You said there were other phones, I say dully. Won’t those women be able to give evidence?

We suspect he did to others exactly what he did to you, DI Clarke says. Offenders—particularly sexual offenders—tend to develop a pattern over time. They repeat what works and discard what doesn’t. They even get a kick out of repeating themselves—turning what they do into a kind of ritual. But unfortunately, we haven’t been able to trace those other victims yet.

You mean, none of them reported it, I say, seeing the implication. His threat worked and they kept quiet.

It looks that way, DI Clarke says. Emma, I understand why you didn’t tell anyone before. But it’s important we get an accurate account of what happened. Will you come into the station and update your previous statement for us?

I nod miserably. He picks up his jacket. Thank you for being honest with us, he says kindly. I know how difficult this must be. But understand this. According to the law any kind of forced sex, including forced oral sex, is rape. And that’s what we’re going to charge this man with.

—

Simon’s gone over an hour. I spend the time picking up bits of broken mug and scrubbing the wall clean. Like a whiteboard, I think. Except that what’s been written here can’t be erased.

When he does come back I scrutinize his face, trying to figure out his mood. His eyes are red and it looks like he’s been crying.

I’m sorry, I say miserably.

Why, Em? he says quietly. Why didn’t you tell me?

I thought you’d be angry.

You mean, you thought I wouldn’t be sympathetic? He looks bewildered as well as upset. You thought I wouldn’t care?

I don’t know, I say. I didn’t want to think about it. I was—I was ashamed. It was so much easier just to pretend it didn’t happen. And I was scared.

Jesus, Em, he shouts. I know I can be a bit of an idiot sometimes but do you really think I wouldn’t care?

No…I messed up, I say miserably. I couldn’t talk to you about it. I’m sorry.

It’s like Monkford said. Deep down you think I’m a prick.

What does Monkford have to do with it?

He gestures at the floor, the beautiful stone walls, the dramatic double-height void. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Because I’m not good enough for you. Because our old flat wasn’t good enough.

This isn’t about you, I say dully. And anyway, I don’t think that.

Suddenly he shakes his head and I can see his anger’s gone as quickly as it arrived. He says, If you’d only told me.

The police think he may get off, I say. I reckon I might as well get all the bad news out now.

He’s like, What?

They didn’t actually say so. But because I’ve changed my evidence, and no other women have come forward, they clearly think he might get away with it. They said maybe there’s no point in pursuing it.

Oh no, he says, balling his fists and banging them down on the stone table. I promise you this, Emma. If that creep gets acquitted, I’ll kill him myself. And I know his name now. Deon Nelson.

NOW: JANE

When my friends have gone I go to my laptop and type in “One Folgate Street.” Then I add “death” and finally “Emma.”

There are no matches. But I’m learning that Housekeeper doesn’t work quite the same way Google does. Where Google throws thousands, even millions, of results at you, Housekeeper likes to select one perfect match and nothing else. Mostly, it’s a relief not to be bombarded with alternatives. But when you don’t quite know what you’re looking for, it’s not so good.

—

The next day is Monday, one of my days to work at Still Hope, the charity. It’s run out of three crowded rooms in Kings Cross—the contrast with the stark, austere beauty of One Folgate Street couldn’t be more pronounced. I have a desk there, or rather half a desk, because I share with Tessa, another part-timer. And a creaking old desktop computer.

I type the same search terms into Google. Most of the results are about Edward Monkford. Irritatingly, an architectural journalist who also had the first name Emma once wrote a piece about him titled “The Death of Clutter,” so there are about five hundred links to that. On the sixth page of results, though, I find it. An archived piece from a local paper.

Inquest into Hendon Death Records Open Verdict

The inquest into the death of Emma Matthews, 26, who was found dead at her rented home in Folgate Street, South Hendon, last July has concluded with an open verdict, despite a six-month adjournment to allow the police more time to make inquiries.