‘Good work,’ he says. ‘Very good work. Now let’s see what they come back with.’

  49

  Cate’s phone vibrates on the kitchen table. She picks it up and looks at the screen. It’s Elona, Tilly’s mum.

  ‘Cate?’

  ‘Yes,’ she answers. ‘Hi!’

  ‘Hi. It’s Elona. I wondered if you had time to talk?’

  ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Yes. Totally.’

  ‘I spoke to Tilly. Last night. About the thing that happened. She got very upset. I think she was shocked, in a way, that I was mentioning it again. I think she thought it was over. She kept saying, Why are you asking me this, why are you asking? But Cate, she started to cry and then she said, I can’t tell you, I can’t tell you. And I said what? And she said, It’s bad. I can’t. She said – and here I am reading between the lines somewhat because she was not making much sense – but I think she was telling me that it did happen, that it happened and that she knows the person who did it, but she seemed scared, Cate, too scared to tell me who it was.’

  Cate’s thoughts spiral dizzyingly back to the night of the twenty-first. Tilly in the kitchen. Curry on the hob. Josh saying, ‘I’m in the mood for something spicy.’ Tilly leaving. The four of them sitting down to eat. It had been four, hadn’t it? She squints to bring the image into focus: curry, table, Georgia, Roan, Josh. Had they sat down to eat when Tilly came back? No, it was too soon. She must still have been laying the table or serving up the food. She can’t remember who was in the kitchen then. She knows Georgia was there. And Roan and Josh must have been there too. She’s quite sure.

  But even as she thinks this, she feels doubts crawl in and start to cloud her memory.

  ‘Right,’ she says briskly to Elona. ‘Well, thank you for letting me know.’

  ‘But who?’ says Elona, her voice tinged with desperation. ‘If it happened? If it did, and she’s too scared to say? Who might it have been?’

  ‘I have no idea, Elona. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Should I go back to the police, do you think?’

  ‘Gosh, I really don’t know. It doesn’t sound like Tilly’s ready to talk about it …’

  ‘But if they’re investigating this guy, the one who attacked the woman behind the estate agent, this could be … it might be the same guy, yes? And they should know?’

  ‘I really don’t know, I really …’

  ‘I’m scared, Cate. What if this guy, what if he’s still out there and he’s following Tilly? If she knows the attacker then he might know where she lives, where we live? What shall I do, Cate? What shall I do?’

  Cate’s stomach roils. She pulls the phone away from her ear and catches her breath. She puts it back a second later and says, ‘I’m sorry, Elona. I really am, but I have to go now. I’m really sorry.’

  And then she ends the call.

  50

  Lunch is a thin ham sandwich, raw carrots, orange squash, a blueberry muffin. Such a shame about the blueberries. Owen picks them out and leaves them on the side of the tray.

  The atmosphere has changed since this morning, since he recalled the missing section of the night of the fourteenth. He’s pretty sure he’s being seen less as a twisted child killer and more as someone who might not actually have done it after all. But then his thoughts go back to the morning’s papers, to the fake story planted by Bryn. Whatever happens here, inside these walls, however soon he is allowed to go home, charges dropped, maybe with a pair of apologetic handshakes from DIs Currie and Henry, regardless of anything that happens here before he gets to go home, he will still be the man on the front page of the papers, with the bloody forehead and the incel associations and the underwear drawer full of date-rape drugs. He will always be the guy who called a strange woman a bitch and who had a girl’s blood on the wall outside his bedroom, who was sacked for sweating on a girl at a disco. He will always be Owen Pick, the weird, creepy guy who maybe hadn’t killed Saffyre Maddox but sure as dammit had done something.

  The door opens and the detectives return. They sit neatly and look at Owen. DI Currie says, ‘Well, we sent someone up on to the garage roof. Just got their early findings back. Footprints that match Saffyre’s trainers. Her fingerprints on the guttering. No evidence of you being up there. But, Owen, we can’t take your word for what you say you remember happening that night. We are not ready to drop you from the investigation. Nowhere near. So. Anything you suddenly remember, please share it with us.’

