Charlie forced herself not to mention Gibbs’ name again as they paid the bill, and again as they walked along the busy road, raising their voices to be heard above the traffic.

When they arrived at the entrance to the underground, she managed to produce a last-minute display of warmth and affection: all fake. She needed Liv to be convinced, so that she’d go off and do whatever it was she needed to do – so she wouldn’t be on her guard.

After the hugs and the see-you-soons, Charlie walked slowly down the steps to the underground. When she got to the bottom, she counted to ten. Then she turned round and hurried back up to ground level. Her phone was buzzing in her bag. She decided to ignore it.

She looked around. No immediate sign of Liv. And hundreds of people who weren’t Liv, obstructing her view.

Charlie ran towards the station. If Liv was catching a train to Rawndesley, on her way to see Gibbs, why was she in such a hurry? With Simon, Sam and the Snowman all in London today for the big briefing, and Sellers busy with Sondra Halliday, Gibbs would be holding the fort at the nick. He wouldn’t be free to see Liv until early evening.

Charlie’s heart pitched forward inside her chest as she caught a glimpse of the furry collar of her sister’s coat. Was it her? The walk said yes – hips swaying from side to side more than they needed to. Then the glossy blonde head came into view. Yes, that was her.

Gotcha.

Liv was in the queue to go through the barrier. She had a ticket in her hand. She must have bought it before meeting Charlie so that she’d be all prepared for her day. That was interesting.

Charlie pulled her own return ticket out of her pocket and picked up her pace, determined not to lose sight of her quarry. It wasn’t every day that an opportunity like this presented itself. She was going to enjoy playing Follow That Liar.

Chapter 3

3

from Origami by Kim Tribbeck

Who remembers the unpainted wooden door with the silver handle, the one I mentioned a while ago and then never explained?

The police remember it, I’m sure – but then they know the whole story, and it’s not one you’d forget in a hurry.

The door is in my house. It divides the main part of the house from the cellar. (I never know whether to call it a cellar or a basement. There’s no wine in it, so cellar feels wrong. And basement sounds creepy. Let’s call it the lower-ground-floor flat beneath my house.)