For another two weeks, everything was fine. The new warehouse had its official opening ceremony and all the supervisors and warehouse staff we’d recruited were busy finding their feet and doing really well. The CEO sent a letter thanking us for all our hard work.

I had weekly therapy with Alistair and worked on getting the checking down to nothing. I’d managed it a few times. When I did check, it was for the things that might have been moved in the flat. But after that night we’d found Mrs Mackenzie’s door open, there had been nothing. No noises in the night, no evidence that he or anyone else had been in the flat. Nothing at all.

Stuart had been busy completing his research project and had been working late on it before getting home. I’d been sleeping in my flat so that he could sleep undisturbed when he got in. As a result, I’d hardly seen him all week.

Caroline and I were enjoying a cup of tea and a chat, something we’d not had much time to do in the last few weeks. She was asking me about Stuart when I got a text:

A few minutes after that, my work phone rang. I half-expected it to be Stuart, but it wasn’t. To my surprise, it was Sylvia.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Sorry to ring you at work, but I don’t know your home number.’ Her voice sounded strange, an echo to it, and I could hear traffic in the background.

‘That’s okay. How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said, ‘I’ve only got a minute. Would you meet me for lunch? Today?’

‘I’m a bit busy, Sylvia.’

‘Please. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.’

I glanced at my desk calendar – a meeting at 2pm, but I should be back well before then. ‘Alright, then. Where do you want to meet?’

‘John Lewis, Oxford Street – the coffee shop on the fourth floor. Know it?’

It wasn’t the typical place you’d expect to see Sylvia, but her tone was so familiar – she expected everyone to move at her pace, meet her in her world, as if the planet revolved too slowly around her. ‘I’ll find it.’

‘Twelve?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘See you then. And Catherine – thank you.’

Breathless at the end, still sounding as if she was in a cavern somewhere, she rang off.

I thought about it all morning. It felt like a trap, but a clever one. I shouldn’t be afraid of meeting someone in a place like that – very public, busy, lots of entrances and exits, no way Lee could take me, difficult for him to follow me in and out. Unless she helped him. If she’d invited me round to her flat again, I would have refused.

I thought back to the sunny Sunday morning all those weeks ago, when I’d caught her by surprise, and probably him, too. I didn’t see where he could have been hiding, in that flat, but there was something about the way she’d looked into the dark cool interior that had made me certain that he was listening, that he was there.

In any case, whether it was a trap or not, I was going to go.

Out of the air-conditioned office, it was surprisingly warm. The sun was shining and the streets were full of office workers heading to the parks and green spaces to get some sun. I walked three streets, crossing the road a couple of times, and then on a whim grabbed a solitary taxi. I don’t know why; if Sylvia wanted to meet me, then it was clear he would know where I was going, if he was watching me. In all probability he was already at John Lewis, waiting for me. Maybe this meeting was going to be her way of getting us together for some sort of civilised chat on neutral territory. I wasn’t afraid, but I did feel more than a little bit queasy – unsettled, as though I was heading for something terrible and unpredictable.

I sat enjoying the breeze through the open window as the taxi stopped and started its way through the streets. Ten minutes later, I was in a side street, outside one of the back entrances to the department store. It was cool and shaded, the breeze blowing around my bare legs.

The fourth floor coffee shop was crowded, and, having had a quick look around, I thought I’d got there before her. But then as I turned to go I saw her, rising from her seat, her hand lifted in a wave. She was sitting right at the back, near the toilets, but that wasn’t why I hadn’t noticed her. She was wearing a black skirt and a white short-sleeved blouse, black pumps. I’d been looking for her usual peacock-brilliant colours, and here she was dressed almost like an office junior.

‘Hello,’ she said, to my surprise offering me her open arms and her cheek to kiss.

‘I nearly didn’t recognise you,’ I said.

‘Oh, you mean this?’ She gave her tinkly laugh. ‘I just bought it. I’m off to interview the head of legal services in a minute; sometimes it pays to dress down a bit. If you get my meaning.’

She’d already bought me a tea, and two cinnamon buns sat on the table waiting for us. ‘Just like old times,’ she said, as I sat down. ‘It reminds me of the Paradise Café.’

I glanced around at our surroundings; I couldn’t imagine a coffee shop less like the Paradise Café, but didn’t say it.

‘So,’ she said brightly, chewing, ‘how’s things?’

‘Good, thank you,’ I said. Waiting.

‘He didn’t get the job, then. Mike, I mean.’

Mike. ‘No. Not enough experience, in the end. I mean, running a bar in Spain for eighteen months – hardly useful work experience for warehousing, is it?’

She shot me a look.

‘It wasn’t my decision, I’m afraid. Everything gets scored, and, well, he didn’t score as well as the others. That was all. Nothing I could do.’

Sylvia shrugged as if to say it was no skin off her nose, and watched me as I drank my tea. It was barely lukewarm. I wondered how long she’d been sitting here. I fought the urge to look behind me, around the room, through the entrance to the shop floor. He was here somewhere, I was pretty sure of it.

‘It was me,’ she said, ‘in case you were wondering.’

‘What was?’

‘It was me who told him how to find you. I saw that job advertised in the Evening Standard, and your name and contact details. ‘For further information and an application form, please contact Cathy Bailey…’ I just thought it was likely to be the same Catherine.’

I considered this for a moment. ‘Well, you were right. It was.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I said, still not sure which bit of the immense betrayal she was referring to. ‘How are you, anyway?’

She never got the chance to tell me, because just then her phone, which was sitting on the table between us, rang. She almost jumped out of her skin and snatched it up, answering it with a nervous, ‘Hello?’

I pretended not to listen.

‘Yes. No, I’m just having coffee with a friend.’ She looked at me then, and tried to smile. ‘No, nobody you know. Why, do you want to join us? … Okay, then. No, I left it at work. Why? … Alright. I’ll see you in a bit.’ She hung up and looked almost relieved.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said. She was pale, I noticed, the make up she usually wore not as bright. She looked as if she’d been washed too many times on a hot cycle. She looked faded. I wanted to ask if it was him, but there was no point, I already knew. It was a set-up, I decided. He wanted me, for some bizarre reason, to trust Sylvia, to confide in her. The phone, sitting on the table, was bugged, recording our conversation.

‘Boyfriends,’ she said. ‘You know what they’re like – always checking up on you.’

I shrugged, and smiled. ‘Are they?’

‘Anyway,’ she said, trying to sound bright, ‘I can’t stop long. I just wanted to say hello, see how you are.’ She downed the last of her coffee, leaving the rest of her bun untouched. When she stood, I saw she’d lost weight, even just in the weeks since I’d last seen her.

‘You’re going?’ I asked.

‘Yes, sorry. I’ve got that interview to do. I’ll be in touch, okay? Keep yourself safe, Catherine.’

Her voice was strange, quiet, as though she was holding back something vast and uncontrollable. For a moment I caught her eye and saw something in there I’d not expected to see.

She hugged me, held me tight for a moment longer than I’d expected her to, then picked up a large Planet bag which had been tucked under the table, and which seemed to contain a jumble of jewel-bright fabrics, and some red patent high-heeled shoes with a gingham flower on each toe.

I watched her go, skipping between the tables and disappearing into the crowd of shoppers queuing at the till with trays and bags of designer clothes and Egyptian cotton bed linen.