her. We’re kissing, her wet lips taste sweet, like cherries, and I feel the stirring of an erection. ‘Did you like the view,’ I ask between kisses and she says she does, but she prefers this one. And I laugh and reach over her to grab a swig of the Jack and coke I ordered up to the room.

‘Me… me…’ she says, opening and closing her mouth like a fish. She wants me to transfer the contents of my mouth into hers and I duly oblige, but it reminds me of Rachel because we often did that, shared drinks and chewing gum, shared everything. She squirms beneath me, though I dare not look down at her and I keep my eyes closed. I’m scared, I’m actually scared to look at her, to see her naked body beneath mine because she’s not Rachel, she’s not my girl and yet if I keep my eyes closed… She’s pulling at my belt now, opening it and the buttons of my fly. Her hands feel soft and warm, her body tight and silky smooth; the intimate, light scent of her reaches my nose. I pull away from her a little so she moves in closer, throwing her leg over my side, almost locking me into her. She starts kissing me again but senses my reluctance. The moment is broken and she rolls off me gently onto her back, the breeze coming in from the roof terrace covers us.

I suddenly feel completely sober and with this sobriety comes the feeling that this is all wrong and I don’t want to be here. I feel wretched and make to speak but she stops me.

‘It’s okay Daniel,’ she says gently, ‘really.’

I swallow back the tears that have formed in the corners of my eyes and hate myself.

‘Are you just not ready or is it me?’

I want to look at her but don’t. I’m consumed by guilt, guilt that I almost let Rachel go by making love with another woman and guilt for not making love to Florence, naked Florence who is lying next to me on a hotel bed I have paid for. And it’s such a strange and alien experience, turning down a beautiful, naked woman, one who actually seems genuinely interested in and turned on by me. It’s a first for me and, I suspect, for her too.

I want to tell her that it’s not her – that it’s me – but even in my head it sounds so corny that I inwardly cringe. And the truth is, I’m not entirely sure if it is her or me, or both of us, or everything, or the drink, or the case I’m working on…

‘I’m so sorry,’ I finally say. I feel drained, exhausted, hit by a sudden and powerful malaise. ‘I should go.’

I sit up but she gently touches my arm.

‘Don’t go Daniel,’ she says and the tone of her voice almost undoes me. ‘Stay here, lay with me, just lay with me.’

And although I’m overcome by an urgent need to leave, I do as she asks because I can’t be that cruel. It’s not her fault.

We’re both silent for a while and it’s not uncomfortable exactly, more resigned. It feels like an age before Florence says, ‘tell me about her, tell me about Rachel.’

---

The sun is rising as I make my way home; it’s a beautiful morning, clear and bright, the promise of a new day unfolding. I like this time of the morning, not least because London looks different without the traffic, almost serene.

I switch the radio on; it’s playing Fleetwood Mac’s ‘Go Your Own Way’. I’m desperate to get home, to shower, to wash away some of the guilt and sadness that’s sticking to me like sweat. Coffee and a shower, that’s what I need. Then I’ll be okay…

My phone rings. Immediately I think it’s her, but then I realise she doesn’t have my work number.

‘Are you awake Dan?’

It’s Delaney. It irks me, the way he calls me ‘Dan’ in such an overfamiliar way, even though I know it probably shouldn’t. I think about berating him over the phone-record cock-up and for passing the buck to Davis, but I overlook it because there’s an urgency in his tone; it’s all over those few words, and it’s making me edgy.

‘Well I am now,’ I say, ‘why?’

There’s a very slight pause before he says, ‘Because there’s been another one. We’ve got another body.’