J. P. Carter - At Your Door

A patrol car was parked on the road in front of the block, behind an Audi A4 that Anna recognised as one of the team’s unmarked pool cars.

DS Prescott was waiting at the entrance smoking a cigarette. The smell of burning tobacco made Anna crave a nicotine fix, but she knew she had to resist for the time being.

Prescott dropped what remained of his fag onto the ground and let the smoke jet from his nostrils.

‘I didn’t expect you to get here so quickly, ma’am,’ he said.

‘We weren’t that far away,’ she responded. ‘Who’s inside?’

‘DS Niven and a PC. I’ve called up forensics, who should be here soon. And the landlord, a Mr Jason Lattimer, is up in his flat on the first floor waiting for you to talk to him. You’ll want to hear what he has to say.’

‘So show us what you’ve got then.’

Anna and Walker snapped on latex gloves and followed Prescott into the building. There was a small, spotless entrance hall with a lift, stairs and corridors to the left and right. A uniformed officer was standing outside the first front door on the left, Holly’s flat.

‘We got lucky because the landlord happened to arrive just as we did so he let us in,’ Prescott said. ‘He told us this is one of several flats he owns and rents out. Holly Blake moved in just over twelve months ago.’

DC Niven was waiting inside to give them a tour of the flat. It was decorated in whites, creams and pastel colours. There was a mix of wooden floors and carpets. The furniture looked fairly new and expensive, and Anna was struck by how tidy it was. There was nothing to suggest it had been the scene of a crime, although she knew that the forensics officers might well come across something that was invisible to the naked eye.

In the living room, Niven pointed to a sideboard below a wall-mounted TV. On top of it rested an iPad and a laptop.

‘The techies are working on getting into them now,’ he said.

The surfaces were adorned with framed photos of Holly. In some she was fully clothed and in others she was wearing bikinis or underwear. They had all clearly been taken by a professional photographer and had probably graced the pages of fashion magazines at some point.

The small kitchen gleamed with brushed aluminium and the contents of the fridge included no fewer than four bottles of champagne.

‘It’s a two-bedroom flat and this is the one Holly obviously slept in,’ Niven said as he pushed open a door and they followed him in.

The room contained a double bed with a purple duvet, a large dressing table and a fitted wardrobe across one wall that was filled with designer labels and shoes.

‘Check this out,’ Niven said, as he took out one of the many hangers. ‘A pair of men’s trousers. There are also a couple of shirts. And in the bottom drawer socks and pants and a soap bag with shaving gear in it. According to the landlord, Holly had a regular male visitor, a guy who he says is a lot older than her. But before you talk to him there’s something you have to see.’

He led them along the corridor to the second bedroom.

As he waved Anna inside, he said, ‘Needless to say this is not what we expected to find.’

And it certainly wasn’t what Anna had expected to see. Her stomach muscles contracted and the hairs on her neck stood up. It was left to Walker to put into words what she was thinking.

‘I don’t fucking believe it,’ he said. ‘I thought we’d already had enough surprises for one day.’

When Sophie woke up she was shocked to find that she was lying on the kitchen floor. It was several seconds before she realised that she must have passed out.

Then it came back to her. The bottle and a half of wine. The shocking revelations in the newspaper about Detective Anna Tate. The knowledge that she might soon lose the only good thing in her life – her daughter.

And the fear that someone had been watching her as she walked to and from the dental clinic.

Her head was pounding and there was a foul taste in her mouth. She hauled herself into a sitting position and planted her back against the wall. Thank God Alice hadn’t got out of bed and found her like this, she thought.

The digital display on the oven told her it was eleven o’clock, which meant she had been unconscious for less than an hour. But that had been time enough for the past to resurface in a familiar dream that took her back to where it all began ten years ago.

Those images, so frighteningly vivid, returned now as she closed her eyes in the hope that it would ease the pain that raged behind them. It was like she was actually there watching herself re-enact the encounter that was to change her life and eventually lead her to this flat in Shoreditch.

Ten years ago

He enters the restaurant with the child in a pushchair. He has fair hair and a handsome face, and is dressed in a tight blue T-shirt and jeans.

The little girl, who looks about two, is wearing a pretty red dress and matching sun hat. She’s fast asleep with her head back and her mouth open.

The sight of her is a painful reminder to Sophie that she isn’t able to have a child of her own because she’s infertile thanks to fucked-up ovaries.

The man decides to sit at a table close to the big window that looks out on the shaded patio. He’s the first customer of the day and as she approaches him with the breakfast menu she can’t help wondering where his wife or girlfriend is.

‘Buenos dias,’ she says. ‘Or should I say good morning?’

The man beams at her, white teeth gleaming.

‘You’ve guessed that I’m English,’ he says. ‘And I’m guessing that you are too despite the perfect Spanish accent.’

‘I am indeed,’ she tells him and places the menu on the table. ‘Are you here for breakfast or just a drink?’

‘I’d like a bacon sandwich and a large Americano coffee with milk and sugar,’ he says.

She gestures towards the child. ‘And what about that sweet little lady? Would she like something?’

He laughs. ‘That sweet little lady is really the devil in disguise. She kept me up most of the night, which is why she’s out to the world now.’

For some reason she feels emboldened to ask him if the child’s mother is with them.

‘Her mother died a while ago,’ he tells her, the smile vanishing. ‘She contracted a rare form of blood cancer. That’s why we’ve moved to Spain. I want us to start a new life here.’

‘I did that four years ago,’ she says. ‘I got fed up with the crowds and depressing weather in London.’

‘We’re from London too,’ he says. ‘We’ve been here just over three weeks. I’m renting an apartment close to the marina while I look around for a business to invest in.’

‘What kind of business?’

‘Not sure yet, but I’ve always wanted to run a bar ever since I spent some time here in Spain as a teenager. Of course, it needs to be something that will allow me to be a proper father at the same time.’

‘That sounds exciting.’ She holds out her hand. ‘By the way, my name is Sophie and I’m the head waitress here at The Clover.’

He takes her hand and the smile is back.

‘And I’m James. James Miller. This is my daughter. Her name’s Alice. She’s two and she means the world to me.’

Sophie opened her eyes and wondered briefly what would have happened if they hadn’t lied to each other that morning. Would they have hit it off like they did and stayed together for the next seven years? Or would James have eaten his bacon sandwich and walked out of her life?