At Your Door. J. Carter P.

benefit.

      ‘Wolf was born to a single mother,’ she said. ‘Educated at Eton. Ran a successful financial services company before becoming a politician six years ago. He and his first wife were divorced in 2005. He married Shelley Montague four years later but she died of a stroke. Currently single. No children. Resides in Kensington, London and Bridgewater, Somerset.’

      ‘No mention of him having a pretty young mistress on the go then,’ Walker said.

      Anna shook her head. ‘But it’ll be all over social media as soon as it becomes public knowledge, which it surely will even though Holly is dead.’

      ‘And then Mr Wolf will join the ranks of those senior politicians whose secret sex lives were exposed by the very women they were shagging.’

      ‘That will be the least of his worries if we find out that he killed Holly to save his own neck,’ Anna said.

      Camden, North London: one of the capital’s most popular areas, famed for its lively market and thriving nightlife.

      Stanhope Street was centrally located close to Regent’s Park, lined with a wide range of apartment buildings. Holly Blake’s flat was on the ground floor of a five-storey block that looked about ten years old.

      Anna could see why it would appeal to Nathan Wolf if he was indeed paying the rent. It was discreet, nondescript, somewhere he’d be able to nip in and out of without drawing too much attention to himself. What’s more it was only about five miles from his home in Kensington and three miles from the Houses of Parliament.

      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.’

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      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?’