I thought I should do something, press the chest, give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and then I saw the sightless eyes, eyes with nothing behind them. It was pointless.

I stood up and pressed myself against the front door, my hand over my mouth, the body on the floor filling my vision. The alarm swelled in the air and in my skull. I tried to make myself feel that this couldn’t be happening. It was a dream, an aberration. I’d blink and find myself back in my ordinary life, cycling up a hill in the rain on the way to collect a package. My mind focused on other things. I thought about how neat the house was, hardly a speck of dust in sight. How many hours did some cleaner work each week to make everything look as if it was in a magazine? I imagined myself telling the story later, to the house, and I already knew that I would do so with a kind of horrified excitement. I thought about my irritation with this woman, or people like her, as I had hammered at the door, and the way we messengers had bitched about her, and should I feel guilty about that? I vaguely wondered about getting my hair cut. I remembered that it was Miles’s birthday next week and I needed to buy him a present but I didn’t have a clue what. Something for his house – a sharp little reminder that we were leaving it? And that made me think about having to start flat-hunting soon, rather than leave it to the last minute – though I knew quite well that I probably would leave it to the last minute anyway, whatever my resolutions, and spend weeks sleeping on friends’ floors and living out of suitcases. I wondered if my hearing would be damaged by the blasting throb of the alarm, and then I wondered if it was a way of sending people mad, subjecting them to this kind of noise. I decided it would be better to go and wait outside; after all, there was nothing I could do here and it seemed indecent to be standing staring at the flimsily dressed body of a woman who had seemed so impregnable in life. But I couldn’t seem to make myself move. I thought how amazing it was that your brain can hold so many disparate feelings and ideas at once. And all the time I was staring at the impossible dead body on the floor, just a few feet from where I stood.

I fished out my mobile once more, noticing that my hands were trembling, but I didn’t dial because at that moment I heard, behind the house alarm, the sound of a siren. The ambulance at last. I turned and pulled open the door to see it draw up outside the house. People had already started to gather in the road. I watched as a man and a woman jumped down and ran towards me as I lifted up my hand to beckon them on. Then, as they came into the garden and I saw their eyes move from me to the body that was lying behind me in the hall, I turned and vomited into one of the earthenware pots.

Chapter Nine

‘Did you touch the body?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

The police officer looked disappointed. ‘You shouldn’t have done that.’

‘I didn’t know she was dead,’ I said. ‘I thought she might be injured. I thought she might need help.’

His expression softened. ‘I can see that.’ He stepped closer. ‘Are you all right? Would you like to talk to a WPC?’

‘What for?’

‘They’re trained,’ he said.

There was a long pause.

‘The window,’ he said. ‘That was you?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve caused quite a disturbance.’

‘As I said, I thought she might be ill. It seemed urgent.’

He looked round at the shattered window. ‘Looks a bit drastic,’ he said.

‘I couldn’t think of anything else.’ Behind him, the hallway was crowded. There were other police officers, people dressed in white like doctors. Outside, vehicles were coming and going.

‘So, Miss erm…’

‘ Bell.’

‘Why were you here, Miss Bell?’

‘I’m just a bike messenger,’ I said. ‘That’s my bike outside.’

‘Do you know this woman?’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve been to the house a few times.’

‘Why did you come today?’

‘The office rang me about a package.’ There was a silence. ‘I’m sorry. ‘I’ve got nothing else to say. I mean, I can’t think of anything.’

The officer rubbed his chin as if he was trying to think of another question but couldn’t. ‘I know that this has been a terribly shocking experience for you. But we’re going to ask you to come in with us and give a full statement.’ He looked at me, surprised by my expression. ‘I’m sorry, is there something funny about that?’

‘No, no,’ I said. ‘Not at all. I was just startled. I’d never talked to a policeman before. And now I’ve given two statements in a month.’

‘Really?’ said the officer. ‘What about?’

So I had to tell him about my bike accident and my encounter with Peggy Farrell. I thought he’d find it curious, funny even in a grim kind of way, but almost immediately his face become serious and he told me to stop and wait and he left the room.

I was becoming an expert on police interview rooms. Two officers drove me down the hill to another police station. They wouldn’t let me ride my bike. It would be brought, I was told. They drove into the rear car park and I was led in through a back entrance. I was met by a WPC, who took me through to my next interview room. There wasn’t much to tell it apart from the other. Instead of beige walls, it had institutional light green. I sat on a plastic chair and was left alone. I took out my phone. There were about ninety-seven messages from Campbell and others. I rang Campbell.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ he said.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I arrived at the house and she was dead. I’m in a police station.’ There was complete silence at the other end of the line. ‘Are you still there?’

‘What?’ said Campbell.

‘I’ll call you later,’ I said. I broke off the call, switched off the phone and started to cry. This won’t do, I thought, but I hadn’t completely pulled myself together when the door opened and a man in a suit came in.

He was middle-aged with untidy greying hair that was thinning at the front. He was carrying two files under his arm. He stopped suddenly and looked at me. ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ he said.

‘I’m a bike messenger,’ I said.

‘Are you the one who found the body?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ he said, and walked out of the room. I heard indistinct shouting outside, which got more distant. I felt furious with myself that he’d seen me crying. That wasn’t me. The man came back in, accompanied by two officers. One, a WPC, was carrying a bundle of clothes in her arms. The other had a tray with tea on it.

‘Put this on,’ said the detective.

‘I’m not cold,’ I said.

‘That’s an order,’ he said. ‘You may well be in shock. And when I find the police officer who left you like that, I’m going to give him such a kick up the arse.’

The clothes were ridiculous. There was a torn navy blue sweatshirt, a woolly jumper and a pair of jeans that were about five sizes too big. The WPC bent down and rolled up the legs.

‘I don’t think these do much for me,’ I said.

The man handed me a mug of tea. I sipped it and grimaced. ‘I don’t take sugar,’ I said.

‘You do this time,’ he said. ‘We’re going to stand here and watch you drink it.’

I felt the tea sinking into my empty stomach. ‘Is there anything to eat?’ I said.

The detective looked at the WPC. ‘You heard her.’

The WPC looked startled. ‘Can I get you a sandwich, love?’

‘Anything.’

‘At the double,’ said the detective.

The two officers scuttled out of the room. The detective gestured at me to sit down. He placed the two files on the table one beside the other. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Paul Kamsky,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said.

‘This isn’t really by the book. I know you haven’t given a statement yet, but as soon as I heard, I had to come and talk to you myself.’ He gave a baffled smile. ‘I had to ask, what the hell is going on?’