She absent-mindedly lays the table, tips salad leaves into a bowl, cuts a baguette into ovals. They’ll eat without him if they have to.

But a minute later she hears the door bang and then Roan is in the kitchen, glowing, radiating the heat of aerobic exercise.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘you’ve been for a run?’

‘Yes, straight from work.’ He’s still breathless as he pulls off his gloves, his snood, his beanie. ‘Had a lot of pent-up … stuff. Ran all the way up to the village and back. I found this place.’ He unzips his jacket and pulls it off. ‘Right up the other end of the village. Weirdest place. Like a kind of James Bond thing: crazy low-rise buildings, walkways, hidden away in this circle of trees.’ He drops the jacket on the back of a kitchen chair. ‘Anyway, I googled it, and apparently it’s what remains of the most expensive council estate ever built! Some failed socialist experiment under a Labour government in the 1970s. All owned privately now, of course – worth a fortune. But honestly. The weirdest place. Like something from the future. Like a sci-fi film set …’

Roan is burbling and Cate is aware on some level of what he’s talking about and on some level she would like to respond, would like to say, Yes, yes, I saw that place too! But the words stick halfway up her throat, because as he talks, her gaze goes to the angular outline of her husband’s torso, the way the Lycra clings to his long, sculpted arms and to the fluorescent orange pattern that works its way from wrist to shoulder up the sleeves.

‘Where did you find that top?’ she interrupts him.

‘What?’

‘That top? Where did you find it?’

‘I don’t know. My drawers, I think … why?’

‘I thought …’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. I just haven’t seen it for a while.’

Somehow the top that was hidden away in the back of Josh’s wardrobe has been laundered and returned to Roan’s drawer.

Roan shrugs. ‘I’m off for a shower,’ he says. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Pasta bake,’ says Cate, her voice coming out at an oddly high pitch. ‘And salad.’

47

SAFFYRE

Josh asked me what Harrison John looked like so I did a google for him. My hands shook as I did it. I couldn’t bear to find out anything about him, like that he had a kid, or that he’d done something good, or that he was clever or something. I was so scared that he’d have done something to redeem himself, to dilute my feelings of vengeance, because right then those feelings were the only feelings I really had; they were what got me up in the mornings, got me to school, got me to eat, got me to breathe.

I pressed the search button and held my breath.

And then there he was: his face, the squashed-down nose, the heavy brow, striking some kind of stupid gangster pose. According to the accompanying article, he was part of a community music project; something to do with the college he attended.

I turned the phone to Josh. ‘That’s him.’

‘That’s Harrison?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Looks like a loser.’

‘Right,’ I agreed. ‘So much of a loser.’

We were in the playground outside my block where I’d told Josh to meet me. I was still in my school gear.

When Josh saw me, he’d said, ‘You look so different.’

I’d said, ‘This is my alter ego.’

‘So, what’s your plan?’ Josh said now.

I turned off my phone. ‘Well, I know where he lives now.’

Josh said, ‘How did you do that?’

I tapped my nose. I said, ‘I told you. I’m clever.’

‘Are you going to stalk him too?’

I hit Josh on the arm, playfully. ‘I’m not a stalker!’ I said.

‘You kind of are,’ he replied.

He smiled and I liked his smile. Like when a dog looks at you in that soulful, pure way and you think, You are too, too good for this world. That was what it was like when Joshua Fours smiled. Like he was too good for this world.

‘Anyway,’ I replied, ‘I already started. I followed him to the Co-op and back this afternoon. He didn’t see me.’

‘What did he buy?’

‘Haribo. And some tobacco.’

‘Classy.’

‘Isn’t it?’ I said. ‘And now I know where he goes to college. He’ll have no escape from me.’

‘Can I come with you?’

‘You mean, be my co-stalker?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Of course you can.’

‘Shall we go now?’

I checked the time on my phone. It was nearly five.

‘Come on then,’ I said. We jumped off the wall. ‘This way,’ I said. ‘Follow me.’

Harrison lived up the other end of my road, towards Chalk Farm in a really ugly low-rise block of flats backing on to the railway line. We sat on a bench opposite. It was freezing cold and I could hear Josh’s teeth chattering. ‘You OK?’ I asked. ‘You can go home if you want.’

He shook his head. ‘No. I want to see him. In the flesh.’

I smiled a half-smile at him. Then we both turned back to watch the flats.

And then there he was. Pushing his way through the front door of the block. He was dressed all in black again, the Puffa coat, black stretchy trousers, black trainers, a flash of bare ankle in between, a bag slung over his back. He lit a roll-up cigarette as he emerged on to the street, squinting as he inhaled. And then he turned right, headed up towards Haverstock Hill. We followed him, silently. He caught a bus up towards Hampstead, running to catch it just before its doors closed.

Josh and I looked at each other. It was a single-decker bus. We wouldn’t be able to get on it without being spotted. I headed back to my flat. Josh headed back to his flat. We arranged to meet up the next day, same time, same place.

It was two days later that I saw the headline about a sex attack on Hampstead Heath. A man, in black, wearing a mask. Pulled a woman down a quiet pathway and groped her. Put his hands inside her underwear. Grabbed her breasts. And then ran.

I thought of Harrison John jumping on that bus towards Hampstead at five twenty, two days before, in his black coat, his black leggings. It was him. I knew it was.

On 21 January Josh called me. He sounded panicked. He said, ‘I think Harrison attacked my sister’s friend. The police are here. Fuck. What shall I do?’

He explained that his sister’s friend had come over after school and then left just as they were about to sit down for dinner. Then she’d come back a few minutes later saying that someone had accosted her.

‘What did she say he looked like?’ I asked.

There was a pause. ‘She said she didn’t see him. But she said he was silent. That he grabbed her from behind. By the hips. That he rubbed himself against her. Tried to get hold of her breasts. But she broke free and ran back to ours. Shall I say something, Saffyre? To the police? Shall I say I think I know who it might be?’

My biggest regret is that I didn’t say yes, didn’t tell them. Tell them his name. Let them track him down to his door, search his black bag, take his prints, upend his existence. Let them destroy him.

I didn’t say that because I wanted to be the one. Because what if they knocked on his door and he said, It wasn’t me? And they believed him? And then he would close the door and his chest would puff out and he’d think he was cleverer than anyone. Or what if they went to his door and brought him in and questioned him and it wasn’t him? I wanted it to be him. I needed it to be him. He was evil and he needed to be stopped.

So I said, ‘No, don’t say anything. Just keep quiet. Leave it with me. Leave it with me.’

48

Barry walks into the interview room. Owen can recognise the sound of his leather soles on the wooden floors from a few metres away now, followed briskly by the ponderous smell of his aftershave.

‘Good morning, Owen.’

‘Are they letting me go?’

Barry stops and closes his eyes. ‘No, Owen, I’m afraid not. And look, you should know – this is happening now.’

He pulls a folded paper from his briefcase and throws it on the table in front of Owen. It’s this morning’s Metro: ‘SAFFYRE SUSPECT’S SICK PLAN TO DATE-RAPE DOZENS OF WOMEN’.

Below it is the awful photo, yet again, of Owen being jammed into the police car with the fresh cut on his forehead, the wet, asymmetric hair sticking up at angles, the dead look in his eye, the hint of a snaggle tooth between his lips.

He stops and looks at Barry. ‘But …? I don’t …?’