Bloom jogged back to the house. It was a five-bedroom detached building in an upmarket part of Harrogate. Her father had been a lawyer and her mother a cardiac surgeon, and both had been totally obsessed with their work. They never travelled, they never ate out. The only thing they spent time or money on was their home.

Jameson would be surprised at the invite. He’d never been asked to her home in London, but this place was different. For a start, it wasn’t hers. Well, not yet, anyway. Not with Mummy still alive. And she was different here, too. Her work made her paranoid and obsessive about privacy. She’d seen too many cases of people placing their trust in the goodness of others and paying the price. She recalled the stalker who’d gleefully explained to her how a running app made it so much easier to track the women he preyed on. ‘I just need to run around an area for a few days and I can see all the women who run there and where they live. Most accounts include real names and a picture, too.’ He would turn up at their home and claim to be an old work or school friend. And so it would begin. Bloom had switched off all location services on her phone and avoided social media. Big Brother was watching through cleverly designed surveillance tools that people opted in to.

She unlocked the front door, then removed her trainers before stepping on to the parquet floor. Her mother didn’t allow shoes in the house. After a quick shower, she organized a hire car and called up an old friend from the West Yorkshire Police. Caroline would help. She had been there all those years ago when Bloom made her first mistake and the world came crashing down. She’d want to help.

44

Jameson walked out of Harrogate station and into an unexpectedly pretty town. Blossoming trees lined the pavements in all directions and an impressive building stood opposite, a crescent of caramel stone surrounding a large concourse and dotted with raised flower beds.

‘Marcus?’ Bloom walked towards him in a white cotton shirt and navy jeans. He’d never seen her in jeans before. On her, even denim looked pretty smart. ‘We can walk back to the house,’ she said. ‘It isn’t far.’

‘Lead on,’ he said and followed her down a street lined with smart boutiques and high-end chains. ‘So this is where you grew up?’

‘Yes. I had a bit of a rough start,’ she said.

‘Another joke, Augusta? This is starting to get a bit old.’

The road opened out on to a large junction. To the left, a wide grass verge fronted a long line of impressive Victorian buildings, and ahead, a needle-shaped cenotaph rose from the centre of a square roundabout swathed in spring flowers. Jameson spotted an expensive-looking cafe as they crossed the road towards a large green.