A police siren sounded close behind her. Debbie darted into a one-way street and halted in a dank and smelly doorway, her heart thumping inside her chest. She steadied herself with one hand pressed against the brickwork, and then a sudden lurch from her stomach and she vomited into the gutter. The whine of the siren, gradually increasing in volume then joined by a second and a third, their timing slightly out of synch and creating a weird, discordant rhythmic lament, accompanied her retching.

  Debbie wiped her mouth, put her moped in gear and shot out of the alleyway onto Hackney Road. She had no game plan, no strategy. Rosie was dead. All was lost.

  PART ONE

  LONDON, JUNE 2019 (SAME DAY)

  1

  Constance Lamb was sitting under the arbour in Haggerston Park, reading through some notes. A newly planted honeysuckle wound its way around the overhead wooden slats, filling the air with its sweet, intoxicating scent. Constance sometimes came here on a summer’s afternoon, to sit in the shade on the low benches, as a break from work or, like today, to wind down in the evening, before heading home. An oasis, a little patch of green, amid the grey and brown of the nearby, abundant housing estates.

  The park was divided in two by a red brick wall, partly covered by creepers and trailing plants. The lower southern part of the park, with its entrance on Hackney Road and quick access to the shops and stalls of Columbia Road, housed the tennis courts and football pitch and the downtrodden children’s farm. This end of the park was less structured, essentially a large playing field, bisected by a walking path, although there were some log piles along its northernmost end – an attempt to encourage wildlife to linger – and the construction of the gazebo where she was now seated, a couple of years back, had added an air of gentility.

  In the distance Constance could see the City – the Gherkin, the Shard and the Cheese Grater all rising high into the sky, their occupants seemingly far removed from the people living around the park where she sat.

  Two girls played catch with their older brother; their ball had now rolled twice against Constance’s feet and the youngest girl had collected it from her, wearing the widest grin. Constance wanted to tell the girl that she had played here too, at around the same age, but the words didn’t come. Instead, she read her notes over and looked, periodically, out across the grass.

  And then, a troop of brownies appeared through the gap in the wall, led by a woman whose body jerked from side to side, walking slowly along the path in Constance’s direction, their bright yellow t-shirts giving them away, even from this distance. Constance should have been a brownie, she thought, but it hadn’t featured in her childhood agenda. Schoolwork and self-preservation had taken precedence over formal leisure activities.

  The girl at the front held a rounders bat, her friend was tossing the ball from hand to hand, and they were chattering as they snaked along. Constance closed her tablet. There was no point pretending she was working. She might as well take a real break, enjoy the entertainment and resume work later, at home. She extracted a cereal bar from her pocket and snapped it in half.

  The tranquil idyll was suddenly shattered. A flock of starlings sped by overhead, calling loudly, the ground beneath Constance’s feet began to vibrate and she heard an engine roaring. She squinted out towards the lower part of the park. A moped appeared, driven at considerable speed along the narrow path. Its helmeted driver, head down, blond hair streaming out behind her, was heading straight for the brownie caravan.

  ‘Watch out!’ Constance called, but the young ears of the girls had picked up the danger signs even before she had and they were already scattering, with high-pitched squeals of fear and excitement filling the air.

  Constance marched forwards. She was unsure what her plan was, but it involved either ensuring the children were removed from the path of the rampaging moped or somehow diverting it instead. She waved her arms above her head. Then she shouted again, but the moped sped on, swerving around the shrieking girls and quickly disappearing behind her.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Constance asked two of the girls, who had strayed over in her direction.

  They shrugged, as if it was an everyday occurrence to be almost bowled over by a speeding moped, and retreated to join the rounders game. Their leader was already creating makeshift bases, with a collection of discarded jumpers.

  Constance ate the second half of her cereal bar. She tucked the wrapper back in her pocket, dropped her tablet into her bag and began to walk home. As she crossed Whiston Road, a police motorcycle exited the park, just behind her, then three police cars came screeching around the corner and streaked past in close succession. Maybe if she caught the local news, she would find out what was causing all the excitement.

  2

  Judith Burton was at home, selecting which balsamic vinegar to drizzle on her avocado salad, when her phone rang. She had built up quite a collection and, if time permitted, she preferred to match each one to her meal, the way some people might choose a suitable wine. The one with a hint of pomegranate would do the trick, but the pesky bottle was continuing to elude her.

  She had spent the morning in a leisurely fashion. First she had walked to the ponds on Hampstead Heath for a quick dip. She had swum regularly for years, but had avoided the well-known, natural swimming location till now, through a mixture of prudery (they said some of the women swam naked) and concern about how clean the water was. Then she had read an article about the number of bacteria sharing the average, man-made, public pool, and its growing resistance to chlorine, and she’d decided to have a go.

  She’d found the experience particularly liberating, even wearing a costume. True, the water was chilly, despite the warm weather, but it was also immensely calming to glide along, with the sun overhead and the birds swooping low, dipping the tips of their wings in the water and chirping from the branches overhead. There had been one scary moment when a duck had landed close by, but, after the initial splash and element of surprise, Judith found she liked watching it dabbling and grooming itself, before it paddled away to the reeds at the side of the pond.

