The house at the end of the terrace looks just like the one in her photographs on social media. The sage-coloured front door. The dying fern in its black pot to the side. This is Isabella’s house. Emilia is sure of it.
Others might not notice certain details – the closed curtains; the redirected traffic around the road, ‘no through road, residents only’; the car parked directly outside which she is quite certain is a detective’s car. The police will be here, speaking to the family, trying to reassure them that their daughter, their sister, won’t end up dead in the middle of a London park like the other girl. But what other outcome could they possibly be imagining right now? Human minds work tirelessly to recognize patterns in their surroundings, in the events that roll into their lives like a wave. And here, now, there is a clearly trodden path for them to follow: a girl was named on a forum as a victim of murder, the girl was missing, the girl was found dead, a single bullet to her forehead. It would take someone entirely inhuman to push their way through all of the repeating messages to find any other resolution to this story.
A rap of knuckles on the car door jolts Emilia’s attention away from the house. A group of teenaged boys, walking with their bikes alongside them, have paused outside her window. The one closest, the one who knocked, is leaning forward, his eyebrow raised, a vape clutched between the fingers of his right hand. Emilia smiles, small and polite, and rolls down her window.
‘Morning,’ she says, keeping her voice as neutral as possible. ‘Shouldn’t you boys be at school?’
They laugh, some of them nervously, as they throw glances around their small group.
‘Are you a copper too?’ one of them says.
‘Too?’
He jerks his head towards the house. ‘There’s police in there right now.’
‘Are you connected to the family?’
‘I asked my question first,’ he scoffs.
She pauses for a second, weighing up the cost of the lie. ‘I’m a detective … Now your turn.’
He nods slowly then glances down at the road, scuffing his shoe on the pavement. ‘Isabella’s my sister.’
A sudden rush of sadness hits Emilia as she reaches for the door handle and he steps back, his friends all adjusting their positions around him as she steps out of the car. Isabella is his sister. Will he ever see her again? Will his last memory of her be her name plastered all over the news, her body found abandoned in the middle of nowhere?
‘I’m sorry – what’s your name?’
‘Jordan.’
‘Jordan … I’m sorry this is happening to your family.’
‘She going to be killed like that other girl?’ one of the other boys asks.
‘Nathan, man, shut up,’ interrupts another.
Jordan lifts one hand to cover his mouth, his other hand twisting in the material of his loose jeans.
‘The police are doing everything they can, I can promise you that … When did you last see her?’
‘A few nights ago. She went out with her friends. Before she left her ex came round –’
‘Gregory?’
‘Yeah, Greg. He tried to come into the house but she wouldn’t let him. I was up in my room, though, and I heard them fighting outside. He didn’t want her to go to some club. Was shouting like mad. Then he left and she went out. But she never came home. And we haven’t seen her since.’
‘What were they fighting about?’
‘Same old shit. He was jealous – didn’t like her going anywhere without him.’
‘Have you told the police this?’
‘I’m telling you, aren’t I?’
‘Yes, but the officers inside?’
‘Nah … not yet.’
‘Okay, well make sure you do … One quick question: do you know if Gregory or your sister have a friend called Luca?’
‘Like Luca Franco? The first guy?’ He frowns. ‘Not Isabella, nah. But Greg? I don’t know … maybe.’
Her phone buzzes in her pocket.
‘One second, Jordan, sorry.’
It’s Ciaran.
The boys disperse and Jordan makes his way up the path to the house, nodding his head to Emilia, his hand raised.
‘Hi Ciaran,’ Emilia says into the phone, forcing nonchalance as she folds herself into the driver’s seat and lowers her head, shielding her face from the window.
‘What are you doing here, Emi?’
The story she had been conjuring disappears instantly. He has seen her. Where is he? In the house? In the front room, glancing through the sheer white curtains?
‘I-I –’
‘Emi, seriously, you need to go home before somebody else sees you. Henry won’t be happy if he finds out you’ve found the family’s house and spoken to one of the children.’
‘I … I’m sorry,’ she whispers.
He sighs. ‘I know …’
‘Ciaran, I –’
‘Just go home, Emi.’
Emilia blinks slowly at her computer as she takes in the results from her Twitter search for Luca Franco. If he really is the prime suspect, maybe she can find something that will connect him to Gregory and Isabella. And there is post after post demanding that Luca be found, that there must be some connection between him and the new victims.
She swipes down and the feed refreshes and Emilia’s eyes widen as she scans the most recent post.
Luca Franco’s house: The Bellhouse, Totteridge Lane.
His address: they’ve somehow found an address. The police will already know it, they’ll have already been there, searched, taken away anything that might point towards his location or his involvement. But now that it’s public, what will others do?
Sighing, Emilia opens the video of Hayley and Luca. It’s all over the internet now, just like Ciaran said. She presses play, her fingers tingling with anxiety as the footage begins to roll and their frightened voices tremor through the speakers.
There must be something in this video. Some small clue. Something to give an insight as to where they are.
