‘Yes.’ Coldness crept through her.

‘He’s not here.’

‘I thought he was with you.’

‘He was here last night,’ said Gary awkwardly. ‘But I’ve not seen him this evening.’

‘When do you expect him?’

‘I think,’ he gave an awkward cough. ‘I think he’s not coming back here tonight.’

‘Oh,’ said Irene. ‘Thanks.’

‘Irene?’

‘Yes.’

‘If there’s anything we can –’

‘Thanks.’

She banged the phone down. Everything felt strange. Her legs trembled and her stomach churned and her forehead was suddenly clammy, as if she was going to be sick. She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water over her face, waiting to feel better. Then she took off her night things and pulled on a pair of jeans and a thick jersey. She went downstairs and rang the girl who sometimes babysat.

‘I’ve suddenly got to go out,’ she said. ‘An emergency. And Adrian’s away. Is there any chance you can come over, just for an hour or so? Thanks.’

Irene looked up Peveril, Frances, in the telephone directory. She knew that Frankie lived in Clerkenwell, she’d been to her flat a few times, and it didn’t take long to find the address. She put the pilfered key from her purse into her back pocket. When the babysitter arrived, she was waiting in her coat and gloves. She felt she would be sick if she didn’t do something, at once.

She ran down the road, took the underground to Farringdon, and walked the few hundred yards to Portsmouth Road. It was just past eleven o’clock and young people were queuing up outside a club; a group of youths with shaved heads jostled past her, kicking a beer can. She stopped outside the door and, before she had time to reconsider, rang once on the bell as a kind of announcement, then pulled the key out of her pocket, unlocked the door and stepped inside. Stairs led up to the first-floor flat.

Frankie was coming down the stairs as Irene charged up. She was wearing a shirt of Adrian’s, half buttoned up, but her legs were bare and her hair mussed. When she saw Irene, she stopped dead and opened her mouth, but no words came out. Irene didn’t speak. She pushed past her and flung open the flat door. Clean, freshly painted, plushly carpeted, prints on the wall, everything smelling of comfort and wealth.

‘Hang on,’ began Frankie.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ hissed Irene.

‘Who was it?’ Adrian’s voice, coming from the door across the corridor.