Now, somehow, her shoulders dislocating and crackling as they squeezed into the hole, which had become a tunnel; the force dragging her deeper, right to the site of the red-haired woman’s humiliation, and beyond into an even more unnerving intimacy. It was warm and moist, this tunnel, slick with an organic patina, and she felt pushed by the walls now, rather than dragged, peristaltically processed, shunted along this building’s intestine into some inner sanctum, too deep to be witnessed, too raw to be touched. Down the end of the undulating tunnel, a bright light silhouetting two figures, both women with their heads hanging. A regular flicker of red strobing onto their shapes, revealing them. One of the women, the slick hair and bruised eyes and bleeding lips of Ida. Next to her, Helena, slumping forward at an unnatural angle. She couldn’t hold herself up like that; she’d fall flat on her face if she didn’t move her arms.

But she was limp, as if emptied. And when the red strobe scanned across her face, her skin was sallow, her eyes staring lifeless.

‘Mom! Mom!’ Petra called.

She was still shouting when she woke.

The zipper of her bundled coat cutting into her cheek. Vincent hurrying somewhere across the floor. Her eyes taking time to focus in the low light. The music going off. Silence flowing in, smothering. Then voices.

She turned her head and saw two men in the doorway.

Petra stood up, ridiculously aware of the creases in her cheeks, and glanced across at Vincent, who had taken a tense position between her and the men. Shielding her, maybe.

The smaller man was Francis Picton; she recognised Curtis Worthing from the photographs she’d found online. He had sandy-grey hair waxed around a balding pate and healthy, tanned skin, clear eyes and his well-tailored suit lining a trim body. He was surprisingly tall and strong, as if he’d been expanded by fifteen per cent; he looked like a man who had made the most of a good life.

‘What are you doing here?’ Vincent asked.

The men took in the picnic on the floor, their gaze sullying their private pleasure, trailing over Petra, her mismatched socks.

‘Door was open,’ Picton said.

‘You’ll get the keys tomorrow,’ Vincent said.

Worthing tapped his wrist. ‘It is tomorrow.’

‘Five minutes after,’ Picton added. Vincent sighed and let go of Petra. ‘So it’s time to go. Either that or you can stay and help. The party’s in six days. Lots to do.’