‘And I know where you live.’

He opens the file and examines the contents for a moment, then passes it across the desk. I almost drop it in my excitement.

There are five pages of contact sheets, and half a dozen larger prints. Post-it notes are attached to the A4 copies giving date and time. Each of them shows the front of a substantial Georgian terraced house.

‘That’s Kendall’s place in Chelsea,’ says Wilkinson. ‘Cheyne Walk. Rich bastard.’

The pictures have that grainy quality that comes from being taken through a long lens in the dark – between 2 and 3 a.m., according to the notes, on the third of February. Shortly after two, a man is seen leaving the house. There are three snaps of him, but I can’t make him out: he has a scarf wrapped around his chin and mouth and the nearest street lamp is too far away to cast much light on his features. About the only distinguishing thing I can see is the logo on his anorak.

Nearer three, the door opens again. This is more promising. A woman appears. She steps out – click – turns back – click – and embraces Kendall on the doorstep. Click click click. Then they part and she walks down the steps.

Click.

The photographer must have been in a car just across the road. As the woman reaches the pavement, she glances slightly to her right and the camera catches her face properly. No scarf or hood, no attempt to disguise who she is. In the low-light picture, enlarged to A4, every grain of the film stock is blown up so large that the effect is like an impressionist painting. And like an impressionist image, you can see exactly who it is.

The folder drops from my hands. The photos scatter everywhere. ‘Careful, you spastic!’ Wilkinson shouts, but I hardly hear him. I’m still looking at the woman in the photo, on the floor, whose eyes are burning right through me.

Clare.

Chapter 19

Chapter 19

I AM ON MY KNEES, SCRABBLING around, frantically picking up pictures. Wilkinson’s on his feet, but he doesn’t come round the desk. For a moment I’m hidden from him. I don’t want to stand up. I want to curl into a ball and shelter under the white laminated desktop. I need to hide for just a few moments, to regain my equanimity. Even in my distraught state, I know that’s impossible.

If I stay down any longer, Wilkinson’s going to call the men in white coats. I tuck the pictures in the manilla folder – I can’t bear to look at them – and get back on my chair. ‘I’m a klutz.’

‘See someone you recognised?’ he joshes.

If he only knew. I don’t meet his eye, but give what I hope is a passable imitation of a casual shrug. ‘Bit jittery this morning; overdid it last night.’