‘Me?’ I say. ‘What makes you think she’ll talk to me? My face is plastered all over the papers. If Fisher’s ex-housekeeper believes half of what’s been written, she probably thinks I’m the devil.’

‘I disagree,’ Carly says.

‘Of course you do.’

‘No, I just mean she might know what’s really going on here.’

‘So you admit that your story is a complete fabrication,’ I say.

‘I didn’t say that,’ Carly replies, sitting up straighter in her seat. ‘I meant that if she knows what’s going on, she won’t be worried about what’s in the papers.’

‘You don’t know that,’ I say, crossing my arms grumpily. ‘And anyway, I thought you said she’d left her job. She’ll be out of the loop, won’t she?’

‘Well, we won’t know unless we ask,’ Carly says. ‘Nothing to lose, and all that.’

She’s got a point, but I’m reluctant to be guided by my sneaky neighbour. Not after what she’s just put me through.

‘Look, what’s the worst that can happen?’ Carly adds airily. ‘She sends you away, refuses to talk to you. You’ve wasted a couple of hours. What else have you got going on in your life?’

‘Cheers,’ I say.

To her credit, her face colours. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant—’

‘Relax, it’s fine. I know my life is a pathetic void.’

‘Now you’re just feeling sorry for yourself.’

‘You think?’

‘So, are you going to go and see her?’ Carly asks, draining her coffee and putting her cup back down with a clunk on the table.

‘Not sure. How would I get past that lot out there? They’d follow me.’

‘Leave that to me,’ she says with a half-smile.

---

One hour later, I’m washed, dressed and breakfasted, and feel almost like a new person. Or if not new, then at least not like the unsavoury hobo I was impersonating earlier. I have my phone, my keys and my handbag. I’m loitering in the hallway, pretty much ready to go. A quick glance at my wristwatch tells me Carly should be ready by now. I send her a text to say I’ll be walking out the front door in exactly sixty seconds.

My heart clatters against my ribcage. Why am I doing this? I tell myself not to be a wimp. Those journalists out there are just people. They won’t hurt me, will they? I check my watch – thirty seconds to go. Carly had better not let me down.

Twenty seconds.

Ten.

I turn the knob on the front door, tensing up as I ease it open a crack. I peer further up the road, but it’s empty. I’ll give it another ten seconds, just to be on the safe side. Then I spy the glint of her red car. It gives me the boost of confidence I need to yank open the door, step out into the lemony sunshine and stride down the frosty path towards the mob.

‘Tessa!’

‘Tessa, love!’

‘Are you going to work?’

‘Do you know James Fisher? Did he contact you after what happened? Is he pressing charges?’

‘Give us a couple of minutes of your time, Tessa!’

I keep my head down, open the gate and barge through them, their collective breath hovering about me like a shroud in the icy air. I listen for the sound of the car engine coming closer. But there are so many journalists surrounding me, in my face, yelling, clamouring for me to look up, to speak, to give them what they want, that I can’t see or hear anything from the road behind them.

A car horn honks, long and loud. The press turn as one for the briefest of moments, giving me time to slip between their warmly wrapped bodies, under arms and around cameras until I reach the bright red Fiat idling in the middle of the road. I dart around to the passenger side just as Carly flings open the door. I slide in, slam the door and tug down on the seat belt.

Carly presses on the accelerator and floors it down the road. We’re both panting and, to my surprise, laughing.

‘That was insane,’ she cries, throwing the car into second as we screech round the corner. ‘Check behind us. Is anyone following? Any cars or motorbikes?’

‘Nothing yet,’ I say, still out of breath.

‘Ha!’ she crows. ‘That lot will hate me now.’

‘Because you’ve driven off with me?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. Sorry, bit of professional rivalry there,’ she says.

‘That isn’t why you’re doing this, is it? You didn’t lie about—’

‘No, no. Don’t worry, their jealousy is just a bonus.’

I shake my head. She really is something else. What must it be like to be that devoted to your career? To be so snarled up in it you don’t know where you end and it begins? I glance sideways at her. My strange neighbour. She’s humming something, but I can’t make out the tune. Such a striking face – high cheekbones, cat-like eyes – but somehow the whole effect is harsh, like a brittle veneer is covering her skin. I give my head a shake; it must be the lack of a proper night’s sleep making me have these odd thoughts.

