19

The woman who died in my flat was Victoria Joy Granger, aged 26, known as Vicki to her friends. She was a part-time actress and part-time nanny and part-time bar worker and occasional temp. She liked spending time with friends and dancing and cycling around London on an old-fashioned bike with a basket. She cooked vegetarian food for preference but she ate steak in restaurants. She had almost a thousand followers on Instagram, three hundred-odd Facebook friends, no time for Twitter. She took selfies every day – yawning in the morning, gym progress shots, standing perilously on the side of the bath to snap her outfit in the mirror, almost naked in a tiny thong while looking over her shoulder with a cheeky smile, on holidays, at Christmas, at parties, alone. She had a brother who lived in Australia, and parents in Wiltshire, and a half-share in a neighbour’s cat, and at least one secret lover.

She woke up in my flat on Monday around lunchtime and made herself a cup of tea and an omelette, using the eggs in my fridge and my favourite pan. She had a shower with the rose-scented oil I bought in bulk, then borrowed a jumper to put over her party dress. She took the spare key I’d left so she could lock up and walked from my flat to St Pancras station where she bought a coffee, a scented candle, a thank-you card and a box of rainbow-tinted macarons from the stall near the Eurostar arrivals. She tried on two pairs of shoes and a coat, and almost bought a red lipstick but decided against it, then ordered an almond croissant in a café but only ate half of it. She borrowed a pen in the bookshop and wrote the thank-you card standing up, by the till (Ingrid, thank you so much for taking me home with you! I’m sorry I ate your eggs. Think of me when you light the candle. Vx). Then she walked back through Granary Square and along the canal. The sun was shining and the sky was a clear, clear blue.

She died in my flat between four o’clock and six o’clock that afternoon while I was talking to Adam, oblivious. Her killer stabbed her a total of forty-two times, including defence wounds to her forearms and hands where she had tried to ward off the blade, and deep wounds to her chest and abdomen. The tendons in three of her fingers were cut. Her aorta was severed. She bled to death.

No one heard anything.

No one saw anything.

She should never have been there.

She only went back to leave me the card, and the candle, and the box of macarons.

Of course, at first I didn’t know any of this; no one did. The information came to me in dribs and drabs – a conversation here, a pathologist’s report there over the next few weeks. I gathered it together and turned it into the story of Vicki’s last few hours, just as I would have if I’d been presenting the case to a jury. What happened first, after I called the police on that terrible night, was that a couple of response officers turned up to make sure I wasn’t a fantasist or an attention-seeker. They came through the gate and across the courtyard, massive in stab vests and high-vis jackets, not hurrying even when they saw me standing at the foot of the stairs.

‘She’s up there. On the left,’ I said, huddled inside my coat, and one of them jogged up the steps while the other stopped in front of me to begin taking my details.

Yes, my name was Ingrid Lewis.

Yes, this was my address.

Yes, I had called the police.

Yes, as soon as I found the body.

No, I hadn’t seen anyone coming or going.

Yes, I was renting the flat.

Yes, I’d known Vicki was there.

No, I didn’t know her full name.

‘I know where she lives,’ I said. ‘Not the actual address, but I can get it for you. She’s a neighbour of a friend of mine.’

I could ring Harry and ask him—

I’d have to tell Harry what had happened.

I crouched down with my head between my knees and waited for the wave of sickness to pass.

The flat ceased to be my property from the moment the police arrived. It was a crime scene now, not my home. People arrived in twos and threes, all of them businesslike and focused. I was irrelevant, except that I was asked to tell my story over and over again. The other residents of the flats were allowed to come and go with the permission of the police officers guarding the scene, but there was nowhere for me to be. At one stage I turned and saw Helen peeking out from behind her curtains, her face a pale moon against the darkness behind her. I raised a hand to acknowledge her, but dropped it as she snapped the curtains shut. If the situation had been reversed, would I have let her come and sit in my flat and drink cups of tea while the police went about their work? I thought I might, actually, and the tiny betrayal stung more than I would have expected.

It couldn’t have been as much as an hour since I’d called the police when the murder investigation team arrived. That was a grand name for two women in sensible boots and trouser suits. One conferred with the duty inspector, then came over to me.

