‘Don’t worry. That’s enough for me to find it.’ Constance nodded her thanks.

  The old woman was tucking heartily into her scone now, a blob of jam lingering at the corner of her mouth. The old man reached across and wiped it for her, with a folded paper triangle, scrunching it between his fingers and laying it tenderly on the table by her plate.

  Constance slipped her scarf into the front of her jacket and buttoned it up, ready to face the elements as she headed back to her office.

  9

  Luke was working late. If he was to meet Eric’s deadline for revisions to his new game, there wasn’t a moment to be lost. He couldn’t afford to sleep more than the absolute minimum. If it hadn’t been for the short deadline, he might have rather enjoyed the experience. He had to admit that there was something satisfying about ending characters’ lives with a bang, rather than a whimper.

  He had decided to extend Eric’s instructions to injuries too. He’d taken his inspiration from those old comics, the ones where every contact was marked with a ‘bam’, ‘kerpow’ or ‘thwack’. Now, every time any of his characters sustained an injury, there would be a suitable noise, and visuals too – anything from a dribble to a river of blood, as appropriate. But he kept it mock, unreal, fantastic. It was satisfying but not sadistic. ‘Make killing fun.’

  Luke was so engrossed in his work that he hadn’t noticed everyone leave until the lights began to dim and he had to fling his arms around like some demented scarecrow to reinstate them. He sat back and rubbed at his eyes. He really did need a break, even if it was only for a few minutes. Sometimes, that was all it took to recharge his creative cells. He began to pace around the office, stretching from side to side.

  It was funny how things seemed different at night. The room had grown to twice its daytime size, the monitors lined up like battalions of menacing marauders, the chairs positioned strategically to help launch an attack. That gave him another idea: ‘The Office; a game of urban survival!’ he whispered in a deep-toned, American accent, ‘featuring Gillian, the efficient receptionist and Luke, the intrepid designer.’ And then he heard it – a rhythmic thud, interspersed with less regular grunting noises – and it appeared to be coming from Eric’s office.

  Cautiously, he approached, inching his way along the darkened corridor. Someone was making quite a commotion in Eric’s room. He sidled over to peer through the vertical pane and had to stuff his fist in his mouth to prevent himself from laughing out loud. Eric, stripped to his boxers – black silk with ‘Kick Ass’ emblazoned across the front – and with his t-shirt knotted around his head, was repeatedly kicking at a large, freestanding punchbag, situated in the centre of his room. Every few kicks, he would spin around, thump his chest, shout out some encouragement to himself and then bow to an imaginary opponent. The presence of the punchbag answered Luke’s question about the enormous parcel delivered that afternoon, which two men had struggled to carry through the office.

  Luke was about to withdraw, considering it might be career-limiting to be found spying on his boss in his underwear, after-hours, whatever his motivation, when Eric suddenly ceased his cavorting and reached for his mobile phone. He pressed some keys, raised it to his ear and then Luke heard him swearing loudly: ‘Stupid, crazy bitch, pick up, will you?’ He shook his phone from side to side, then pressed some keys again, more profanities escaping his lips when his call remained unanswered. Then Eric raised the phone above his head and flung it across the room.

  Luke gasped. ‘No!’

  He didn’t wait to witness the aftermath. He scuttled back to his desk and grabbed his bag. ‘Macho’, ‘dojo’, ‘loco’. The finishing touches to his storyboard could wait till the morning. He was going home right now.

  10

  ‘Hi Nathaniel. I’m Constance, Jaden’s lawyer. I left you a message, but I didn’t hear back. Have you got a minute?’

  Constance stepped forward so that Nathaniel Brooks had little choice but to let her in to the flat he shared with Jaden. Either that or risk injuring her if he closed the door in her face. She had, in fact, left three messages and she was not going to allow him to evade her any longer, having gone to the trouble of making a house call.

