It was nearing seven when Maggie left the station, the journey home taking her one stop on the Northern Line from Angel to King’s Cross, then six stops on the Piccadilly to Turnpike Lane, the closest stop to her flat. She’d finished the Curtis statement then briefed her boss about Lara Steadman. He agreed it was a matter for the police in Saros but ordered her to contact DCI Walker at Operation Pivot, the special investigation team still looking into the Pope murder, outlining what Lara had said. Maggie offered to write up the statement in full but her boss said no: if Walker wanted to take it further, he should re-interview Lara himself. So Maggie wrote a detailed email to Walker then called it a day.
She hurried from the main Tube exit at Turnpike Lane and turned left, scooting alongside the green expanse of Ducketts Common which, despite evening descending, was still thrumming with activity, the basketball courts packed with groups of young men playing and the outdoor gym equipment being put to good use by a few pensioners. Less welcoming was the sight of a passed-out drunk in the middle of the grass, empty vodka bottle resting on his tummy.
Her new neighbourhood was known as Harringay, which had confused her at first because the borough itself was Haringey. Living there had taken some getting used to after the relative calm of her old town, Mansell; the level of deprivation in some parts of the borough was eye-opening, particularly as it sat shoulder-to-jowl alongside the multimillion-pound houses of Crouch End and Muswell Hill. The street where she lived straddled both sides of the divide: expensively renovated family homes terraced next to council-run flats that had seen better days. The rent she received from letting out her own two-bedroom flat in Mansell was short of what she needed to cover the monthly cost of a one-bedroom flat in Harringay, but her salary saw to the rest.
Tonight she wasn’t going straight home, though. Her boyfriend, Will Umpire, had been in London for the day on a training course and they’d arranged to meet at a bar near her flat. She relished the chance to see him after months of sustaining their relationship at weekends either in London or in Trenton, a town in the north of Buckinghamshire where Umpire served as a DCI with her old force. Conducting their relationship long distance was tough at times, but what kept them going was the fact that, eighteen months on from when they first got together, they both agreed it was worth the effort. Maggie saw her long-term future with Umpire, he with her.
The bar where they’d arranged to meet was a short walk from her flat and, like her, a relatively new addition to the neighbourhood. Loved by hipsters, it stood out like a sore thumb amongst Green Lane’s infamous Turkish restaurants, jewellers, hardware shops and the imposing Salisbury pub, but she liked it because the atmosphere was laid-back and it served great burgers.
Reaching the entrance, she wished there was time to nip home and freshen up – or at the very least brush her hair and teeth. She didn’t want Umpire to think she couldn’t be bothered to make an effort.
A blast of music hit her as she dragged open the heavy glass door. Her eyes needed a moment to focus on the room, so low was the ambient lighting, and when her gaze fell upon Umpire sitting in the corner, nursing a pint, the corners of her mouth lifted and her weariness began to seep away. Then she saw he wasn’t alone and her face fell. Next to him, staring at her murderously, were his kids.