I slit the police tape that was strung across Paige Hargreaves’ front door and let myself in. As the door closed behind me with a click and a thud, I shivered. The last time I’d been there, the flat had been humming with activity. I had been focused on finding evidence. More than that, I had thought of Paige as a conundrum to be solved rather than a real person. But standing in the small white-painted hallway with the bare wooden stairs stretching ahead of me, the distinctive sound of the door closing still echoing in my head, I thought of her for what felt like the first time. She had drawn the door closed behind her countless times. She had hung her coat on the wall-hooks beside me. She had leafed through her post where I stood, hoping for good news rather than bills. She had kept her home to herself, so maybe it had been her retreat from the world, her safe space. She had trudged up the steps the same way as me, her hand on the wooden rail that ran up one side of the narrow space. One day she had gone up the stairs for the last time, without knowing it. She had lived in this space, and now I was walking in her footsteps to find out how she had died.
When I stepped into the kitchen at the top of the stairs, the first thing I noticed was that someone had dealt with the smell. The fridge stood open, switched off but thoroughly cleaned. It would take more than a little bleach to get rid of the mould on the wall, though. One of the sash windows had been lowered a couple of inches, enough to take the edge off the stale atmosphere. The rooms were tidier, too: the same items I’d noticed before, but arranged in a logical way. That would be Liv’s work. I felt more optimistic about my chances of coming across something useful as I lugged a stack of newspapers and magazines over to the armchair by the window. There would be something here, caught between the pages or scribbled in a margin. There had to be. All I had to do was find it.
Three hours later, I was not feeling so positive. I stretched my neck with a wince, easing tight, tired muscles. A half-moon area around my chair was completely covered in stacks of paper, organised by type and date. It was looking more and more like busywork rather than useful research. I had found nothing that related to any current work that Paige had been doing – no notes, no printouts, no folders of research. I had found Paige’s personal archive of published stories though, and read through it, noting that she had a wry turn of phrase. The earlier pieces were showy, heavy on the adjectives and self-consciously clever. As she got more experience, she settled into a style that was all her own: caustic humour, a questioning eye, intriguing opening paragraphs and a neat way with endings, a fearless ability to puncture overblown privilege. In among the fashion and the lifestyle pieces, there were some articles on homelessness and drug abuse that stood out: she had cared about these pieces, I thought, and it showed. On the whole, I felt – slightly to my surprise – that I would have liked Paige if I’d known her.
I stood up and stretched. The chair had never been particularly supportive, but over the hours I’d been sitting there it had turned into a proper instrument of torture. The springs were poking up through the seat, and the wooden frame had won the battle with the stuffing that was supposed to pad it. I couldn’t imagine Paige sitting in it while she worked. The table had been so thoroughly covered in the debris of her life that I doubted she could have found a space to write there either. The two upright chairs that stood at the table had been tucked in between the table and the window, out of the way unless they were needed. The attic flat was a small space. Choices had to be made about what furniture you kept and how you used it, and I couldn’t see anywhere that Paige could have made into a working area.
I stepped through the stacks of paper on the floor to get to the bedroom. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant room, relying on a narrow skylight for natural light. We had imagined her lying in bed drinking champagne from the bottle, alone or with a friend, because of what we’d found on the bedside table, but I doubted she could have worked in bed. The mattress and bedding were gone now, taken away by the forensic scientists for analysis, but I could recall the scene as it had been: two limp pillows that offered no support, and a low wooden bed-head. It would have been uncomfortable to try to work there. I turned in a circle, scanning the small flat, reading the black-and-white poster on the wall at the end: Be Your Own Hero. There was nowhere else to work, unless she’d put her laptop on the kitchen counter and stood up to write. That seemed unlikely to me, especially given how untidy the kitchen had been when we looked at it before.
So if she hadn’t worked at home, she had to have gone somewhere else. I frowned, trying to remember. I’d read something she’d written, hadn’t I, about the neighbourhood … I crouched beside the stacked pages, searching for the right article. It had been a stray reference among a few others, and I had skimmed over it without thinking. Something about places to eat in Greenwich.
I almost missed the article as I flicked, recognising the photograph by chance when it flashed past. With an exclamation I pulled it out and scanned it.
… but it’s all too cute and self-conscious for me. Give me proper plates, not fish and chips served with a pretentious bucket and spade. If your hipster allergies are playing up too and you want a more authentic experience, a few doors down you’ll find Carlo’s, a friendly, family-run café that hasn’t changed since the 1960s. The current owner, Carlo Jr, doesn’t mind you sitting for hours over a cup of tea and a fried egg sandwich while you race to meet a deadline. At least, he doesn’t if you’re me, but then I am in there practically every day …
I checked the address. It was two minutes from the flat. I would pop in, I decided, and not just because I was drooling at the thought of a proper fried-egg sandwich.
