‘Sorry. I’m trying to air the flat. It’s been empty for a few weeks,’ I said by way of explanation. ‘Yes. I’d like two keypads please. Also I need the alarm linked directly to the police station.’

Mr Harper politely asked if I’d like my quote sent by post or email.

‘Sorry. I didn’t realise there’d be a delay. I need it done today. Straight away.’

‘Okay. But it’ll not be cheap. Let me make a couple of calls.’

My instant acceptance of a vastly inflated price guaranteed Mr Harper would start immediately.

By teatime, the work was done.

37

Rebecca

The health club was only a short walk from the flat so I managed to put my paranoia to one side and venture down the hill. It was exactly one week since I’d moved in but I was still reluctant to go out, even into old familiar territory. The threat would always be there. However, my body craved exercise.

The health club entrance was hidden behind the all-night supermarket. It was neatly tucked alongside a terrace of 1930s red-brick houses. Inside the newly fitted glass entrance doors, a foyer buzzed with women in bright-coloured lycra. To the left of the reception desk was a dimly lit cafeteria.

‘May I help you?’

‘Yes. I’m interested in joining.’

‘No problem. If you wait here, I’ll get someone to show you round.’

The young receptionist thrust a new members’ pack at me and paged through to someone in a back office.

‘Take a seat in the café. Someone will be right with you.’

I didn’t notice him at first. I was too caught up in trying to get through my ordeal. I had to stake out the joint, as I did with every new environment, and automatically checked for window openings, emergency stairwells and fire exits. The smallness of the entrance area, bunched tightly between the adjacent buildings, had tempted me to turn back.

Yet once inside, there was something casual, airy and peaceful about the health club which made me feel more confident. I might be able to blend in and get my body back in shape. Mental well-being should follow.

I wandered into the café and bought a hot mug of camomile tea.

Arthur told me, many times, that the first moment he saw me he was hooked. If I believed my wild dishevelled hair and dull grey training clothes played down my beauty, I was wrong. He told me he’d never seen anyone so beautiful.

‘Here, let me help you.’ He pulled out a free chair next to him and offered to take my holdall. ‘Arthur. Arthur Beck at your service.’

I didn’t shake the outstretched hand. Instead I fiddled with the string of the teabag which had slithered to the bottom of the mug.