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To the mother – the other mother – who has taken on more than she can possibly handle, and who tries, and you can see the trying carved into the lines in her face, but there is only so much of her to go around, so she divides her attention between the loud and the wicked and then there is simply none left over.

To Mara. To Mara, whom I loved above anyone. With whom I would have built a future. Had a family, a life. For whom I would have lived.

I am an inconvenience.

I am invisible.

I SLIP IN
through the propped-open doors, unnoticed. It’s quiet in here. The ceiling fans swing wildly, moving the hot air around until it whips past my skirt, a cyclone of limited proportions. There are voices, dim and clattering, coming from the ‘outdoor seating area’ – a beer garden in everything but name. Few people would choose to sit inside the restaurant on a day like today. There are a couple, though. A man and a woman, tucked away on an island for two, half-hidden behind a fake-ficus. They are holding hands, every now and again glancing over their shoulders. Affair. On the table by the window, in the full blaze of midday sunshine, a middle-aged woman. She is wearing a crocheted cardigan, drinking tea and sweating. About as British as they come.

My feet are sticking to the floor, a faint sheen of alcohol pulling the soles of my feet earthwards. Delizioso is one of those split-personality kind of places: Italian restaurant by day, upmarket bar by night. All hardwood floors and soft lighting. The kind of place that everyone says they frequent, but no one can quite pronounce. I walk towards the bar, try not to stare at the couple hiding in the greenery.

The temperatures have reached new highs today. Thirty-five degrees. A hot and gluey night, one where you sleep in fits and starts, waking with the feeling that you are underwater. I got up early, gave up, told myself that I wanted to get a jump-start on the day anyway.

The bartender is stocking the shelves that run the length of the bar. Young, his hair surfery, falling into his eyes. He hefts the glasses, brushing the hair from his eyes with an impatient flick that looks studied. Glances sideways at me, back down, like this glass is the most interesting thing he has ever seen, then turns, bending so that his perfect little arse is in full view. I roll my eyes. I’m sorry, I just can’t help it. Dump my handbag on the bar with a clatter.

‘Well, hello.’ He turns, apparently satisfied that the arse-view will have served its purpose, fixes me with a smile designed to wilt my heart. His teeth are crooked.

‘Hi.’ Remind myself to play nice, that I am looking for favours. Give him a smile. Try to mean it.

‘Get you a drink?’ He scans me as he says it, eyes flitting quickly across my face, settling on my cleavage.

‘Diet Coke.’

‘Aw, come on. Nothing stronger?’ He’s leaning on the bar, a studied move, tilts his head to one side.

He must have really generous mirrors in his parents’ house. Be nice. Be nice. You have to talk to him, not marry him. I let out a tittling laugh, tilt my head so that we look like a matching pair of lunatics. ‘Oh, I’m working, I’m afraid. Will have to stick to the soft stuff.’

He pulls a glass free, slipping it under a tap. ‘What do you do?’

‘Oh.’ I draw coy rings on the condensation that shimmers on the bar, don’t look at him. ‘I’m a reporter.’

‘Oh, you are? That’s cool.’

Shrug.

‘What are you working on?’

A heavy sigh. ‘Oh, it’s nothing really. It’s just a thing about this girl. Did you hear about her? The one that got killed on the M4?’

He looks at me blankly, shrugs.

‘Right, well, yeah. I’m just getting, you know, some background stuff. It’s really boring.’

He holds out his hand. ‘My name’s Luke.’

I take it, shake it. Can feel the sweat on his palm, the grasp that lasts too long. ‘Charlie. Nice to meet you.’

‘You too, so are you . . .?’

‘Yeah, see the thing is, my editor, she’s all over me about this story. I don’t . . . I don’t suppose you’d remember her? Emily. The girl who was killed.’ I reach into my handbag, pull a photograph free, lay it flat on the bar between us. ‘Apparently she was in here on Monday, twenty-fifth. Were you here that night?’

Luke frowns, looks confused, a look that I’m prepared to bet is not new for him. ‘Um . . .’ Sticks his hand into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. ‘I’m not . . . Oh, hang on, I was working. Let me see that.’ Picks up the picture, holds it an inch or so from his nose, squinting.

I suppress a smile, wonder how much more difficult he makes his life by refusing to wear the glasses he needs.

‘I remember her.’

‘You do?’