‘Sorry I can’t drop you at her place,’ she says, ‘but I’ve got a meeting with an editor in an hour.’

‘It’s fine,’ I say, wondering if her meeting is about me. ‘Now that I’m away from the rest of the press, I can relax a bit. Just drop me at the Tube station.’

‘Let me know how you get on,’ she says. ‘And Tessa, don’t be meek and mild. If that woman knows something, she should damn well give you answers. Guilt-trip her into it if you need to.’

I raise my eyebrows. That’s easy for her to say – she asks questions for a living. ‘I’m not guilt-tripping anyone,’ I retort.

‘You’ve got an opportunity to get some answers,’ she says. ‘Don’t blow it.’

‘God, you’re relentless,’ I say.

She grins. ‘Yep, you know me.’ She puts on her left blinker. ‘Okay, I’m not supposed to stop here, so jump out quickly. I don’t want a ticket.’

I do as she asks, stepping out onto the busy pavement outside the Tube station. I bend down to push the door closed.

‘Be forceful, Tessa,’ she calls out. ‘And don’t forget to text me afterwards.’

‘Right.’ I slam the car door and watch her motor away, merging with the rolling traffic, the sunlight glinting off the cars, making me squint and turn away.

---

It’s already 10.15 as I alight from the Tube onto the platform at Turnpike Lane, clutching the folded piece of paper that Carly handed me earlier. On it is written an address and a name. Even Carly’s handwriting looks like a newspaper headline. Black ink. Thick block capitals. Definite. Unequivocal. No room for error. Exactly the sort of handwriting I’d expect from someone like Carly Dean. But maybe she’s furnished me with a lifeline here. Maybe this housekeeper woman will give me some answers about Harry and how he ended up at my house. Maybe she’ll tell me something that will remove all suspicion from my name. I can only hope.

I step out of the station onto a wide expanse of pavement that looks as though the planners started out with the grand idea of making it into a piazza, but gave up halfway through. A couple of leafless trees stand off to the side next to a lone bench, a black-and-gold bin, some electricity boxes and a few bike racks. I stand for a moment to get my bearings, unfolding the scrap of paper and checking the address again, even though I’ve already googled and memorised it. I stare around at the criss-crossing roads and pavements, at the sweep and rumble of four-lane Friday traffic, and set off across an impossibly wide road towards a parade of shops.

A short while later, I’m standing in front of a peeling orange door set back between a sandwich bar and a betting shop. There are two buzzers – one with the name S. Lewis, the other with no name. I press the blank one and wait. Ten seconds later, a woman’s voice comes through the intercom.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Is that Merida Flores?’

‘Who is this?’ Her voice sounds faintly accented.

‘My name is Tessa Markham. I was wondering… can I have a quick word?’

The static through the intercom disappears.

‘Hello?’ I say, knowing she’s taken her finger off the button and can’t hear me any longer. ‘Hello?’ I press the buzzer again and wait for a few moments. Then I step back and crane my neck to peer up at the bay window of the flat above the betting shop. I catch my breath as the curtain inches back and a woman stares down at me. Our eyes lock.

My hand flies to my mouth as I realise I know her: it’s the same woman I’ve been seeing everywhere. She immediately twitches the curtain closed again. Why has Fisher’s ex-housekeeper been following me? There must be something she wants to talk about. Why else would she be interested in me? Maybe she’s scared. How can I get her to let me into her flat?

I step back up to the door and press the buzzer once more. There’s no response. I think back to what Carly told me – to be forceful and not to blow it – but I can’t stand here harassing the woman. Having been subjected to that myself, I know how awful it feels. Still, I now get the feeling that Merida Flores knows what’s going on. That she wants to talk to me but something is preventing her. Only question is – what? Or who?

An idea comes to me and I press the buzzer one more time.

No response.

I press it again.

‘Yes?’ It’s her.

I catch my breath. ‘Hello. Look, I’m going to go to the café down the road. The Costa opposite the Tube station. I’ll wait there for one hour. Please come and meet me there. Please.’

She doesn’t reply. The static over the intercom disappears. Did she hear what I said? Is she going to come and speak to me?