She replays the video, over and over again, her mind switching off from the horror of the events, instead absorbing every detail.
But wait – what’s that?
She pauses the video and leans in close to her screen, her eyes focused like a laser on the millisecond of hand-held camera footage. For just a moment the camera wavers, the hand of whoever is filming unsteady, and a door becomes visible.
Emilia captures the image and drags it across to her second screen into her photography software – the one she uses for her investigations. She runs the image through several filters, brightening, maximizing, depixelating, all the while her heart pounding in her ears.
But then it all falls silent. Because there, still blurred but visible, is an open door. She narrows her eyes. Is that really …?
Yes. Beyond the open door, a set of stairs, heading upwards.
It all makes sense: the lack of natural light, no windows, the grey, dull cement.
A basement. They were in a basement.
She frantically turns back to her other screen and copies Luca’s address into the search engine. Property websites appear, photos showing a large country house hidden behind gates, in the centre of fields and woods.
She clicks on one after another, scrolling down to the details, searching for the floor plans. There must be something. And finally – there they are. The house spread out over three sprawling levels. The lowest of the three labelled: Basement.
She reaches for her phone and taps on Ciaran’s name.
‘Please answer,’ she mutters. ‘Please. Come on, Ciaran.’
‘Hi,’ he says, his voice strained. ‘I don’t really have time to chat. Everything okay?’
She sighs with relief. ‘Hi! Ciaran – have you seen the address that’s been posted online? The Franco address?’
‘Emi, you can’t be serious.’
‘It has a basement. And I was looking at the footage and –’
‘Emilia, listen to me.’ She balks, not just at his tone but at the use of her full name. Her hands turn clammy. ‘Just listen,’ he continues. ‘We’ve already been to that address. So just leave it.’
‘But Ciaran, the basement –’
‘Listen, we’ve had countless online sleuths investigating from behind their computer, telling us about this house. It isn’t helping.’ He sighs. ‘Seriously, I have to go. I know you mean well, but please, just leave it.’
Emilia’s head is pounding as a migraine begins to take hold. She should leave it, just like Ciaran asked.
But the address isn’t that far away – about forty-five minutes without traffic. Luca is the main suspect. If she doesn’t check it out, and Greg and Isabella turn up dead, how will she forgive herself if there was the smallest chance she could make a difference? And if it’s nothing but a mistake, then she’ll just leave.
Ciaran doesn’t need to know.
No harm, no foul.
Emilia brings her car to a halt, lifting her visor to stare at the house across the lane. Twenty miles outside of London, the area is quiet, surrounded by fields and country lanes. The house is set back far from the road. A sign is staked into the grass by the fence: No trespassing!
Her phone vibrates and she glances at the screen.
Message from Violet Palermo.
Her client from this morning. Shit.
She taps on the message:
I was expecting an update today and have emailed several times. Where are you?
Emilia hesitates – she should call her now, offer up some anodyne excuse or tell her that she didn’t see anything today. But she’s here now. And she’ll only be a few minutes. She pushes her phone into her pocket, then opens her door, heaving herself out of the car, her back clicking.
This is crazy, she thinks. If Ciaran could see her now … he would kill her. Stay out of it, he had told her. Go home. And she’s done nothing but ignore him. But she’s doing no harm. She’s just going to take a look and then she’ll leave.
She dashes across the road, slowing as she approaches the fence, keeping to the left side to peer up the drive that leads to the house.
‘Who are you?’
Emilia spins around, her heart flying up into her mouth. A man is standing behind her, staring at her through sad, wrinkled eyes. He must be in his late seventies.
‘I’m … I’m Sophie. I’m just looking for –’
‘You’re not the first person who has come here to gawp at our house.’ He walks towards her quickly, his steps uneven, his mouth curling downwards with disdain. ‘Since my grandson went missing, people have found our address. They search for his name, and this place comes up.’
‘Your grandson?’
‘Luca Franco. Named after me. Brilliant boy. And I wish everyone would leave us in peace. He’s missing and everyone is talking about him as if he’s a murderer! Instead of him being treated like a potential victim, there’s a man hunt. You’re all vultures!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Emilia stammers, backing away. ‘I wasn’t –’
‘Yes, you were, girl,’ he shouts, his face turning red. ‘Just like the others. So just get back in your car and go back to where you came from.’
‘I’m sorry –’
‘Just leave us alone!’
Emilia turns and dashes towards the road, her heart racing in her chest as she thunders to a stop, her feet skidding on the asphalt as a car races towards her, blaring its horn. It swerves into the other lane, the driver waving his hand out of the window, his mouth moving in outrage.
She crosses the road quickly, throwing herself back into the car. Her hands scramble with the key as she tries to force it into the ignition, her fingers failing to do what they are supposed to. Finally, the key turns, and she accelerates away. Her eyes dart up to the rear-view mirror, her tearful gaze reflected back at her. And beyond that, the man stands on the verge, watching as she drives into the distance, his head shaking.
And his words echo in her mind the whole drive home, her body flush with shame.
You’re all vultures. Just leave us alone!