On the radio on the way over, they were talking about how this was the hottest day in London for seven years, the temperature busting through the 30-degree mark, and Richmond Park was thronging with picnickers and kids playing with Frisbees; dogs panting in the heat; young lovers lounging on the grass as a lone, wispy cloud drifted lazily across the sky. There were no shadows for Patrick to imagine ghosts in today. No missing children hiding in the city’s dark spaces. The sun had emerged to shine a brilliant spotlight on London, to expose its secrets at last. And here, in a hotel on the edge of this urban lung, Patrick knew he would find the truth.

Whether it was too late for that truth to mean anything, he didn’t know.

He and Carmella reached the hotel just as the security guards were locking the revolving door. Patrick banged on the glass and held his warrant card up for the guards to see.

A security guard in his sixties unlocked the side door and let them through.

‘Blimey, that was quick. We only just called you.’

‘Called us?’ He and Carmella exchanged a worried look. ‘What about? And why were you locking the doors?’

Confused, the guard said, ‘Aren’t you here about the shooting?’

‘Shooting? Show me. Now.’

The guard, whose name badge read Len Hudson, huffed and puffed as he led Patrick and Carmella towards the stairs, several more security staff following behind. The lobby was packed with guests shouting and arguing with staff, wanting to be let out. Nobody seemed to know what to do. The manager was standing on the front desk, waving his arms, appealing for calm. There was no sign of Helen or the woman she had come to meet.

They pushed through the crowd. Len said, ‘We’ve shut down the lifts so we’ll have to take the stairs.’

‘What happened?’

Len sweated as he climbed the stairs. ‘Some young bloke has been shot in the honeymoon suite.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes. I haven’t seen him but apparently his . . .’ Len mimed someone having their head blown off.

‘Sweet Mary mother of Jesus,’ murmured Carmella, crossing herself.

‘Hang on, was this guy staying in the honeymoon suite?’ Patrick asked.

‘No. There’s a woman staying in there on her own, apparently. Bit weird, eh? I asked one of the girls about it and she said the woman told her it was where she and her former husband stayed on their wedding night. Like she wanted to relive the old memories.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Sorry, I don’t know.’

Patrick swore. He should have spoken to them at the desk before coming up here. But it would have taken forever to get to the reception desk. And it had to be Penny. But where was Helen now? And Frankie?