30

HALF AN HOUR LATER, TULLOCH PULLED UP OUTSIDE THE row of run-down terraced houses in Shepherd’s Bush where Emma lived. Other than a terse ‘What part of “Stay in the car” was difficult to understand, Flint?’ she’d barely said a word to me since she’d arrived at the pool. It was pretty clear I was with her now so she could keep an eye on me, not because of anything useful I might have to contribute.

The flickering blue lights of two patrol cars had been waiting for us, their occupants watching the front and rear of the house until we could get here. As the car engine died, I saw Joesbury making his way towards us from where he’d parked down the street. Tulloch turned to me and opened her mouth.

‘I had a text message saying “Help me” and I heard screams,’ I said. ‘What would you have done?’

‘I’d have done what I was bloody well told,’ she replied, her eyes darting from me to Joesbury.

Well, I could hardly call a DI a liar to her face. ‘We’re the police,’ I said. ‘We’re supposed to help people.’

Tulloch’s eyes narrowed. She reached for the door handle. ‘Do I need to say the words?’ she asked me.

‘Consider me glued to the seat.’

As she got out of the car and went to join Joesbury, I pressed the button that would open the passenger window. She hadn’t said I couldn’t listen. She and Joesbury walked up the short path to the door.

In the tiny front garden dustbins overflowed with rubbish. An animal, probably a fox, had broken into one of the bin liners. The whole area stank of rotting food.

Joesbury banged hard on the door, making it shake in its frame. Then he bent down and pushed open the letterbox.

‘Police!’ he called. ‘Open this door.’

Joesbury banged again, then stepped back and looked up at the house. ‘Don’t have a good feeling about that,’ he said, indicating the camera he’d arranged to be positioned above Emma’s front door. Sometime since it had been installed, someone had hurled a brick at it.

‘Someone’s coming,’ said Tulloch as we heard noises inside the house, the rustle of paper, a clanging and a soft cursing sound. Then the door opened inwards. Tulloch stepped forward and held up her warrant card as a thin, unhealthy-looking boy of about twenty stuttered that he didn’t know where Emma Boston was, he had nothing to do with Emma Boston, his own flat was below hers, he hadn’t been in earlier that day when it had happened and it had all been some serious shit, man.

‘Shut up and step aside,’ said Tulloch. ‘Mark, see he doesn’t go anywhere.’

After a brief argument with Joesbury about who was going to go in first, Tulloch led the way along the corridor and up the stairs. The boy followed, then Joesbury, then one of the uniformed constables. The other stayed at the front door.

We waited. I saw a light go on in a first-floor window. The uniformed constable had a short conversation with someone on his radio. I was itching to get out of the car. Knew Tulloch would tear me apart if I did.

Emma Boston had been obnoxious and opinionated and in a position to make life pretty uncomfortable for me. But I’d actually quite liked her. I really didn’t want to think about what Tulloch and Joesbury might have found in the room upstairs.

Noises on the stairs. I saw Joesbury’s jeans-clad legs, then both he and Tulloch came into view. In the dim hall lights I scanned both faces. They looked tense, puzzled, not shocked.

‘Is she there?’ I asked, realizing I’d got out of the car.

‘Place has been broken into,’ said Joesbury. ‘Trashed about a bit. No sign of Emma.’

‘About ten o’clock this morning, according to her downstairs neighbour,’ said Tulloch. ‘He heard crashing about but didn’t bother investigating. He didn’t see anything. Says he didn’t hear anyone calling for help either.’

‘She doesn’t live alone,’ I said. ‘Any sign of her boyfriend?’

Tulloch shook her head, just as the uniformed officer who’d accompanied them inside appeared, with one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement and turned.

‘Oh thank God,’ I said, stepping forward.

Not three metres away, in the light of a streetlamp, stood Emma Boston, her burned scar livid against her pale face, looking pissed off but very much alive.