when I pull up in my car. A set of keys dangles from her right hand. In her black trousers and blue linen shirt, she could be an estate agent, ready for her meeting with a prospective buyer.
Isn’t that what I am?
Her blonde hair is tied back from her face, which is serious. I wonder if she wears the same expression when she has to give bad news to patients. Or maybe she’s not that sort of doctor; maybe she spends her days in a lab examining tissue samples, never coming into contact with their owners.
From her posture, I can see that she’s tense. She’s not looking forward to this.
Of course she isn’t looking forward to it. Why would she be?
I wipe the sweat from my upper lip and get out of the car, remind myself that there’s no reason to be nervous. I’ve already told her everything, in my letter. Today it’s her turn to tell me what she knows. I can’t believe she knows nothing at all. 11 Bentley Grove is her home.
Except that’s not how it feels, as I walk up the lavender-bordered path towards her. Her isolated body language suggests she’s found herself standing here, outside a house that has nothing to do with her, and she’s not sure why. ‘I didn’t want to go inside alone,’ she says, and I hear how much she wishes 11 Bentley Grove didn’t belong to her.
‘Thanks for agreeing to meet me,’ I say.
She unlocks the front door. Eyes down, she indicates that I should go first. She would rather stay outside in the sun and fresh air, delay the moment of entry for as long as she can. That’s when I know for sure: she’s going to accept my offer.
She wants nothing to do with 11 Bentley Grove, and it’s a violent want, not a mild preference. As we walk in together, she must feel as if she’s breaking into a cordoned-off part of her past.
I’m stepping into my future, with no idea what it might contain.
I expected a bad atmosphere, but there’s nothing. The inside of 11 Bentley Grove is light and airy. Harmless. But then it isn’t houses that do harm, it’s the people who live in them. I look around, aware of Selina Gane’s presence behind me. I smell lavender. She hasn’t closed the front door. I expect she will leave it open for as long as we’re inside, not wanting to be shut in here.
Without waiting to be asked, I move in the direction of the lounge. I can’t remember ever looking at the floorplan on Roundthehouses, but I must have, because I can see it in my mind, and I know where everything is. I know that the room where the dead woman lay is through this door to my right.
I don’t need to go in. One glance tells me there’s no blood, no body.
Were you really expecting it to be there? Waiting for you?
I see an expanse of unspoilt beige carpet, the edge of the coffee table, the one with the flowers trapped under its glass. The fireplace, the map above it . . . I knew all these things were real, but it’s still strange to see them in front of me: like falling into a dream.
‘I don’t know your husband,’ Selina Gane says. ‘I’ve never known him, and I’m not having an affair with him.’
My letter can’t have made much sense to her, then.
The stairs. I should have looked at the stairs first, and it worries me that I didn’t. My mind is not working as it should; I’m too overwhelmed by being here. For six months I have thought about this house almost constantly. I have spent whole days standing outside it. Now that both its owner and the police have abandoned it, I’ve set myself the task of unearthing its hidden story.
No one cares about 11 Bentley Grove as much as I do. Is that why I feel as if it’s already mine?
Selina Gane fills the silence by saying, ‘I’m a doctor. I spend most of my waking hours trying to save lives. I’ve never killed anyone, and if I was going to, I wouldn’t do it in my living room.’
I nod.
‘Did your husband really have this address programmed into his SatNav as his home address?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’ I run my hand along the banister. The top of the newel post is dark wood – a curved-edged cube of varnished brown.
‘I need to ask you something,’ I say. I