Heading out onto the street, I feel I have reached the end of a journey. The sky outside looks different as I step onto the pavement. Deaf to the horns and the sounds of another day about to start, I turn left onto the high street where I hail a black cab, resistant as I still am to Uber, along with any other app that tracks your movements, digital or physical.
The world passes by in a blur as the car makes its way through Tufnell Park, turning left by the Odeon onto Holloway Road, and then right again towards Hornsey, the driver occasionally glancing back at me through the rear-view mirror as the car glides over speed bumps.
Finally, we pull to a halt on a stretch of road lined with a cluster of shops.
I don’t bother waiting for change. Looking at the piece of paper in my hand, I take a few steps towards a blue door to the left of the grocery shop and, before I can change my mind, I knock twice.
It will be hours if not days before Family Liaison turn up, and this is something I have to do alone. I owe her that much, at least.
A few moments later, I hear footsteps on the stairs.
‘Hello, can I help you?’ The woman at the door is pale and wan, dark circles etched around her eye sockets.
I take a deep breath, hoping she won’t question the absence of uniform, and pull out the badge I swiped from the inside pocket of Oscar’s coat, where it hung over his chair, before I left. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Sergeant Morley, I’m with Kentish Town police. Would you mind if I came in for a minute?’
There is a hesitation, but then the woman moves aside and lets me into a narrow hall lined with a coat rack holding a single denim jacket.
Upstairs, I am met by the smell of coffee. The flat is small but homely and I try to keep my eyes from creeping all over the woman’s personal possessions.
Wrapping her turquoise hooded top tightly around her waist, the woman says, ‘How can I help you?’
‘I’m sorry to intrude, I—’ As I open my mouth to speak, I hear the jangle of keys at the front door, followed by movement in the hall.
When footsteps press against the treads of the stairs a few moments later, the woman in front of me looks up, and then backs towards the doorway just in time for me to spot another, slightly younger woman stepping through the door, a baby held against her chest.
The copper hair-dye from the photo has faded to the chestnut-brown I remember from my blurred memory of that night and at the sight of each other, we both step back, the mutual recognition instant.
Eva looks as if she has been shot, holding the child against her body like a shield. Just as I open my mouth to speak, to say the words I have not yet fashioned, we all hear it, the sound of fists hammering on the door, followed by Morley’s voice calling through the letterbox. ‘Open up! Police!’