He nods. ‘Quiet night.’ A coy look, a wink of understanding. That he was prowling and there was no one else, so she would do, until his prospects improved. Any port in a storm.

I can feel a thrill of irritation, my jaw clenching, and I turn it into the rictus of a smile. Nod. Sip my drink. Try not to choke on it.

‘Yeah. I remember her. She was in early, like – I don’t know – six-thirty. Seven maybe.’

‘Okay?’

‘She sat in the corner over there, by the window.’ He gestures to where the middle-aged woman is sitting. She has set down her tea now. Is knitting. ‘On her own. I thought she must have been stood up.’ His gaze shifts towards the table and he stares. The woman glances up, her attention drawn by the frankness of his study, and she shifts, uncomfortable.

What about Emily? What would she have done? How would she have felt under Luke’s overt scrutiny?

I can feel my blood pressure climbing. Study him. He is uselessly young, nineteen maybe, pretending to be older. His long, perfectly unstyled hair is thinning on the crown, his fingers thick and short, awkward-looking. I think he was here that night, maybe looking to get laid, maybe slipped a little shot into her drink – a double where she had asked for a single, just a little nudge towards compliancy. Maybe it got busy, she got away from him, leaving him looking in dismay at the empty table that had previously seated his sure thing. Maybe she found her way onto the M4 and died.

I study him, trying to get a feel, temporarily kidding myself that you can discern the bad guys just by looking.

But then the familiar thought: you never can tell who the bad guys are, even when you know them. Even if you’ve known them all your life. I look down at the rings on the bar, try not to think about Aden, and then, inevitably, about my father. I was different then, before it all changed. I was softer, easier. I believed in people. And then my father vanished. I tell myself that the bad things only make you stronger, but to be honest, I don’t know if I believe that. They make you harder, they turn you into an island. Sometimes I think it would have been better had I never found out and, in those moments, I have to acknowledge my mother, the fact that she tried to hide it, tried to protect me. Even though I hated her with the kind of passion only a teenager can feel, even though I called her evil, shocking names, still she was shielding me, trying to protect me from the truth that would leave an ugly, jagged scar. My mother begged me not to go to my father’s funeral. I thought she was being a bitch. Told her I was going, with her or without her.

They were standing at the front. A black-haired woman with olive skin, a bulbous bump of a belly. She wept into her hands, a wail that cut through the low music, a moaning, wrenching cry. And me? I wondered if she had gone to the wrong funeral. I looked at her, at the little girl – two, three maybe – who clung to the hem of her skirt, her oddly familiar face creased into confusion and fear, and thought they had made a mistake. But my mother’s expression gave it away. I get my poor bluffing skills from her. Had I followed my father, I discovered, I would have been an excellent liar.

His new family. The ones he left us for. The daughter he had hidden, another one on the way.

You can’t assume that you know anybody. Ever.

‘She was drinking white wine. Small.’

‘What?’

‘The girl.’ Luke stabbed at the picture with a thick finger. ‘What did you say her name was? She was drinking white wine.’

I stare at him. ‘You have a remarkably good memory.’

He shrugged. ‘Not really. I just remember cos of what happened after.’

‘What happened after?’

‘Well, like I said, it was quiet when she came in, when I gave her the wine. She seemed to be taking it pretty slowly. I offered a refill – oh, couple of times – but she always said no. Then a hen party came in. You know how it is, mad bunch. So I didn’t really see her for a while, you know, I was running back and forth.’ A grin that says that he’d found a more interesting port. ‘Anyway, when I noticed her later on, there was a guy with her.’

‘Did you get a good look at him?’

‘Nah, I don’t swing that way.’ Another grin. ‘They seemed to be talking, I don’t know; like I said, I didn’t really see. Frank, the other barman, was on by then too, so I don’t know whether he saw them.’

‘And where’s Frank now?’

‘Off on holidays. Ibiza for two weeks.’

‘Of course he is.’

‘Yeah. So, right, I saw her again then, when she was leaving. Maybe, like, ten or so. I was collecting glasses. She was steaming.’

‘Drunk?’

‘Yeah. I’m telling you, she couldn’t stand. She was hanging all over this bloke, like he was having to carry her out.’

‘But you didn’t see her buying any more drinks?’

‘I didn’t see her, but I know that the guy she was with came up to the bar a couple of times.’

‘Any idea what he ordered?’

