It’s magic how quickly news spreads. In a matter of a minute or so, thirty or forty people were standing in a semicircle around the body, everyone yelling and staring and punching numbers into their phones. They seemed to come from nowhere, and although they crowded up against each other, nobody got too close. It was as if there was an invisible line they couldn’t cross, dividing the living from the dead. Except I’d crossed that line. I joined the crowd and stood at the back, peering over the shoulders of the others to see what they were seeing. Really, she didn’t look much different from when I’d left her last night. A little less like a woman and more like a thing.

When I heard sirens, I sauntered off and sat in the little café that Astrid sometimes went to with Pippa, and I drank a mug of tea. Tea is a peaceful drink.

It was like being a conductor of an orchestra. I told Dario, when I got home, that something was going on in the street and he told Mick, and then the pair of them went to have a look and came back infected with the excitement of the crowd.

‘I think someone’s been mugged or something,’ said Dario, and I made clucking noises.

‘Or worse,’ said Mick. ‘That’s what they’re saying in the street. Murdered.’ I covered my mouth with my hand, the way people do in films when they hear bad news.

‘In our street?’ I said.

Was I overdoing it? It didn’t seem so. I thought I’d burst if I didn’t tell someone myself. Who? Astrid, of course: I had to be the one who broke the news to her, so I called her mobile. She was at the Horse and Jockey, but I told her maybe she should come back. I didn’t say why. I wanted to see her face when she heard. But Astrid came in and then, shortly after, she went out again, as if she wasn’t very excited by what was going on, and I was left with a sour feeling, as if it hadn’t worked properly. When Miles came back I persuaded him and Pippa to come with me to have a look at the house, which was now cordoned off. There were still police cars there, though the ambulance had gone, and I walked up to a young officer and asked what was going on.

‘An incident,’ he said.

‘Has someone been murdered? That’s what everyone’s saying.’

He just looked at me.

‘Who is it? Who lives here? We live up the road, so we’re neighbours of whoever it is.’

‘There’s been an incident,’ he said, and that was all. An incident.

‘Come on, Davy, we’ll know soon enough,’ said Pippa, tucking her hand through my arm and tugging me away. ‘You’re living in London now, not a small town. This is the kind of thing that happens. You’ll get used to it.’

‘But it’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Right under our noses.’

The three police officers who came to the house made me feel safe, especially the one who was in charge, PC Prebble. Jim, he said his name was, smiling at all of us as if he wanted to be our friend. He was plump with a round face and a big, squashed nose. I could tell at once he liked me. I was personable and trying to be helpful, while the others – well, it was obvious he found them an odd lot, and not surprising, really. Dario was shrill and twitchy. Mick was silent to the point of being rude. Miles seemed bored. Pippa overdid her flirtatious act so that at one point I saw Prebble exchange a glance with one of his colleagues. Leah, Miles’s girlfriend, arrived just after them and acted as if they were invisible, which was quite hard when the downstairs room was so crowded. I offered them tea and then they sat at the table with their notebooks and asked us if we had heard anything unusual last night.

‘Nothing,’ said Dario. ‘Nothing at all.’

‘It’s always pretty noisy round here,’ added Pippa.

‘I heard people shouting in the night,’ I said.

‘When would this be?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry. I just know I woke and there were noises, but it didn’t seem that remarkable. As Pippa says, it’s not a quiet street. All I can say is that it was dark.’

‘Dark,’ said Prebble, gloomily, and doodled in his book. ‘And it was just the seven of of you?’

‘Not me,’ said Leah. ‘I don’t live here.’

‘Yet,’ said Dario, under his breath, then gave a nervous giggle.

‘Astrid was here too,’ I said. ‘She’s out at the moment. And also…’ I stopped and looked at Pippa.

‘That’s all,’ she said defiantly. ‘We were having a house meeting until quite late.’ She smiled at me, daring me to contradict her, and I smiled reassuringly back. Her secret was safe with nice, reliable Davy.

‘And nobody noticed anything unusual?’

‘No,’ said Mick. I think that was the only word he uttered the entire time the police were with us.

‘Who’s dead?’ asked Owen.

‘A Mrs Margaret Farrell. Did any of you know her?’

We all exchanged enquiring looks then shook our heads. No, we didn’t know a Mrs Margaret Farrell.

‘It’s depressing, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘That someone can live just a few doors down and we don’t even know her name? Until she dies, that is.’ I shook my head sorrowfully.

‘Is it true what they’re saying?’ said Pippa. ‘That she was killed and put behind her rubbish bins?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘How horrible.’

‘But you’ll catch them,’ I said.

‘We’ll do our best.’ He closed his notebook and stood up. ‘The other officers will take your names and phone numbers. If anything occurs to you, please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’ He pulled out a card and put it on the table.

‘Good luck,’ I said. ‘I hope you find them very soon.’

∗ ∗ ∗

The best bit of the evening came later. Astrid was back and Owen had disappeared somewhere. We were all sitting downstairs, aimless but unwilling to go to bed yet. I sat on the sofa next to Astrid and every so often shifted position so that my arm brushed against her bare, golden one. I pretended to study my Portuguese, Astrid flicked through a magazine, Miles turned on the telly and we watched the end of some programme about decorating your house, and then the beginning of another of those cookery programmes where this smiling woman was making a fancy dish and letting her long hair fall over the ingredients. Miles changed channels and some film was just starting, which none of us wanted to watch but no one could be bothered to turn off. Dario ran into the room, excited, like a child.

‘Turn the TV on!’

‘It is on,’ said Miles.

‘… the body of fifty-seven-year-old Margaret Farrell was found yesterday evening. Police have begun a murder inquiry…’

I needed to time this right. I waited, and Pippa said: ‘Margaret Farrell – she’s Peggy!’

‘Peggy!’ echoed Astrid.

So then I spoke, lowering my voice in awe. ‘We saw her last night. Me and Dario and Astrid. We saw her.’

I have to say I did it perfectly. People who play tennis talk about the sweet spot on the racquet, the thrill of the perfect shot. It felt so natural, as if I could do no wrong. I moved a bit and felt Astrid’s warm, living flesh pressed against mine and her sweet-smelling hair brush my cheek. I closed my eyes and savoured the moment.