Dario suggested going to the pub. That wasn’t good. That wasn’t in my plan. We needed to go our separate ways now. There wasn’t much time. Everyone else thought it was a good idea so of course I agreed and we made our way along the pavement, Astrid pushing her bike. I didn’t feel so well. There was a hissing in my head and my throat was like sandpaper. My eyes ached.

I don’t know what everyone talked about. I could hear the words and I knew how to respond every so often so that it appeared I was part of the frantic emotions that were surging round the group, but I wasn’t. I was thinking. I was waiting. I was feeling the minutes tick by. I was swallowing my nausea. I was stopping myself imagining what would happen if things went wrong.

When we finished our first drinks I offered to get the next round. But I went outside first. I got my penknife out of my pocket and sliced through both of the tyres on Astrid’s bike. You won’t get home on that, Astrid. You’ll have to go a different way. I went back into the heat and the noise and the glaring light, collected the drinks and returned to the table.

Astrid was fumbling inside her jacket. ‘This is probably evidence of some kind,’ she said. ‘Before the police grab it, we should share it out.’

‘No,’ I said, blood pounding in my ears so I could barely hear myself speak. ‘For goodness’ sake, Astrid, people are already looking at us. Don’t flash money around in a place like this.’

I looked round nervously. It seemed a feeble excuse but Astrid nodded. Perhaps it provided reason for them not to let go of each other finally, not to drift apart.

‘I’ll do the maths,’ said Pippa. ‘Then we can arrange to meet tomorrow somewhere a bit more salubrious. It’ll be an excuse for another farewell drink.’

‘OK,’ I said. I was steaming in the muggy heat of the pub. Drops of sweat prickled down my neck like dozens of small flies.

At last Pippa said she needed to make a move and everyone else was standing up, putting on their jackets. Astrid was standing up. She was pulling on her coat, tying its belt. We trooped outside, into the cool night, to discover her ripped tyres. How mean is that? Never mind. Walk to the Underground. Collect it later. She said we’d all meet tomorrow. Yes. Dream on, my darling. Dream on.

She gripped my arm as she said goodbye and her touch burned through my clothes. I swear I could feel it like a brand on my skin. She kissed Pippa. Now she was speaking to Owen in a low undertone. He was speaking to her. Their heads were close together, nearly touching. She took his hand. Let it go. Now. Let it go. Stand away. This mustn’t happen. Don’t let them go off together. They couldn’t. I screwed my hands into fists and thought I’d have to scream out loud at any moment, to provide relief from the unbearable pressure building inside me. I would explode. Come apart. My head hammered.

‘Right, then.’

Astrid stood back from Owen at last, and I felt relief flood through me, leaving me dizzy and weak as a kitten.

At last she left, raising one hand in farewell as she went. Give her a count of ten before following. I got to six, then worried about losing her. Nobody was looking at me anyway. I saw Astrid walking along the pavement. Stay close, wait for somewhere isolated. I felt in my pocket. The penknife I had used on her bike tyres. The cool weight of a spanner. A blow from behind. She wouldn’t even know.

‘Mr Gifford?’

I looked round. I was so taken by surprise that it took me a few seconds to realize it was Detective Chief Inspector Kamsky.

‘Who? Me?’ I said stupidly. Ahead, Astrid disappeared round a bend in the road.

‘Could we have a word?’

Chapter Forty-two

It had all gone wrong. Of course. I had dropped something somewhere, forgotten a detail. There was always a loose end, however much care you took. Even so, I hung on. I thought about how to be innocent. Ask questions, be puzzled. I could feel my face burning and there was a twitch at the side of my mouth that I couldn’t control, but somehow I managed not to collapse. I told myself it was all right to be a bit rattled. The police made ordinary people nervous. Only real criminals are casual and amused about being arrested. Kamsky barely spoke on the drive to the police station.

‘Is there a problem?’ I asked, hearing how my voice came out a bit cracked and hoarse. I gave a sharp cough to clear my throat. ‘Is there something more you need to ask me?’

‘There’s someone who wants a word with you.’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘You’ll see.’

‘Is it someone I know?’

Kamsky paused for a moment, as if trying to make up his mind. ‘You’ll see,’ he repeated finally.

I was thinking so desperately that I hardly noticed as the driver pulled into a car park behind the police station and I was led across the cracked tarmac, through a back door, along a narrow corridor into a room and left alone to walk up and down. I’d only left it a couple of hours earlier but it wasn’t like before. Nobody offered me tea. I didn’t know if it was the same room. It felt darker. I tried to compose myself. But not too much. I mustn’t seem defensive. The news wasn’t entirely bad. No. If they were simply arresting me, they would have done it immediately. I would have been warned. Wasn’t that the way it happened?

Kamsky came into the room, carrying a cassette tape-recorder. Behind him was another man in a suit. He was heavily built with grey hair that looked as if it had just been combed, too hard, against his skull. Kamsky motioned to me to sit at the table. The two pulled chairs to the other side and sat down. Kamsky placed the tape-recorder on the table and looked at it for a moment but didn’t switch it on. ‘I’d like to introduce you to my colleague, Bill Pope,’ he said.

‘What’s this about?’ I said. I could feel the spanner in my pocket.

‘DI Pope came down this morning from Sheffield.’

I clenched my fists, then relaxed them, hearing my knuckles crack. I tried to make myself appear alarmed but not too alarmed. I felt my features twist into an expression but I had no idea how I must look to an outsider.

‘Has something happened?’ I asked. Bees inside my skull. Buzz, buzz.

Pope took a notebook from a pocket and opened it. He put on a pair of rimless glasses and peered down at it. ‘David Michael Gifford,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

‘You used to live at fourteen Donegal Close.’

‘That’s right. Has something happened?’

‘When were you last there?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. Was that my voice? Yes. ‘Five or six months ago.’

‘Who lives there now?’

‘My mum, I suppose.’

Pope frowned. ‘You suppose?’

‘I haven’t been in touch for a while.’

‘Why?’

I gave a shrug. ‘When I came down to London, I wanted to make a new start.’

‘What for?’

There was a pause as I tried to think how a person who didn’t know what was going on would respond. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘What’s this about? Has something happened?’

Pope clicked and unclicked the pen he was holding. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘Should it have?’

‘Please,’ I said, in a tone that was meant to sound distressed and confused. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Why did you leave Sheffield?’ Pope asked.

‘Look, what’s all this…’ I stopped. Get it right, Davy. Hang on. ‘I always knew I wanted to go to London. I got the offer of a job in London. It seemed the right time. Please could you tell me what this is about? You’re alarming me.’ I tried to smile at him. I couldn’t. The skin on my face was stiff like cardboard.

Pope closed his notebook and leaned back in his chair.

‘Concerns were expressed by residents of Donegal Close. Two days ago police officers forced entry to the premises and a body was found.’

This was it. This was the big moment on which everything would depend. I’d thought about it for a long time. ‘Is it my mum?’ I asked.