  Nathaniel was still in his pyjamas and the flat smelled of pizza. He shuffled into the living room and removed the offending box, carrying it out into the hallway and adding it to two more. Then he opened the curtains halfway, covering his eyes as the light flooded in.

  ‘Did I wake you up?’ she asked.

  ‘Late night,’ he said.

  ‘Online?’

  ‘Nar, a party. How’s JD?’

  ‘That’s what you call Jaden?’

  ‘It’s what everyone calls him. He didn’t do nothing, you know that?’ He sat down on the window ledge and Constance perched opposite, on the edge of the sofa.

  ‘Did you know Dr Sullivan, the lady at number 38?’ she asked.

  ‘She had some trouble with her car. JD helped her. Next thing she brought us a chocolate cake, with icing on the top, real professional, like you get in a shop. I didn’t know nothing was going on between them. Then, last Friday, he went out for a few hours, to her place; got back just in time for the show. That’s all I know.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Around nine. We went live at 9.30. We had to make stuff up a bit, ’cos usually we do some planning just before, but we had a really good show, in the end. JD was buzzing.’

  ‘Buzzing?’

  ‘I don’t mean really – not like he’d taken nothing – but he was on fire. We got five hundred more than the usual subs that night.’

  ‘Did he tell you he had been visiting Dr Sullivan?’

  ‘Nar. But I knew. I saw him coming out of her place. I wasn’t spying or nothing but, when it got near nine, I was getting a bit edgy.’

  ‘You didn’t ask him?’

  ‘It wasn’t like that between us. He’d tell me if he wanted.’

  ‘And the next morning?’

  ‘We heard police, maybe around ten. JD went out to ask some kids outside what was wrong and they told him. He came back in and he was in a state.’

  ‘In a state?’

  ‘You keep on repeating what I’m saying. He was shaking his head from side to side. I asked him what was up and he told me that her – he called her “Liz” – he said Liz was dead, police said she’d been found dead in her flat. I said that was a real shame, as she’d seemed such a nice lady. And he said yes she was.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He went out for a coupla hours. For a run. Said he wanted to clear his head. That was it. We did our show as usual. Next day, the police knocked at the door and hauled him off.’

  ‘Did you ever go into Dr Sullivan’s flat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She had a handbag stolen, quite distinctive, bright red one side, zebra stripes down the other.’

  ‘Never seen it.’

  ‘With all her things inside: purse, mobile phone, car keys.’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘They think that’s why he killed her, to steal her money?’

  Constance shrugged. ‘What do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘No way!’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Course, I’m sure. I’ve known JD a long time. We was at primary school together. He don’t take no shit from no one, that’s true, but he don’t steal and he don’t beat no women neither.’

  ‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

  ‘He used to a year back, but she went off with another guy. He was a bit cut-up and since then, nobody special.’

  ‘Can I speak to her? JD’s ex-girlfriend?’

  ‘I can give you her number, but I’m not sure she’ll talk to you.’

  ‘What family does he have?’

  ‘Me. I’m his family.’

  ‘No parents?’

  ‘He never knew his dad and his mum died last year. They were talking about putting him in care, but things got dragged out till he was eighteen, so we moved in together.’

  ‘What did his mother do?’

  ‘She was a nurse. Really good lady, well respected.’

  ‘And JD’s phone, laptop?’

  ‘The police took them all, and some clothes, and the other clothes I sent for him.’

  ‘If this case comes to trial, would you be willing to come to court to say the things you just told me?’

  Nathaniel stood up and wiggled his head from side to side, visibly weighing up his answer.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘It’s one thing saying stuff to you, here. It’s another standing up and saying it all in a court.’

  ‘Have you been in a court before?’

  Nathaniel looked at his feet and Constance cursed herself for the insensitivity of her question.

  ‘I meant I could show you what it’s like, being a witness,’ she said. ‘I could take you into another trial. Then you’d know what to expect.’

