seeing friends, trying to find somewhere else to live. I can’t be sure when he moved out. I think it was Genevieve’s sister who noticed he’d gone.’
Akande glances towards Warren. He runs his fingers around his collar and takes a deep breath. ‘A friend in London heard from Brandon in the fourth week of August,’ he says. ‘Brandon was going to move into his place over the bank holiday weekend, but never turned up. The friend didn’t think anything of it at the time, thought Brandon had changed his mind. We’ve worked out this was Saturday 27th August 1994, the last definite contact we have from Brandon. Twenty-three years later his body is found buried on the hillside opposite Downsview Villa.’
Warren continues to study me.
‘I still can’t believe it’s him,’ I say. ‘No one wished him harm. And if they had, he was a big lad – he could take care of himself.’
The detectives exchange glances. I’m being played. I must stay calm.
The stairs creak and I realise Audrey’s awake.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the detectives.
I leave the lounge and meet her on the small landing. She’s wrapped in my dressing gown, which is far too big for her. I rarely see her like this, without the armour of tailored clothes, her face free from powder and lipstick. She looks small and vulnerable.
‘I thought I heard voices,’ she says. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘It’s nothing, Mum. Just some trouble across the road – kids. Go back to bed.’
‘Really, I don’t like you living here, Julia. It’s dangerous.’
‘Please, Mum, it’s not a big deal. Get some sleep.’
When I return, Warren and Akande are whispering to one another. They stop when I re-enter the room.
‘I wasn’t aware you lived with your mother,’ Warren says.
‘She’s just staying over,’ I say.
Something about her presence has made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s reminded of his own mother, because his tone’s almost apologetic as he explains, ‘You see the significance of where he was buried – not four hundred yards from where he lived. It’s unlikely he left then somehow ended up back there.’
‘I suppose so,’ I say.
‘It’s more probable he was killed while still living there,’ Warren says.
‘But what happened to his stuff?’ I ask.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
‘And he took that money.’
‘Someone took the money,’ Akande says.
‘You see where this leaves us?’ Warren says.
‘Not really.’
‘Brandon was killed while he lived at 72 Downs Avenue by someone who had access to his room.’ Warren pauses. ‘And perhaps Mrs Pike’s money.’
‘Which suggests someone living in the house,’ Akande says.
She allows the words to hang between us.
‘That’s not possible,’ I say. ‘Someone would have noticed.’
‘You’d think,’ she says.
‘You said yourself, the house was in confusion,’ Warren says. ‘All sorts of people coming and going.’
‘No one in the house would have wanted to harm him,’ I say.
‘Who else had the opportunity to clear out his room?’ Akande says. ‘We really do need to get to the bottom of any disagreements.’
‘Honestly, I can’t remember any.’
‘Three boys and two girls living in a house and there were no conflicts, no jealousies?’ Warren says.
‘Nothing major.’
‘What about minor?’
‘I …’
‘Don’t remember?’ Akande crosses her arms.
‘It was over twenty years ago. What can you remember from back then – were you even at primary school?’
Akande opens her mouth to reply, but Warren gets in there first. ‘Did you know, Ms Winter, that Mrs Pike had been giving Brandon money?’
I tear my gaze from Akande’s sneering face and back to Warren.
‘She let him off the rent, because he wasn’t working,’ I reply. ‘She took a shine to him.’
‘Was there any resentment about it?’
‘Not from me.’
‘Ms Moretti recalls a good deal of resentment,’ Warren says.
‘Memories vary.’
‘They certainly do,’ Akande says under her breath.
‘One more thing,’ Warren says. ‘You left Guildford in September that year. Not just the house but your job too – why was that?’
How did they discover so much in such a short space of time?
‘The whole thing with Genevieve shook me up. I just wanted to get away and forget about everything.’
Akande raises her eyebrows.
‘You know, it’s getting late,’ I say. ‘And I’m not sure how much more I can tell you.’
‘We’re pretty much done,’ Warren says. ‘Just one more thing – your phone.’
‘What about it?’ I say too quickly.
Akande notices and looks at my mobile sitting on the table. They can’t know about the other one, though it’s less than three feet away.
‘Can we get your number please?’
I breathe again. ‘Of course,’ I say and recite my number.
Does my voice tremble? Do they notice?
‘Thank you,’ Warren says. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
I don’t close my door until I’ve heard them descend all the stairs and the front door shuts.
I knew the police would contact me. I should have been better prepared.
My landline starts ringing. I dive to answer it.
‘Hello.’
Nothing.
‘Hello,’ I say again.
The line goes dead.
Pearl’s presence lingered in the room Julia had taken over from her after leaving Guildford. Her Magritte print still hung on the wall and used gig tickets were tucked behind the mirror. Julia missed her and Andre. But not enough to risk meeting them.
She closed the door and wedged it shut with a chair. Not that anyone was likely to come in. She removed her shoes and a couple of large bags, lifted the wardrobe floor and removed the envelope. She took it over to the lamp and pulled out its contents.
A clever place to conceal something. Brandon had only betrayed his hiding spot through carelessness. She would never have found it without the backpack strap trapped in the gap.
There was a knock on her door. No one ever visited her in Archway.
‘Who