the platform.
‘I wanted to help her, to help Kathryn,’ he says tonelessly. ‘I want to help you, too.’
‘Help me with what?’
‘You handed the baby over to the police, did you?’
‘Of course.’
‘You trusted the police.’
‘Yes.’
He sighs and shakes his head. ‘Mistake.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They let him get away once already.’
‘They let who get away?’
‘The husband. Don’t you know? It’s always the husband.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I say, thoughts tumbling around in my head. ‘Kathryn’s husband?’
He sighs, as if disappointed. ‘The one who wants to take her away. To take the baby away.’
‘Tell me,’ I say, desperation creeping into my voice. ‘Please. Why was it a mistake to hand Mia over to the police?’
He moves closer. I take another step away from him and almost stumble on a cardboard box that has been thrown to the floor. He is close now, close enough that I can smell him, sickly-sweet sweat and a tang of bleach beneath it.
‘Because,’ he says, leaning into my face, ‘it will make her easier to find.’
His fists are clenching and unclenching by his sides, as if he is struggling to control himself. Black fingerless gloves, just like on the train. I notice for the first time that his fingertips are covered too, in smooth transparent latex, like a surgeon.
No fingerprints. No DNA.
Fear wedges in my throat like a splinter.
‘Why are you wearing gloves?’ I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer. His cheeks broaden beneath the balaclava again but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes and it’s gruesome, false, as if he learned it by rote from watching TV. Think. There are two ways out of this room. Through the door to the landing or out of the window, dropping down onto the back patio. Both shut. If I run for the window, will he try to stop me? Of course he will.
There is a third way out of this room, I realise with a cold certainty: carried out on a stretcher or zipped into a bodybag. An image pops into my head of crime scene officers in white boiler suits standing here later this evening, or tomorrow, or next week. Examining, photographing, looking for clues. Sifting through the wreckage of my house as they try to connect victim and killer. The scene jolts me as if I’ve just grabbed a live wire.
I am nobody’s victim.
I nod towards the closed door, as if expecting it to open at any moment.
‘You know, my husband will be home any time now.’
He glances to the door – just for a second – and I put my hands in my jacket pockets, wrapping the dark fabric around myself as if for warmth or protection.
His eyes narrow.
‘No.’ His tone is flat, matter-of-fact. ‘He won’t. Don’t do anything stupid, or I will have to hurt you.’
I ignore him, my fingers finding the bunch of keys in my jacket pocket. My hand closes around them, a single straight key sticking out from the bottom of my fist. I must have done this a dozen times walking alone at night, hearing footsteps behind me on a dark street, working late or becoming separated from my friends after a night out. I never actually had to use them, though, never found out if it could make a difference. I am about to find out. Two inches of brass that might give me a fighting chance to get out of here if I can catch him off guard.
He takes another step towards me.
‘I can’t have you running to the cops, Ellen.’
I ease my hands back out of my pockets, keys clutched painfully tight in my right fist. The key is facing away from him so he can’t see it. A navy self-defence class comes back to me. Focus on the vulnerable areas with a hammer strike: eyes, nose, throat. I roll my weight onto the balls of my feet, ready to raise my right hand and bring it down in his direction. A thin sliver of skin is visible at his neck, where the balaclava ends. The flesh looks pale, vulnerable, deathly white against the black of his clothes. It makes a good target.
Now. I raise my right hand high and swing it down but he darts away at the last moment and I miss him by inches. He’s backing up, holding out a hand.
‘Stop!’
‘Don’t like a victim who fights back, do you?’
I swing again, backing him towards the corner. With a speed that surprises me he brings his own right hand up and there is something in it,