‘Nah, but like I said, you’d need to ask Frank.’

‘And Frank is in . . .’

‘Ibiza, yeah.’

‘Right. So, now, the guy. Do you remember anything about him? Tall, short, black, white, Asian?’

‘He was white. Definitely white.’

‘Hair colour? Build?’ Now I’m thinking of the figure on the security cameras, the man pacing the hospital hallways with a gun. Or was this just some random guy? Someone who happened across Emily when she was alone, vulnerable?

Luke shrugs. ‘Sorry.’

I nod. ‘I don’t suppose you noticed if she was wearing a necklace, did you? Gold chain, word “Emily” on it?’

Luke thinks for a moment, then frowns. ‘Yeah, you know what, actually she was. I remember noticing it when I took the drinks over. My sister’s name is Emily, see, that’s why I remembered.’

I nod. Glance the length of the bar. The couple are leaving, the man throwing a note down onto the table. They stand there for a moment, a quick squeeze of hands, then self-consciously split apart, allowing the space to blossom between them. Definitely an affair. My gaze tracks up. ‘You have a camera?’

‘Huh?’

I point at the camera that hangs beneath the eaves, trained on the bar. ‘You have a camera.’

‘Oh, that. No. That hasn’t worked in months. Sorry.’ He looks up at it, frowning. ‘Oh, but, there is one outside, though. Would that help?’

ADEN PUSHED HIS
way through the press of bodies. The faces were familiar, by and large. The Harrow, a small local, tucked in amongst a copse of trees, had become a popular police hangout, had been for as long as Aden could remember, all low beams, highly polished wood and a low tolerance for trouble. Rhys was sitting at the end of the bar, his shirt open at the collar, and looked to be in easy conversation with an attractive PCSO.

‘Ade.’ Del stood at the bar, waving with the sweeping gesture of one who has already had a few. ‘What you having, mate?’

‘I think I should be buying you.’ Aden squeezed closer. ‘Congratulations, Daddy.’

Del grinned. ‘Aw, mate. She’s a little corker. Six pounds eight ounces. And she’s got her daddy’s nose.’

‘Poor little sod.’

‘I know, right?’

‘You got a name yet?’

‘Phoebe. Phoebe Hope.’

Aden smiled, clapped Del on the arm. ‘I’m chuffed for you, mate.’

Del shook his head. ‘I’m telling you, it was tough. My missus, she was a bloody Spartan. Terrible seeing her like that. But she’s doing all right now, and so is Princess Phoebe. Oi, pint of Carling when you’re ready, love.’ This to the middle-aged woman behind the bar. ‘I’m glad you could come, mate. Looks like we’ve got a good turnout. Iestyn is supposed to be here, but he’s stuck dealing with the fallout from Tony’s little episode. Speaking of which, nice shiner.’

There had been a burst of pain, a firework-explosion of stars, shouting, hands reaching for him. Rhys, half-holding him up, half-holding him back, in case he launched himself at Tony. Tony was still shouting, his fury a hurricane that had only been fed by the first punch. But now they were on him, the other AFOs, pulling him back, someone removing his gun, a few leading him – no, dragging him – out of the range. Could hear him shouting out into the hallway, up the stairs, voice shrieking and strained.

And then, nothing. Everyone standing on the big empty range, stunned into silence. Aden’s eye pulsing, his hands beginning to shake as the adrenaline dispersed. Someone handed him an ice-pack. He still wasn’t sure who.

It had hung like that for a little while, as everybody took stock. Then the words had started, and once they started, seemed like they couldn’t stop. Fuck, I thought you were dead. Did you see him, he’s a bloody lunatic. He’ll lose his firearms cert for this, no doubt. Only Aden and Rhys staying silent.

Then, slowly, they began to trickle back into the armoury. No official order. No instruction. Just a silent collective agreement that it would be best if everyone was unarmed for the time being. Into the cage, smelling of metal and grease and sweat, everyone slipping guns out of holsters, and something different in the air. Like what had just happened had changed everything, and they had suddenly realised the power they carried, and how, with a quick flick of the wrist, that power could be turned on one of your own.

Aden had slipped the magazine out, pulled back the slide, checking that it was free from bullets. Had felt his eye pulsing, his brain racing. A feeling settling in his stomach. Guilt. He had pushed Tony. He had taken him to the edge. Had made it almost inevitable that he would throw himself over it.