  ‘Look, I want to help. JD’s the reason I’m alive and not fucked up in the head, like some kids wanted me to be, or under the ground. He saved my ass over and over. But you need to know I’ve been inside – just youth stuff – nothing big. I didn’t hurt no one; nothing like that. Just, will they know that? ’Cos, if so, I’m not sure they’re gonna believe me over some doctor or lawyer, you know what I mean?’

  ***

  Judith sat at home observing a recording of Jaden on her laptop. She’d been watching for three hours now, trying to get the hang of the game he was playing. She believed she had mastered the basic elements of the story and its aim and had toyed with downloading the app herself, albeit the free version, purely from a research perspective. But she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. It felt like a step too far, some kind of endorsement that the game had value, which she wasn’t yet prepared to accept. Instead, she focused on Jaden.

  It was quite remarkable that he could perform at such a high level and, simultaneously, chat with his fans, moving seamlessly from one to the other. And the chemistry between Jaden and Nathaniel was palpable. They sparred with each other good-humouredly, they teased each other mercilessly, but it was never mean-spirited. And over the course of a few shows, they even swapped clothes. Nathaniel was good, Judith could see that, but Jaden was better, not just with his results but with his rapport with his audience. He was more self-assured, more stylish. Even when he wasn’t playing, when he was easing back in his chair, laughing at his own jokes, he was immensely likeable.

  She paused the stream of play and crossed the room to press her hand against the radiator, which was peaking at lukewarm. Her boiler needed an overhaul, but she’d put it off and now she had to wait another week for a plumber. She hoped the system would last that long; otherwise she’d be digging out her old hot-water bottle and fluffy bed socks.

  She entered her bedroom and sat down at her dressing table. She’d torn an article from today’s Evening Standard about exercises you could do to keep your face looking young and she smoothed it out in front of her. Now she was reading it closely, it only provided scant instructions on what was required. Anyone seriously interested was supposed to sign up for one-to-one sessions, at a private clinic, undoubtedly at great expense. Even so, she would try anything once. She leaned forwards, stroked her fingers across her forehead in sharp, downward motions, while sticking out her bottom lip. Then she pinched each side of her nose hard and blinked over and again. Finally, she slapped the back of her hand against the bottom of her chin.

  Her phone rang and she dragged it towards her. Greg, again. Second time this week. He was certainly persistent. She let it ring out.

  Now her phone pinged a message from Greg. She perched her glasses on the end of her nose and viewed it.

  Dinner tomorrow night, Delomino, 7.30 prompt, it read. No enquiry as to her health or whether she was free, not even a question mark. She should write back and condemn his audacity. Her fingers hovered over her screen. And, now she read the message again, she could see that he’d spelt the name of the restaurant wrong. That had to be corrected. Then she paused and laughed. The absence of polite introduction, the order to attend, the mis-spelling, it was all calculated to generate a response from her. And once she responded, she would meet him. He knew that. He knew her too well.

  Judith sighed. Did she love Greg? She wasn’t sure. After her late husband Martin’s betrayal, she had forced that part of her heart to shut down, but she had certainly enjoyed having a companion again for a few short months, even one who insisted on wearing polo shirts and blow-drying his hair. But having gathered the courage to ask him to leave, she didn’t want him to inveigle his way back into her life. She didn’t need a soul mate, even one with a generous nature and a tendency to call out her prejudices. She really didn’t. She didn’t need anyone at all.

  ***

  Constance stood in the street, outside Dr Sullivan’s flat. It was still marked with police tape, but Dawson had said she could visit. Now she just needed PC Thomas to come and let her in.

  The street was quiet, a mix of modern, low-rise red-brick buildings and one 1970s high-rise monstrosity on the corner. Jaden and Nathaniel’s flat was on the first floor of ‘Montagu House’ – one of the low blocks – and it looked out over the street. Just in front, there was a concrete yard, with the faded lines of what was once a basketball court. There were few cars. She stood outside Dr Sullivan’s window. The boys would have had a perfect view of anyone entering or leaving her apartment, had they been looking that way.