  They straighten their files, and leave.

  Owen looks at Barry and exhales.

  ‘We’re getting there,’ says Barry. ‘We’re getting there.’

  And then he says, ‘Oh, by the way, Tessie just forwarded something to me. An email. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Erm, yes. Sure.’

  Barry switches on his smartphone and slides it across the table to Owen.

  It’s from Deanna.

  Dear Tessie

  Thank you so much for your email regarding your nephew, Owen. While I had a very pleasant evening with Owen on Valentine’s night, I think I have enough baggage in my life right now without taking on any more. I have no idea what to make of his arrest or of the newspaper reports about his history and background. They do not square with the man I had dinner with, who was gentle, civilised and thoughtful. But then people can hide a lot of darkness behind carefully constructed masks, can’t they? I feel sad that you are going through this and I hope, for your sake, and for Owen’s, that this all blows over and that it turns out to be a case of mistaken identity. Please do tell him that I’m thinking of him, but that I cannot possibly consider taking things any further with him in the light of the current situation.

  Wishing you all the best,

  Yours

  Deanna Wurth

  Owen reads it twice. His eye settles on the words of hope. He notes that nowhere in the message does she say she believes he is capable of murder. Nowhere does she say she never wants to see him again. Nowhere does she say she hates him or is appalled by him. This, he thinks, is a chink of light. Something to hold on to.

  51

  Josh gets back from school late that evening. He comes, as ever, directly into the kitchen and hugs Cate, his skin still cold from outdoors. ‘Love you.’

  ‘Love you too.’ The words feel stilted as they leave her lips.

  Then she says, quickly, before he leaves the room, before she loses her nerve, ‘Josh. Can I ask you something? A bit of a strange question?’

  He turns and looks at her. He looks thin, she notes, the dips below his cheekbones pronounced and shadowed. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was in your room yesterday.’

  His eyes widen and bulge slightly in their sockets, barely perceptible but just enough to betray his anxiety. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I was getting your dirty laundry. And there was a bag, behind the basket. Had some of your dad’s running gear in it. Any idea why?’

  There’s a beat of silence. Then Josh says, ‘I went for a run.’

  ‘You went for a run? When?’

  ‘I dunno. A few times.’

  Cate closes her eyes. She thinks of the way he moves, her second-born child, so slowly. Always a few paces behind. She remembers when he was younger, the countless times she’d have to pause on the pavement and wait for him to catch up with her. ‘Stop dawdling,’ she’d say. ‘Come on!’ And even now, at almost six feet, he still walks like a slug. He does everything slowly. She cannot picture him running. She says, ‘Really? You?’

  ‘Yeah. Why not?’

  ‘Because … I don’t know. You’re not the running type.’

  ‘Well. People change, don’t they?’

  She sighs. ‘I suppose they do, yes. But here’s a weird thing. I didn’t wash the kit; I left it there. But now it’s gone and your dad’s wearing it again and says he found it in his drawer.’

  Josh shrugs, moves one foot in front of the other. ‘Yeah. I washed it.’

  ‘You washed it?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She closes her eyes again. ‘So, let me get this straight. You borrowed your dad’s kit to go running in. Without ever telling me that you were going running. You left it in a carrier bag at the back of your wardrobe. Then you got it out, washed it, dried it, put it back in your dad’s drawers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Josh. It doesn’t make any sense.’

  ‘What doesn’t make any sense? It makes total sense.’

  ‘No, Josh. It doesn’t. And you’re making me feel really uncomfortable. Like there’s something you’re hiding from me.’

  And then Josh does something Josh never does. He shouts. He opens his mouth and he growls and he says, ‘OK. Fuck’s sake. OK. I pissed myself. OK? I was out running and I don’t know why. I do not know why, OK? But I pissed myself. Like totally through everything. And I couldn’t tell anyone because I was so embarrassed. So I just shoved the kit in the bag and hid it until I had a chance to wash it. OK? Are you happy now?’

