London, the day Anna dies
It is dusk. The road is not yet dark but the early evening glow of the streetlamps casts pools of light, like fingerprints, along the pavement. The figure moves quickly, heartbeat rising as the house comes into view. The wisteria that had burst with new life just a few months earlier now clings to the brick like sinew, exposed beneath the skin of a corpse.
From this vantage point at the bottom of the tiled front steps, it is possible to see through the panes of glass in the front door that the hallway is dark. At the back of the house a wall of glass overlooks the perfectly manicured lawn rolling down towards the Heath, the moonlight blotted out by the shadows of the trees.
The children are not home yet, but they will be soon. There isn’t much time.
Hearing the faint sound of the car doors closing in the street, the figure takes a step up towards the front door, flinching at the brushing of rope against skin as the men from the car pass by and disappear up into the shadows beside the entrance, just out of sight.
When they have taken their positions there is a sharp intake of breath, and then a single knock.
The voice, as it calls through the letterbox, is firm.
‘Anna, it’s me. Open the door.’
When she does, her expression transforms. ‘What are you doing here?’