  She had dried off on the grass, read a book for half an hour and then sauntered home, feeling restored and invigorated, picking up the ripe avocado and fresh leafy ingredients on her way. That was the nice thing about living alone and not having any regular employment. When the fair weather arrived, you could take full advantage.

  ‘Not interrupting your lunch, am I?’ Constance asked from the other end of the phone line, checking her watch.

  ‘One second and I’ll put you on speaker,’ Judith plucked a piece of grass from her hair and continued her perusal of her kitchen cupboard.

  ‘I can call back if you’re busy?’

  ‘No, go on. I am listening, just wrestling with a difficult legal problem, that’s all. But I always have time for you.’ Judith stood on tiptoes and peered into the depths of her food cupboard.

  ‘OK. I’m advising Debbie Mallard,’ Constance said.

  ‘No, doesn’t ring any immediate bells. Should it?’

  ‘Do you have your laptop there?’

  ‘That question tells me that it’s a while since we worked together.’ Judith tried a different approach to seek out the most suitable vinegar, shifting a couple of bottles around on the shelf, taking care that they didn’t clang together and give her away.

  ‘You did mention a “legal problem”. It wasn’t too much of a leap to think that you might be online.’

  ‘I lied.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About the legal problem. I am actually searching for suitable condiments to accompany my lunch.’ Judith gave up on her tentative rummaging and banged the cupboard door shut.

  ‘The footballer, was married to Rosie Harper,’ Constance said crisply.

  ‘Rosie Harper. The darling of the Beeb! Why didn’t you say so? I saw the footage of the chase on the News last night. Someone filmed it on their phone, I think. Enormously exciting and so very incriminating. Fleeing the scene on a moped. Not the best look for a grieving spouse.’

  ‘I’ll call another time, when you’re not eating.’

  ‘No, now is perfect…really. Has she been arrested?’

  ‘They questioned her and let her go home. She’s arranged to see me this afternoon. I…I thought you might be interested in coming along. I know it’s short notice. I did try your mobile three times.’

  Judith wrestled with her handbag before locating her mobile at the very bottom, tangled up in her swimming goggles. She swiped the screen with a tea towel and Constance’s missed calls miraculously appeared.

  ‘What time?’ she asked.

  ‘I said 2.30. If it’s not…’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Judith said.

  ‘Are you sure? I could always fill you in, afterwards.’

  ‘Oh no. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.’

  Judith exited the kitchen with her plate in her hand and without the vinegar, instead searching ‘Rosie Harper murder’ on her PC, blowing up the text to 175% and scrolling down to see what was on offer. Top of the list was a video extract from yesterday morning’s BBC Breakfast: ‘Rosie’s last broadcast’. There was a well-groomed, fresh-faced Rosie Harper, seated next to co-presenter Jason Fenwick, interviewing a young girl who was campaigning for CBD oil to be available for her epileptic brother. Rosie was a real beauty, Judith thought, without and within. She appeared solid, serious and totally credible, but with her heart firmly fixed on her sleeve. Judith watched her for some minutes. She could have easily watched for longer.

  With a sniff to acknowledge the horror of someone so full of life being struck down so brutally, Judith moved on to the online newspaper sources from earlier in the day.

  The Telegraph majored on the risk to life posed by the high-speed pursuit, at great expense, in a busy area in the rush hour. Who would pay to clean up the damage to the park? a local councillor asked. The Times focused on Rosie herself, her background and family and last programme. Judith couldn’t resist a quick peak at the Sun, when it popped up on her screen. It put Rosie’s dog centre-stage, recounting how the five-year-old collie, Belle, had alerted neighbour Lynn Harris by barking loudly. And last was the Guardian’s piece about the chase, which she almost ignored; she had watched it on the news, so there seemed little point reading an account of it, but then the photographs drew her in and she found her way to the last paragraph.

  Ms Debbie Mallard was eventually apprehended at her mother’s house in Bow. She made no comment when she left, accompanied by the Metropolitan Police. Officers had found Debbie on the touchline, in the middle of a coaching session with Hackney South ladies, a fourth-division amateur team. Debbie has been living quietly, out of the public gaze, since her transition from superstar international footballer Danny to Debbie in 2017. A police source refused to comment on whether Debbie was a suspect.

  Judith sat down in her armchair and lay her plate down on the armrest. Refused to comment, she murmured. Then she rose and collected her mobile from the kitchen, placing it face up next to her, while she ate her lunch, so that she would be sure to reach it quickly if Constance called again.

  3

  Andy Chambers was enjoying a soak in the bath, having dispatched his daughter, Mia, to the park with a friend and her au pair, when his phone rang. He wasn’t often at home during the week, but a trial had run two days short and, for once, he had decided to gift himself a day off. He listened to the ringtone once, twice, three times before he decided to grab it – one of the occupational hazards of being a criminal lawyer was fearing the worst whenever the phone rang – sloshing soapy suds onto the floor and leaving wet patches on the landing carpet, as he hurried to his room.