  Cate sways slightly in the aftershock of her son’s rage. And then she goes to him. She takes him in her arms and she holds him and she says, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push you. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I’m sorry. It’s OK.’

  She feels his arms around her and his face buried into her shoulder and she realises that he is crying. He says, ‘Mum. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I really love you.’

  She rubs the back of his neck. She whispers in his ear. ‘It’s OK, Josh. It’s OK, whatever’s going on, you can tell me. You can tell me. It’s OK.’

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ he says. ‘I just can’t. Ever.’

  And then he pulls himself from her embrace and strides from the room.

  52

  SAFFYRE

  I got a text from Josh at about eight o’clock on Valentine’s Day. It said: Shit storm brewing! Alicia’s sent my dad a Valentine’s card and Georgia’s just opened it. No one’s read it yet. Don’t know what the hell to do.

  I replied: Burn it.

  He said: I can’t. Dad knows it’s here. I’m going to confront him with it.

  He sent me a photo of the writing in the card.

  It said: ‘I can’t wait any longer. I’m dying. Leave her now or I’m going to kill myself.’

  I thought, Jesus, what a drama queen. I thought, How do these people get jobs where they’re allowed to mess with the insides of children’s heads?

  I replied to Josh: Don’t do anything. Just wait.

  No, he replied. It’s time.

  My heart raced. I felt weirdly sick, like it was my family in jeopardy, not somebody else’s.

  I didn’t hear back from Josh for hours after that. It was cold and damp out and there was a light drizzle in the air and I thought, I don’t fancy sleeping out tonight, so I got into my comfy joggers, ate lasagne out of the microwave and watched Shakespeare in Love on the TV. Aaron came back about 11 p.m. and we chatted for a while. And then I got a message from Josh: She’s here! Alicia’s here! At our house! She’s going mental! Can you come over?

  I called through to Aaron in the kitchen. ‘I’m just popping over to a friend’s place.’

  ‘Which friend?’ he called back.

  ‘Just a friend from school. Lives Hampstead way. I’ll be back soon, OK?’

  I got to Roan’s place at about eleven fifteen. It all seemed quiet. I messaged Josh: I’m outside. What’s going on?

  He replied: I think I got rid of her.

  What about your parents?

  They’re out, he replied.

  I said: I’ll keep watch.

  I walked around the corner and sat on the wall. All was quiet. After about fifteen minutes I saw Roan and his wife come home. They looked tipsy and happy and were holding hands. Then it was quiet again for a while.

  I messaged Josh. I said: I think she must have gone home. No sign of her out here. I’ll wait till midnight, OK?

  He replied: You’re the best.

  I replied with a smiley face and a medal emoji.

  Another fifteen minutes passed. A couple walked past holding hands; she held a single rose in her other hand. A man walked past with a small white dog. A woman walked past staring at her phone.

  And then I saw something, a movement in my peripheral vision. There was a woman standing right outside Roan’s front door. She had her phone in her hand. She turned slightly and I saw that it was Alicia.

  I crossed the street so I was now on the same side of the road as Roan’s house.

  I whispered, ‘Alicia!’

  She turned and looked at me. I could see she’d been crying and I could see she was drunk. She said, ‘Yes?’

  I said, ‘Whatever it is you’re about to do, don’t do it. OK?’

  She said, ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I used to be a patient at the Portman Centre. I know Roan. And I know what you and Roan have been doing.’

  She said, ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘No,’ I agreed. ‘It isn’t. But Josh is my friend. If you do what you’re thinking about doing, you’re going to destroy his life.’

  She turned away from me and back to the door.

  ‘Don’t do it, Alicia,’ I said. ‘Please.’

  I heard footsteps then, coming from the other way. I turned, and there was a man coming towards us. He was kind of ambling. Shuffling. As he got closer, I saw it was Clive. Or Owen. Or whatever his name was. I looked back at Alicia. I folded my arms. I stared at her. ‘Please, Alicia, go home!’

