‘She’s in the back,’ he said, and lifted the counter flap so that Maguire could go through.

Hurrying, Donny Maguire went behind the counter and yanked the red curtain aside. Cold air hit him in the face. He found himself standing in a tiny, overcluttered room. Rain was blasting in from an open doorway at the back, rustling stacks of old newspapers. There was no one in the room. He raced over to the door and peered outside, looking left and right.

The alley behind the shop was deserted.

Dora was gone.

‘Detective, is she—’ started the pawnbroker, but Donny wasn’t listening.

He threw himself out into the rain and turned right and ran down the alley. Most people turn right, he reasoned. Shop

merchandise was set out and sales were hiked by that principle – people came in the door, then turned to the right. Every retailer knew it. So did every copper. And she would have gone right too.

He ran.

45

Dora went left, shoving her way past rubbish bins until she emerged from the alley. She ran down the street and then thought that even if Donny had turned right outside the back of the shop he would soon emerge onto this same street; so she dived back down another narrow walkway and kept going, glancing fearfully back over her shoulder. Soon she was hopelessly lost, but she couldn’t see any sign of Donny. She passed shops, wandered through arcades, and wound up in a semi-circle of Georgian town houses, and there at last was what she’d been looking for – a bed and breakfast sign.

She paused at the bottom of the steps, leaned against the wrought-iron railing. Her heart was thundering in her chest; she felt sick. Looking around at the crowds, she thought she saw – way off in the distance – a tall intense-looking dark-haired man walking along, his head turning, looking, searching . . . oh Christ! Searching for her.

It was him. She knew it was him.

She grabbed up her suitcase and plunged headlong up the stairs and hammered at the door.

Oh come on, come on . . .

No one was answering.

She rapped again, not daring to look round now, because she knew he was coming closer.

‘Oh for Christ’s sake! Answer the bloody door,’ she moaned.

Someone answered the door. It was a tall woman with a large wen on her left cheek and hair dyed so dark that it looked as brittle and dried-out as a horse’s mane. Middle-aged, with an air of flustered irritation about her, she was wearing a protective pinny over her primrose-yellow cardigan and tobacco-brown knitted woollen skirt, and holding a tea towel.

‘Yes?’ she shot out. ‘No need to break the bloody door down, luv.’

‘Sorry,’ said Dora. ‘The sign in the window says vacancies. Can I have a room, please?’ she managed to get out. She shoved forward, unable to help herself. If he spotted her now, she was done for.