From the outside, Carlo’s looked like a typical London greasy spoon. The lower third of the wall outside was tiled with pink and white tiles, some cracked or broken. The window was fogged with dirt. I peered through the glass, and saw a handful of booths, all occupied. It was a good sign if it was popular with the locals. When I pushed open the door I encountered a gust of warm air that was scented with a heady mix of coffee, frying bacon and toast.
At the counter, there was no sign of Carlo. A small woman with dyed black hair and darting, nervous eyes took my order and told me that Carlo was out for half an hour.
‘You speak to him when he comes? Or I could call him …’ she trailed off, uncertain.
‘There’s no hurry.’
She nodded at me, looking relieved. The police often made people nervous but I felt her edginess was habitual, that she was always operating at the limits of her capacity.
I went and found a seat in the window and the food arrived almost before I’d finished taking off my coat. The egg sandwich oozed golden yolk all over the plate and was as good as Paige had promised. I wondered if she had sat where I was sitting, watching the people hurry past, heads down against the spring breeze. The tea was strong enough to satisfy even me. I gave myself permission to enjoy it, and the unaccustomed break from dashing around. I was almost disappointed when a stocky, dark-haired man swung into the café and ducked behind the counter with a nod to the regulars. I gathered my things slowly, giving the woman time to tell him who I was in a low voice that I couldn’t hear over the hum of conversation in the café.
He was waiting for me when I arrived at the counter, his face open and friendly with an undertone of concern.
‘You’re here about Paige? Is she OK? She hasn’t been in for a while.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, and told him the bare outlines of what he needed to know: that she was dead, and we were treating it as murder.
‘My God.’ He fell back against the counter behind him, one hand to his head. ‘I had no idea. I thought – God. Do you know who did it?’
‘Not yet. We’re pursuing a few different lines of enquiry.’ There were times I loved police jargon, which allowed you to say everything and nothing at the same time. ‘You said she hadn’t been here for a while?’
‘Not for a few weeks.’
‘She was reported missing a month ago.’
‘That would fit. Marta, Paige hasn’t been here for a month, has she?’
The woman gave a complicated, wordless nod and shrug which managed to convey it was possible, but she couldn’t say for sure.
‘Did you know her well?’
‘Sort of. We get to know our regulars. If I saw her in the street, I’d stop and chat, you know what I mean? She liked a bit of banter when she was in. But I don’t know if you could say I knew her well.’
‘Did she come in here with anyone?’
He shook his head. ‘Always alone. She loved working in here because we don’t have the internet so there were no distractions. She’d sit there tapping away, headphones on. Mind you, she knew what was going on all the time – she never missed anything. And she was kind. When she had a bit of extra cash she’d pay for some of the older customers – the ones who come in here for a chat and to get warm. Never told them she’d done it and wouldn’t let me tell them either.’
‘Before she disappeared, how did she seem to you? Same as usual? Or was she worried about anything?’
He blew out a lungful of air, considering it. ‘I dunno, darling. Now that you’re asking me, I’m thinking maybe she was a bit low, but not so much I’d ask her about it. She was quiet, the last few times she came in. There were days when she was up for a chat and days when she wanted to work.’
‘Do you know what she was working on?’
‘She never talked to me about it. We used to talk about food. She gave me a cookbook, once, because I’d mentioned it.’ He ran a hand over his head, embarrassed. ‘This is my dad’s place. I always wanted to be a proper chef but I ended up in here. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of it, but I know there’s more I could be doing. Paige encouraged me.’
I let him talk for a little longer, appreciating the insight I was getting into her. It was comforting to know that Paige would be genuinely mourned and missed. She had probably had no idea how much she had meant to the friends and acquaintances she kept at arm’s length. At first glance she was an airhead – a fashion-conscious glamour girl who liked the idea of being an investigative journalist, who lived in semi-squalor that she hid – but there was more to her than that, and I was glad of it.
‘We’re still looking for Paige’s laptop and phone, and we still don’t know exactly what she was working on. I don’t suppose she left anything here? Notes, or her computer …’ It was a vain hope, I knew, but I thought I might as well ask.
‘No, nothing like that.’ Marta nudged Carlo and muttered something. He smacked his head and twisted to look behind him. ‘Wait, there is this.’
There was a book on the shelf below the cash register: a thin book, navy blue with the title picked out in gold foil. Carlo handed it to me. ‘That was Paige’s. She left it in here the last time she was in.’
I turned it so I could see the spine, where a single word jumped out at me: GLEY. The book was a short biography of Marcus Gley, I saw, turning it over. Privately printed, in a limited edition, in honour of his twentieth year as president of the Chiron Club.
‘Can I take this?’
‘Be my guest.’
I was halfway out of the café when another thought occurred to me. ‘Carlo, when you say she left it here, was it an accident? Did she leave it behind by mistake?’
‘No. She asked me to keep it for her. Keep it safe.’ He looked worried. ‘Does that mean it’s important?’
‘I hope so.’
I headed out with a new spring in my step.
If Paige had wanted to keep it safe, maybe she’d known she was in danger. And maybe I’d find the reason she died between the navy-blue covers of the book in my hand.