A massive Porsche SUV parked two doors down from number 54. The doors opened and several small, blonde children, in the old-fashioned, neat school uniforms that certain parents pay very good money for, spilled out noisily. An East Asian woman, a nanny perhaps, began to herd them inside the property, reprimanding one of them in a loud voice.

I walked up the white stone steps at the front of the building.

I didn’t know what I was going to find in the flat. And that was terrifying.

There was a metal entry system with flats numbered 1 to 3.

I pressed the button for Flat 1 and then stood back, gazing up at the building. There was no response the first time, and my head instantly filled with images of Anya lying in a pool of sick, or in a bath full of bloody water. I pressed again, harder, and this time could hear the sound of it chiming inside.

A loud buzz told me the door was open and I pushed it, entering a black and white tiled hallway. I ran up the three flights of stairs, barely taking a breath, and at the top of the house saw the black painted door of Flat 1.

The door was partly open and, heart beating from worry and exertion, I pressed it to enter another small hallway, painted in the sort of Farrow and Ball colour that was no doubt called something stupid like Sad Pigeon. The same colour as the one in Julia and Patrick’s house in Lathebridge.

‘In here,’ came a thin voice and I walked into a long room with two large bay windows, which must have looked over the street outside.

Anya was sitting with her arms bundled around her knees, dressed in faded yellow pyjamas with ducks printed on them. They looked a little too small for her, as though they were from her childhood or teenage years.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. She was thin and pale-looking, her eyes large. I could see sweet wrappers on the floor by the sofa and an empty box of Celebrations lay on the arm of the chair.

Finally, I broke the silence.

‘What the hell is going on, Anya?’

She started to cry.

‘I’m so sorry, Ell,’ she said as tears poured down her cheeks and a snot bubble burst in her nose. Her next words were so shocking, I couldn’t immediately process them and felt as though I had misheard her.

‘What?’

‘I killed him,’ she repeated. ‘I killed him.’

When she comes back, Daddy has put on some music and ‘Move It, Move It’ is playing. Almost all of the girls are dancing and even Dylan has been dragged to his feet. He is throwing his arms around wildly and looking a bit silly.