“You have reached your destination,” the satnav informed them primly when they eventually turned in to a wide street lined with enormous detached houses. Clara looked out at the silent buildings as their car crept slowly along, scanning each door for its number.
“Eighty-two must be just up there, on the corner,” Tom finally said, steering the car into a space and cutting the engine. Nobody moved.
It must have been quite a wealthy area once, Clara thought. Each of the grim, hulking Victorian buildings housing but a single family and their servants. Now, however, it had a decidedly uncared-for air, every house divided into many flats or bedsits, the paintwork peeling, the front gardens overgrown, a sense of transience and decay. Somewhere farther down the street a loud party was in full swing: drunken shouts mingling with music pounding from some unseen window. Here, though, all was quiet and still.
“Well then,” Clara said, glancing at the others uncertainly.
Number eighty-two was even shabbier than the rest, situated on the corner of the street, its front garden strewn with litter, six bells on the door. From somewhere farther down the road, a door slammed, making Clara jump, footsteps pounding on tarmac accompanied by low laughter, which quickly disappeared into the silence once more. A lone car swept past. “Let’s check around the back first,” Tom murmured.
Just as Zoe had said, they rounded the corner to find a small parking lot, empty but for a beaten-up Renault and a moped missing its front wheel. Clara nodded toward the house’s back door, a pile of overspilling bin liners outside it. “That must be the door Zoe was talking about,” she whispered. “Do you think it really does lead to Hannah’s flat?” She shivered at the thought that they were so close.
They all glanced at one another. “Listen,” Mac said. “I think I should stay out here, just in case. I can stop her if she tries to run out this way, and call the police if I need to. . . .”
Tom nodded and looked at Rose. “You stay here too,” he said.
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “I’ve come this far. I want to see her, speak to her. I need to do this, Tom.”
For a moment he looked as though he would argue, but eventually he shrugged and nodded. “Let’s go, then,” he said. The four of them went back to the front of the building, leaving Mac behind. As they left, Clara turned and gave him a final wave.
It was two forty a.m. At the front door they paused on the bottom step. Every window was in darkness, the ones on the ground floor shielded by heavy curtains. They glanced at one another nervously, then stared at the line of bells, most of them with indecipherable labels beneath peeling Sellotape, Flat A written in smudged black ink on the first.
In a sudden decisive movement Tom climbed the steps and pressed his finger on the top floor’s bell. They each held their breath. When there was no response, his hand hovered over the next one for a moment before the intercom clicked and crackled. “Who the fuck is this?” a deep male voice growled.
“Sorry, mate,” Tom said, “I think I—”
“Fuck off or I’ll call the police.” There was a click, and the intercom was silent once more.
“Let me try.” Clara pressed the next bell and they all waited. No answer. Then the one below. Finally a crackle, then a sleepy, female voice with a Jamaican accent: “Yeah, hello?”
“I’m sorry,” Clara said, “but I’m afraid I’ve locked myself out. I live on the ground floor and I forgot my key. I’m really sorry, could you just—”
The woman kissed her teeth. “Fuck’s sake.” The door buzzed. They were in.
In the communal hallway they looked at one another with wide eyes. It was horrible: the carpet threadbare and stained, piles of takeaway-delivery leaflets and unclaimed post littering the floor, the walls dirty and scrawled with graffiti, mold creeping over the dirty paintwork, a musty, sour smell in the air. And at the far end a filthy, battered-looking door. “That must be it,” Tom whispered.
Clara turned to the others. She swallowed hard. “So we do this like we planned?” she said. “You all need to stand back out of sight.” Wordlessly they nodded, flattening themselves against the wall.
Fear dragged its fingernails down Clara’s spine as she approached the door and knocked. Seconds dripped by in absolute silence. She brought her fist up and knocked again, harder this time, and thought she heard the faintest sound from within. “Hannah,” she said, her voice emerging from her lips as a croak. She cleared her throat and forced herself to speak louder. “Hannah, it’s Clara.”
There was silence, but Clara felt her there, listening. Her voice shook as she said, “I’m alone. But I have my phone ready to call the police. I only want to talk to you.”
Suddenly Hannah’s voice was loud and very near, just inches away: “Leave now, or I’ll kill him. Get the fuck away from here.”
Clara shrank back, her heart pounding. When they had discussed this in Mac’s kitchen, gone over and over how they could get Hannah to open her door, the plan they’d come up with had seemed feasible. But here, now, with Hannah only inches away, it felt absurd, impossible, like using a penknife to fell a tree. And if it didn’t work, what then? What would happen to Luke? They must have been crazy to take such a risk. She took a deep breath. “Hannah,” she said. “I know everything. I know what really happened to your mother. I know how she really died.”
Again there was silence. Clara could feel the hard thump of her heart in her throat. And then Hannah spoke. “You’re lying.” But there it was, Clara was sure: the faintest ghost of uncertainty.
“No,” she said. “No, I’m not. Let me in. Let me in to see Luke and I’ll tell