  As I said that, the door opened and Roan appeared. I darted to the other side of the garden gate, just out of sight. I heard Alicia say something like, ‘You can’t just do this to me, Roan,’ and then her voice went kind of muffled as if someone had their hand over her mouth and then I saw Roan pulling her out of his front garden, on to the street. I wanted to see what was going on but I couldn’t from where I was standing. I turned and saw the guy called Clive or Owen or whatever and he was standing outside his house and he was watching the drama and I ran across. I said, ‘Clive, I need your help. Get me on that roof. Quick.’ And God bless him, he did as he was told, hoisted me up there. And then I could see everything.

  I got my phone out and I recorded it. Alicia was going insane. She was punching Roan and he was letting her and she was saying stuff about how she was going to kill herself and it would be his fault and he just kept grabbing her wrists and saying, Shush, shush, please, Alicia, keep your voice down. Please. God. And it was obvious that Roan cared more about his wife finding out than he cared about whether Alicia was going to kill herself or not. And she got louder and louder and I saw him put his hand over her mouth. I saw her bite his hand and I saw him slap her. She tried to slap him back but he grabbed her arms and pushed her away from him, so hard she fell. My hands shook. It was horrible. Like watching animals.

  When Alicia finally left, I saw Roan just standing on the pavement, rocking back and forth. I filmed him walking back to the house.

  Clive called up. He said, ‘I’m going in now.’

  ‘Wait, wait, help me down!’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got to go to bed,’ he said.

  ‘No, Clive, wait.’

  He looked like he was about to walk away and leave me there so I jumped down but misjudged it badly; my leg hit the wall on the way down and I felt my joggers rip. I landed hard on my bum in a knot of limbs and dropped my phone. I was winded; I could hardly breathe and I could feel blood seeping through the hole in my joggers, but I managed to get to my feet. I felt in the grass for my dropped phone then pushed past Clive and ran after Alicia. I wanted to check she was OK.

  I had almost caught up with her when I heard the click and buzz of a security camera outside a gated mansion turning to watch me. I ducked down and pulled my hoodie closer around my face, still the invisible girl.

  Ahead of me Alicia was picking up speed; she knew she was being followed. I picked up my speed to match hers. But then I slowed down again as I heard muffled footsteps behind me and I saw the long black shadow of a person coming after us.

  And I knew, even before I saw their face, whose shadow it was.

  53

  Breakfast the next morning is lukewarm porridge, a small banana and some kind of unspecific juice – tropical, maybe? Owen thinks he will miss the food when it’s time to go home. He likes prison food. It’s like real food but with most of the challenging elements removed. He likes the way it’s arranged on a tray; he likes not having to think about it. Maybe he’d like prison too, he ponders. Maybe he’d be happier in prison than out in the world having to make decisions about food, having to deal with women looking at him as if he was going to rape them, having to worry about getting a job, a girlfriend. Maybe this was, in fact, his destiny? Maybe they’d find Saffyre Maddox’s body cut up in pieces underneath his bed and he’d suddenly remember that oh yes, he had indeed killed her, case closed, life in prison, no parole. Lots and lots of bland featureless food on trays forevermore. Maybe a cult following of strange women wanting to marry him now he was the cold-hearted murderer of a beautiful young girl. Maybe it would be a better outcome all round.

  He passes the empty tray to the policeman on the other side of the door. His name is Willy. He’s Bulgarian. He’s utterly humourless, which isn’t a great state of affairs for someone called Willy.

  It’s just gone eight o’clock. It looks like a sunny day. Is it possible, Owen wonders, to become institutionalised in under a week? He’s lost any real sense of what life used to feel like. The guy in Tessie’s bathroom about to trim his fringe feels like a distant memory. The guy who used to go to work every day and teach teenagers how to code also feels like a dream. The guy in the papers, the incel with a taste for impregnating comatose women is a fictional version of himself. The only version of himself that feels real is this one, here, sitting alone in his cell in Kentish Town. He sits for a few moments, staring at the sunny angles painted on to the walls of his cell. He feels a strange moment of hopefulness. Deanna doesn’t think he’s a monster. That’s enough. That’s all he needs to go about the rest of his life.