‘You’re the person who called us?’

‘Yes, I’m Ingrid Lewis.’

‘I’m Jennifer Gold. I’m a DS with the murder investigation team who have been tasked with this case.’ She was mid-thirties and wore not a scrap of make-up on her strong features. Her hair was plaited and pinned into a bun, but in a careless way that suggested she just wanted to get it out of her way while she worked. There was a white stain on the lapel of her jacket where something had splashed and had not been cleaned away. I’d met that type of police officer before: obsessed with work, to the exclusion of everything else. ‘We’re going to need to take you to the nick to interview you properly.’

I nodded, shivering. ‘At this stage, I just want to go somewhere I can get warm.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ She turned away and spoke to her colleague, DC Akram, who took me to their car. I sat in the back seat, still trembling despite the heater she thoughtfully switched on for me, and waited for the detectives to finish their work at the scene.

As I thawed my brain started to work again. An interview at the police station, about a murder that happened in my flat.

When DS Gold and DC Akram came back to the car, I waited for them to get in before I asked, ‘Am I a suspect?’

A look passed between them.

‘What makes you say that?’ Jennifer Gold asked, her voice casual.

‘I think I should tell you what I do for a living.’

To be fair to them, as soon as they heard I was a barrister, the atmosphere in the car changed.

‘We need to interview you on video because you’re a Sig Wit,’ Jennifer said.

‘A what?’

‘Sorry. Significant witness.’ She looked amused. ‘That bit of jargon hasn’t made it to counsel, then.’

‘Not to me.’ I hesitated; I didn’t want to ruin the friendly mood. ‘Am I a suspect?’ I asked again.

Another glance, this one like an electrical current flowing between two poles.

‘Not at the moment,’ Jennifer said evenly.

But that could change, I thought.

It was a good thing I’d spent the evening in the company of a police officer, all things considered. Adam Nash would make a decent alibi, if nothing else.

The heating was turned up to the maximum at the station and the detectives stripped off their jackets with practised speed as soon as we reached the interview room. I knew the room was hot and airless, but I still couldn’t seem to get warm.

‘That’s the shock,’ DC Akram said. ‘Can I get you a cup of tea? Some water?’

‘Water, please.’ I turned to Jennifer Gold. ‘How long am I going to be here?’

‘A little while.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Do you have somewhere else to go?’

‘No.’ I really didn’t. My flat was going to be out of bounds for days, if not weeks. I had no idea where I was going to stay.

I shoved my own worries out of my mind and concentrated on the police officers’ questions when the interview started: all the questions I’d answered at the scene and then some.

‘So you didn’t know her before last night?’

‘No.’

‘And you let her stay in your flat?’ DC Akram asked, incredulous.

‘It seemed like the right thing to do. She was quite drunk by the end of the evening, and she didn’t want to go home.’

‘Why not?’ Jennifer Gold reminded me of a hunting falcon: nothing of interest escaped her.

‘It’s complicated,’ I said, knowing that wouldn’t be enough.

‘Go on.’

‘She had … feelings for my friend who was hosting the engagement party, who lives next door to her. She was worried about giving herself away.’

‘Feelings,’ Jennifer repeated.

‘I don’t know any details,’ I said quickly. I felt as if I was betraying Vicki, and Harry. ‘You’d need to speak to him. But – get him on his own. I don’t think he’ll want to talk in front of his fiancée.’

DC Akram made a note. ‘What else?’

What else? I knew so little about Vicki.

What I did know was that it wasn’t the first violent death that had befallen someone near me, and that the detectives needed to know that. Once again, I had to try to convince police officers to take me seriously – to treat me as a potential victim rather than a witness, or even a suspect.

Once again I had the feeling that someone I liked had died, and that it should have been me. I told them about Belinda, stumbling through the story while their eyebrows edged upwards in polite bafflement.

When I had finished, I was absolutely exhausted.

‘Can I go now?’

‘We still have a few more questions.’ Jennifer Gold was writing a note to herself slowly, concentrating.

‘I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘We just need to go through it all again.’ She looked up with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘After all, it’s not the first time someone’s died in your home, is it?’