‘Meet me at the barriers of Charing Cross Underground station in fifteen minutes.’

The great thing about the London Underground is that lorries aren’t allowed down there. Even so, I stand well back from the edge of the platform and scan both directions, looking for anyone who might want to nudge me on to the lines. Jess can tell I’m on heightened alert, I think, but is too polite to mention it. After the train clatters in on the northbound Northern Line, Charing Cross branch, we take it to Leicester Square, and then change to the Piccadilly Line. Thirty minutes later, we exit at Turnpike Lane.

By now it’s nearly nine o’clock: the bars and Turkish restaurants are packed as we traipse down Green Lanes. The smell of coriander, garlic, grilling meat and warm flatbread fill the air. I promise myself that when this is over I will come back and stuff my face with hummus, Turkish salad and kebab.

Soon we are outside number forty-nine Hewitt Road. I’ve managed to put the accident out of my mind – my superpower of compartmentalising difficult emotional issues, packing them into a sealed box. But approaching Deyna’s front door, there’s a flick of fear. I think of the silhouette in the driver’s cab, behind the glass, and again hear the VW lady’s comment: Almost as if he wanted to crush your car. Has Deyna been out this evening driving a pantechnicon? I want it to be a mad, paranoid idea. But I was inches away from being turned into mincemeat.

An old Saab is parked by the kerb outside the house. The front garden is even more of a tip than before, filled with newspaper pages and carrier bags that have blown in. The noxious smell of rotting food rises out of two grubby black plastic bins. Nothing to suggest anyone’s been living here for weeks. The front rooms are dark, though through the window I can see the living-room door has been left ajar and there’s a light on behind it.

We ring the bell, but all it does is summon a tabby cat who appears at our feet, miaowing. We try Dolly’s door, too, but she’s not home.

‘Wasted trip,’ Jess says. ‘There was a pub back there . . .’

‘. . . the Salisbury. Famous IRA hangout. Just the ticket.’

‘Let’s head over there and I’ll buy you a Guinness.’

‘Disgusting stuff. And I’m not sure the white wine will be quite up to standard.’

‘You really are a pretentious twat.’

I’m not listening. ‘What about that?’ I say. A few doors down, there’s a gap between the houses that looks like the opening of an alleyway. I follow it between two garden walls, then turn left along the backs of the houses until I’m behind Deyna’s house. The fence here is rickety boards, with a door in the middle buckling from its hinges.