Butler opens it with his gloved hand. Freya looks in, a waft of cold air hitting her in the face. It’s full to the brim. Vegetables organised in white mesh baskets. Meals frozen in plastic boxes, descriptions written on the side in black pen. Chilli. Spag bol. Casserole.

Freya feels the disappointment. There’s nothing interesting here.

‘Sarge?’ There’s a call from the door and Butler and Freya both turn.

PC Graves stands, waiting for them.

‘We have something,’ he says.

23

The coffee shop is loud and busy, but Amy barely notices. She sits alone, empty mugs in front of her, hands shaking, although now she doesn’t know whether it’s because of nerves or the caffeine. She should have stayed. She should have made sure they didn’t break anything, trampling through her house in their dirty shoes, although she knows they had little blue booties on their feet. That’s worse somehow. Treating her house like a crime scene. Like she’s done something wrong.

Of course, she knows it’s going to be fine. Elimination purposes, they said, and that’s what will happen. They’ll find nothing, and they’ll leave her alone. Still, she can’t help but worry. People go to jail all the time. Innocent people.

She picks up her phone and calls a number. It rings, then goes to voicemail. She hangs up and tries again. This time he answers.

‘I told you not to call me.’ His voice is sharp.

‘Kal, I need you. Please.’

There’s a long pause. She imagines his face, those handsome dark eyes.

‘Amy, please.’ His voice is softer this time. ‘I need some space. Jonny’s death is…’ He pauses again. ‘It’s too soon.’

He hangs up.

Amy picks up the cold coffee mug. The dregs inside are black and disgusting, and she stares at them, then lifts a hand to order another. She thinks about Kal. She knew he would need time. Jonathan was his best friend. But she mustn’t let him slip away, not after all she has done.

Amy’s proud of what she’s achieved. She had a bad start in life, but she pulled herself out of the dirt-filled, shit-stinking council flat, leaving her mother and everything she associated with her behind. Amy knew that the things her mother had done to her were due to her own pathetic shortcomings. The beatings, the cupboard under the stairs, the cold baths. She’d avoided the worst of it, her sister receiving the brunt of her mother’s abuse – and a better option for the punters. Skinny, tiny Amy had been no erotic fantasy, even for men as depraved as these.