I dragged my gaze back to the entrance to the quadrant and pushed off against the wall. Now I’d come all this way, I couldn’t keep putting it off.

Seconds later, I was looking over my old walkway. An elderly man, right-angled with scoliosis, made painfully slow process to a flat a couple of doors down from where me and mum had lived. Two black teenage girls were talking in high, excited voices as they exited the one on the far end.

‘And she says to me, I ain’t doing you no fucking favours, and I go, you don’t do nuffing for me, you know what I’m saying?’

A dull ache began to spread beneath my sternum and for a minute I wondered whether I was having a heart attack. There would have been a certain justice if I had.

But I wasn’t going to be let off that easily. This pain was one I’d carry for the rest of my life.

I sat there as though my legs were made from concrete, my shoulders bowed with grief; for Mrs Mack, for Mum.

For me.

The buzzing in my pocket at that moment was a welcome distraction. I fumbled for my phone.

Anya.

ELLIOTT

I stabbed at the screen to unlock it, so I could read the full message.

E, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know where to even start so I’m going to try and do it my own way, okay? Mum and dad have a flat. I know I haven’t mentioned it before. Sorry. (Again!)

But if you can come to this address Flat 1, 54 Coleton Crescent, N1 1LR everything can be explained properly.

Please come. xxxxA

The final sign off – Please come – sent ice water up the back of my neck. Was she frightened? Had she had some sort of breakdown because of the stress of what had been going on with Bennett?

I turned and hurried back to Caledonian Road, frantically searching for Coleton Crescent on Google Maps. A black cab appeared with a shining yellow welcome as though someone was looking out for me and, a few minutes later, I was sitting in the back, gazing at the streets but not really taking anything in, my heart racing. Why had Anya never mentioned that her parents had a flat in Islington before?

Coleton Crescent was tucked into one of the streets the other side of Highbury station. While geographically it was not that far from Morningside House, it might as well have been in another country.

A white stuccoed Victorian terrace, each house was at least three storeys high, with freshly painted wrought iron fences that shone like black tar. Plants I wasn’t able to identify tumbled out of window boxes. There was even the gentle tinkling of a piano streaming from a window.