She hesitated, then stopped. The rain pounded down on the pavements, and people streamed around her, their heads down, hoods and umbrellas up. They tutted and cursed as their smooth passage to the bus or tube was blocked. It was now the peak of rush hour. Erika needed to think, to plan what she would do next. If she went back, it would look weak. She set off again, moving with the crowd.

Behind her, a few people back, followed a figure. The same figure that had watched Erika smoking at her window. This time, the figure wasn’t completely clad in black, but easily blended in amongst the crowd with their hoods and umbrellas. The crowd seemed to swell and slow as they approached Marble Arch tube station, the figure shadowing Erika with a gap of just two people between them.

Erika was one of the few people on the street without a hood, and was walking with her head down, the collar of her leather jacket up.

She is, indeed, a worry to me. She’s been to that fucking pub and talked to people. She knows a great deal more than I thought. Has it been an act, all that angst and despair? Until that press conference I thought she was damaged goods. The burnt-out wreck of a once brilliant cop.

The figure was close to Erika now. All that separated them was a burly businessman in a pale raincoat mottled with drips of water. Erika pulled her collar closer, so that it touched the blonde hair at the nape of her neck.

She’s single and alone. Grieving. She could be suicidal. So many people are. I’d love to pay her a call, the scrawny bitch – surprise her in bed. Hold that skinny throat where the tendons bulge out and watch her eyes go dark. But there’s someone else who is due a visit . . .

The crowds reached Bond Street tube station and ground to a halt. Erika inched forward so she could just get under the large awning as she waited for the crowds to move forward. The figure edged closer, amongst the packed-in crowd, and slipped a neat white envelope into the pocket of Erika’s leather jacket. Seconds later, the blockage at the station entrance cleared. The figure left Erika and moved on through the crowd, blending in: just another person eager to get somewhere fast.

28

When Erika emerged from the concourse at Brockley Station, she was confused to see her new home in daylight. The street was busy; a Royal Mail van moved past and parked at a post box. A fresh-faced young postman got out and opened the box, pulling out a full sack of letters. There was a café opposite the station where two women sat at a table outside, huddled in jackets against the cold and smoking cigarettes, thick red lipstick smeared on the edge of their white china cups. A handsome waiter with a pierced lip came to their table. He said something as he took their empties, and the women shrieked with laughter.

Erika fumbled in her bag and pulled out her cigarettes. Her hands shook as she lit up. Her feeling of anxiety had increased during the train journey back. Her heart was pounding in her chest and it was like she was seeing the world through slightly blurred glass. The handsome waiter was still chatting to the woman, and they were flirting back with ease.

‘Ooh – no, no, no, no, no,’ said a voice.

Erika looked round. A paunchy man in a South West Trains uniform stood beside her. He had grey hair and a greying moustache.

‘Excuse me?’ asked Erika.

‘You just quite fancy a one thousand pound fine, do you love?’

‘What?’ she said, feeling dizzy.

‘It’s illegal to smoke at train stations. But I know how we can resolve this. All you need to do is take one step forward, go on.’

Erika, confused, stepped forward.

‘There love, all solved, you’re no longer on station property!’ He pointed to her feet, where she now stood on the smooth tarmac running past the station concourse.

‘Okay,’ she said uneasily.

The man regarded her warily. It was only then that she realised he was being kind, but it was too late and he went off, muttering. Erika stumbled away, heart racing faster, drawing on her cigarette. The women at the café were now browsing the wine list, laughing and chatting with the handsome waiter. An old man twirled a metal stand of greeting cards around outside a newsagent’s on the corner. Two old ladies walked slowly, weighed down by shopping bags and deep in conversation.

Erika grabbed the low wall outside a house and steadied herself. It occurred to her that she had no clue how to be a ‘normal’ person. She could look at dead bodies and deal with interviewing violent sex offenders, she’d been spat at and threatened with a knife, but living in the real world as a member of society, it frightened her. She had no clue how to be single, alone, with no friends.

The enormity of what she had just done came back to her. She’d hijacked the press conference of a major murder enquiry. What if she was wrong? She hurried back to the flat, the dizziness intensifying, a cold sweat prickling under her collar.