I stared at Ash and he looked back at me. The devil is within us … Of course! I’d heard those very words in a previous lifetime. I felt a light sweat break out on my brow as it all came back to me in a flash. How could I have been so incredibly stupid?

He looked like his father as he stood now, taking my elbow lightly. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Miller. It has been a pleasure to meet you properly, but I have another meeting soon at the London Assembly.’

‘Of course.’

‘Thank you for your understanding.’

By the door I took a deep breath. ‘I wondered – did you go to Oxford?’

‘To the university?’

‘Yes.’

‘I did indeed. Oriel. And you?’

I didn’t know whether to feel relief or incredulity that he didn’t remember. ‘Yes,’ I mumbled. ‘Magdalen. I came down in ‘ninety-four.’

‘A little younger than me then.’ He bowed politely. ‘Amazing place, Oxford. Very – esteemed. What a shame our paths did not cross.’

I nodded, my mouth dry. The memories of that cold November night came flooding back: the debating chamber at the Union, denouncing Lucifer and the idea of fallen angels. How young I’d been, how utterly naïve.

‘Yes, it is a shame,’ I mumbled.

He didn’t seem to notice my disquiet. ‘I miss my time there, I must say. Such freedom. Such opportunity.’

‘Yes. Wasted on us when we’re so young, I sometimes think.’

‘And, please, can I ask for your discretion?’ He escorted me to the door. ‘I know what you journalists are like with a story, like a dog with a bone. But it will only bring shame on my family, you see.’

‘Of course.’ I glanced back at the bedroom door, still shut. ‘I’m not interested in shaming anyone, really.’

‘Good.’ He half-bowed. ‘Thank you. We have suffered enough, I think.’

‘Where’s Maya now?’ I asked casually.

‘At my father’s house, I hope.’ He extended his hand. I took it. His skin was hot. ‘Being cared for.’

I didn’t doubt that if they wanted to keep Maya locked up at Albion Manor, they could. But maybe, with her history, it was for the best. I cursed my journalistic greed for misreading the story; for believing the words of a junkie. But as I closed the door quietly behind me, I remembered the words of my first ball-breaking editor at the Guardian. ‘Follow your gut – ninety-nine per cent of the time it’ll be right.’

Something here still didn’t quite add up. Someone was lying.

Chapter Sixteen
LONDON, MARCH 2008

Somehow I had known he would be there as I left Ash’s hotel room and walked out onto Charlotte Street.

‘Don’t make that joke about a bad penny, please,’ I said tiredly, but my heart was banging at the sight of him.