  ‘Hello?’ The call ended just as he picked it up and he cursed himself for his earlier indecision. He who hesitates, he declared to his phone and then, as he turned to return to his water therapy, he caught sight of himself in the bedroom mirror. He straightened up, drawing his shoulders back and puffing out his chest. He didn’t look bad for thirty-three years old, he thought, probably not much different from his wedding day eight years ago.

  Halfway back to the bathroom he paused. All was quiet in the house. Still with his towel clutched around his nether regions, he tiptoed to the door of Mia’s room and pushed it open. The room was tidy, the bedclothes neat, some clothes folded on the chair, ready for someone to return them to their rightful place, a pile of colourful picture books stacked from largest to smallest in the centre of the floor. When he saw the room like this, it was hard to believe that his life was anything other than peaceful and harmonious. The truth was that Mia, his whirlwind of a daughter, following close on the heels of her twin brothers, had almost beaten him into total submission. He had often appeared in court short on sleep or ill-prepared, because of his lively offspring. He and Clare, his wife, had hung on in there these last five years and were, finally, poised on the threshold of Mia starting full-time school in September, clinging desperately to the prospect of some modicum of normality returning to their lives.

  As he smiled to himself and padded back to enjoy at least another ten minutes of unadulterated pampering in the bathroom, his phone went again. This time he grabbed it on the second ring.

  ‘Andy Chambers,’ he announced in a deep baritone, to compensate for the fact he was almost naked and dripping. Instinctively, he grabbed a jumper from the nearby chair and held it up to cover his chest.

  ‘Andy, my name’s Phil Ash,’ said the caller. ‘You don’t know me, but I’m assistant to Graham Hendricks. You know who Graham is?’

  Andy sat down heavily on the bed. Graham was CEO of Horizon, one of the largest independent broadcasting companies in the world and a personal friend of Nick Major, his head of chambers. Andy had been introduced to Graham only a few days before at a garden party, held to celebrate the retirement of one of their most senior barristers.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he stammered. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘Graham wants to see you about something. Are you free to come over to his office this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes, certainly,’ Andy lied. He had arranged to meet a friend for a squash game, yet another neglected hobby of his, but a meeting with Graham Hendricks could not be passed up. ‘Can you tell me what it’s about?’ he asked, partly from curiosity and partly to assist him when he tried to extricate himself, with as little grovelling as possible, from his prior arrangement. ‘Is there anything I should read in advance?’

  ‘No. He’ll tell you when you arrive. I’ll send you the office location. Come at three. Oh and don’t tell anyone you’re coming.’

  4

  Judith stood outside Constance’s office later that afternoon, knocking and then pushing the door open without waiting for a response. She was dressed in navy, wide-leg trousers, teamed with a cream blouse, her outfit completed by a swirling silk scarf. It was one of her ‘throwback’ outfits, purchased in her previous life, the one she had retired from seven years ago, before making her comeback with Constance at her side, but if you kept clothes for long enough, she found, they invariably came back into fashion.

  It wasn’t that Judith was thrifty; quite the reverse. It was more that she felt a connection with one or two items worn for memorable occasions, her mawkish attachment to pieces of fabric not usually extending to the majority of people around her.

  ‘Hello,’ Constance glanced up from her work.

  ‘I’m now up to speed with who Rosie Harper is or was,’ Judith announced, as she swept into the room, ‘the highs and lows of Danny Mallard, including a potted version of his biography – I’ve ordered the official full version from Amazon – and the already leaky walls of Hackney police station are giving away a few early morsels. I am slightly less au fait with Debbie Mallard, though, our new-born outlaw. What can you tell me about her?’

  Constance saved her work but kept her laptop open. Then she shrugged and waved at the empty seat opposite.

  ‘OK. So, 43 years old, white, London-born, only child. Played most of her career, as Danny, for Arsenal, but also played for England, moved to manage West Ham in 2010. On the personal side, as you know, she transitioned from Danny to Debbie in 2017. What else? Divorced around the same time from Rosie, lived separately in a flat not far away. Nothing fancy, so I’m not sure where all her money’s gone. They have two children; Laura is 21 and Ben is 16. That’s what I have so far.’

  ‘That’s a good start. And the day of the murder?’

  ‘She’d been at the house in the afternoon. Claims she left at 2. Rosie was found around 5. She’ll be here in five minutes. Like I said, if you stay, you can ask her anything else yourself… Oh…and just in case you think it’s important, I saw her.’

  ‘You saw her?’

  ‘I didn’t know it was her, Debbie, at the time. I was in my local park, when this moped came speeding through and then all these police cars followed. It’s not a problem, is it, that I saw her?’

  ‘I don’t see why. She must have passed numerous people on her way to, what was it, her mother’s house? Unless you interacted with her?’

  ‘There wasn’t really any time for that.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Was she angry, frightened?’

  ‘She just drove pretty fast down the path. It was quite a sight.’

  ‘A sight?’

  ‘She’s quite tall, and she was travelling pretty fast.’

  ‘OK. It’s right you told me, but I can’t see any problem. It’s not often we have first-hand verification of our client’s evidence. I have to say, given everything I have read, I am quite intrigued by the prospect of meeting her.’