The Verdict. Olivia Isaac-Henry

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 is it?’

      Silence. The knock sounded real. Not a ghost. Not an echo amplified by her mind. A solid knock, the door vibrating slightly against the frame. She knew that knock. She stood, staring at the door, half expecting it to fly open. Another knock.

      ‘Who is it?’

      ‘Me.’

      She knew that voice.

      ‘Just a moment.’

      She hurriedly replaced the envelope and its contents and put the shoes and bag back on top of it. Sliding the chair from under the handle, she opened the door. It was the first time she’d seen Gideon since Guildford.

      ‘We agreed no contact,’ she said. ‘Ever.’

      ‘I need to see you.’ He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘There’s a private detective—’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘You’ve seen him?’

      ‘Yes. How did you find me?’

      ‘I had your home number from Genevieve’s address book. Your mother told me.’

      Bloody Audrey.

      ‘What did you tell Lancaster?’ Gideon asked. His jaw was tense.

      ‘Nothing,’ Julia said.

      ‘You’re sure?’

      ‘Why would I talk to him?’

      Gideon seemed to relax. He took a moment to look around the room.

      ‘Why are you living in this dump?’

      ‘It’s cheap,’ Julia said.

      ‘But you’ve got … I mean …’ His brow creased in confusion. ‘What have you done with it?’

      She looked away from him and didn’t answer. Just moments ago she had it in her hands.

      ‘You can’t leave it lying around,’ he said.

      ‘I can’t spend it,’ she said.

      ‘Guilt won’t turn back the clock. Nor will grand gestures. Alan and I invested it in the business.’

      ‘Alan? We weren’t to have any contact.’

      ‘Let’s just say he’s not coping too well. I thought if he worked for me, I could help him out.’

      ‘Keep an eye on him.’

      ‘Support him. You could work for me, if you like.’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      ‘I could pay you enough to live somewhere better than this.’

      He spread his arms to indicate the small room, its tiny ineffectual radiator emitting more noise than heat, the worn carpet and sagging, single bed.

      ‘I don’t know how you can live in that town,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t know how you can just carry on. It’s getting worse. I hear him. I smell him. Don’t you?’

      Fear flashed across Gideon’s face. ‘I think you’re unwell, Julia.’

      ‘And what about his parents? They’re looking for him. We could still go to the police, say it was an accident.’

      Gideon moved so fast, Julia had no time to react. He thrust her against the wardrobe door. Her head banged onto the wood. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.

      ‘But it wasn’t an accident, was it, Julia?’ he said.

      She wanted to push him off but was afraid what her struggling would provoke.

      ‘You don’t talk about this to anyone,’ he said. His eyes drilled into her. ‘We were protecting ourselves. We were protecting you. What would have happened if Alan and I hadn’t turned up?’

      ‘Everything all right up there?’ someone called from the bottom of the stairs.

      ‘You’d better go,’ Julia said.

      ‘Hey, is everything all right?’

      ‘Thanks, Mica. Gideon’s leaving,’ Julia shouted.

      Gideon let her go and glanced at the wardrobe behind her.

      ‘You need to be careful,’ he hissed, then turned and left.

      Mica came up the stairs and put his head around the door. ‘Are you OK?’

      ‘I’m fine. Thanks.’

      ‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Mica asked.

      ‘No,’ Julia said. ‘He’s no one.’

      Mica nodded and left.

      Julia closed the door behind him and went to the wardrobe, removed the envelope once more, then took out a pen and paper. She retrieved Michael Lancaster’s contact card from her coat pocket and started to write the letter she knew she must write.

       Dear Mr and Mrs Wells