  She shivered. They had predicted an Arctic winter so many times in the last decade, but this seemed to be the year they had got it right. And the clocks had only just changed. She shuffled from one foot to the other.

  Suddenly, Constance had the sensation she was not alone. She didn’t quite hear someone behind her as much as sense it; a change in the light, or the temperature or the breeze. She wheeled around but no one was there. Still, she was sure of it. One minute she had known she was the only one standing outside on the freezing afternoon and the next, someone else was sharing that space, somewhere close by, watching and waiting.

  She shifted back towards the door of Nathaniel’s block. At least she knew he was home, if she needed him, although she’d have to make it up the stairs and, if Nathaniel stuck on those noise-cancelling headphones she’d spied by the TV, he wouldn’t notice if the space shuttle landed in his bedroom.

  Then she heard it; a branch snapping underfoot and an intake of breath. She sank further into the doorway, her finger hovering over the buzzer, her eyes sweeping the street. A low scuffling sound followed, which could have been a squirrel or a rat, except she knew it wasn’t.

  The overdue police car turned into the street, switched its beam up full to illuminate its destination and pulled up outside Dr Sullivan’s flat. Constance thought, for a second, that she saw a figure, silhouetted through its back window, before she was dazzled by the lights and turned away. When she looked back, it was just her and PC Thomas on the well-worn street.

  11

  Tom’s score was increasing even faster than his pulse rate. If he could keep going at this pace, he could easily defeat the opposition, or at least most of them. There were one or two tricky opponents he could see, performing at a similar level to him. But that was what made it so much fun. ‘Battle of the equals’, maintaining standards.

  Anyway, no one wants to win from the front. He’d argued with his mum about that very concept. She was all for steady progress, keeping up, even getting ahead by doing work before it was due. Tom couldn’t see the point in that. Far better to do only what was necessary and bide your time and then turn the taps on full, when the pressure was on, like right now.

  How long had he been playing? He’d lost track of time. He had humoured Mr Jenkins by going down for breakfast and even walking around the playing fields once, to tick the ‘fresh air’ box to which Jenkins had constantly alluded over the last few days. But he’d refused lunch, so a few hours at least. He could check the time, but that would involve looking away from the screen. He needed the toilet; he should never have had orange juice to drink, but he’d have to wait a bit longer. Just one more game and he could quit. That would be pretty good for his ranking. Although there was a battle at 8pm where he could win double points.

  Someone was coming up behind him at tremendous speed. He wheeled around and caught the guy in the eye with his pickaxe, the satisfying crunch of metal against bone and a cascade of blood soaking the soil, before the next assailant was on him, launched from the side, feet first. But he was prepared for the twin-pronged attack. This time he used his butcher’s knife to disembowel his young opponent, before gathering up his weapons and running on. He blinked heavily to help himself focus. Now he was really motoring.

  He was suddenly aware of someone speaking to him – someone outside the game – and David was there in the room.

  ‘What’re you playing?’ David asked.

  Tom grunted in response. Anything more and he would lose his concentration.

  ‘Wow, is that your score?’

  Tom increased the tension in his right index finger and blew up a wagon load of enemy elves, together with their hoard of gunpowder. He ignored David.

  ‘It’s stifling in here.’ David crossed the room and opened the window, a gust of wind streaking in, lifting a flurry of papers from Tom’s desk. One of them floated over his keyboard and he batted it away with his nose, growling as he did so.

  David stood behind him, bending over to watch the action, his breath close to Tom’s ear. Tom felt the warmth and weight of human contact, but blocked it in favour of the sensations he was experiencing in the game.

  ‘Just one more…’ he said, hoping David would take the hint and back off. He was nearly there. There were only six of them left now; six from a starting line-up of over a hundred.