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him. So she waited to tell him in person. His eyes closed with annoyance as she described the things that Munroe had said to her. She left out the part where he’d hurt her hand. This, she thought, might enrage Joshua. She wanted as little to do with Munroe as possible.
    ‘Just more proof of his guilt,’ Joshua said. ‘He’s worried about what we might do. He’s keeping his eye on us. One day he’ll trip up and then we’ll have him.’
    Rose didn’t answer. It was fantasy. Munroe had them where he wanted them. There was nothing they could do to him.
    They got out of the car and headed towards the crowds. They walked along, weaving in and out of people who seemed to be simply milling round, pointing and looking in the direction of the house. They went up to a uniformed officer at the edge of an area that was cordoned off.
    ‘Excuse me, we are due to meet Inspector Wendy Clarke. She made an arrangement with us for ten o’clock,’ Rose said.
    Before the officer could speak a woman who was nearby turned round and marched towards them. She was small, wearing dark trousers and a Puffa jacket. She had jaw-length ginger hair. She smiled and thrust out her hand to Rose.
    ‘Rose Smith and Joshua Johnson?’
    She shook their hands warmly, as though she was an old friend.
    ‘Hi,’ Rose said.
    ‘I’m Wendy Clarke. Thank you so much for coming. If you don’t mind waiting for a few moments while I make arrangements for you to go into the house . . .’
    ‘Sure,’ Rose said.
    Wendy Clarke walked off in the direction of 49 Brewster Road. Rose watched her go and shifted her position to see if she could glimpse around the cars and people to the front of her old house. She could not. In any case the road looked completely different because of the commotion. It didn’t look at all like the place she remembered living in. She was disappointed. She’d expected the trip to be an emotional one. She’d actually looked forward to seeing the houses and gardens and feeling the familiarity of her childhood surroundings. But standing here just felt strange as if it were any old place.
    Joshua was quiet. Rose wondered if he was worrying about James Munroe. In daylight his hair was shorter than she’d thought, his skull showing through, his ears looking bare and cold. He was wearing a corduroy jacket that was lined with fake fur. He’d bought it in a charity shop in Camden. It replaced an overcoat he’d bought in the market just before Christmas. He’d got rid of it because it had been stained with Skeggsie’s blood.
    ‘Right.’ Wendy Clarke was standing next to them again. ‘I’ll take you into the house. The family who live there now are in hotel accommodation for the rest of this week but I would ask you to respect their home and their privacy. Follow me.’
    Joshua went first and Rose followed. They made their way through officers and people in plain clothes. When they got to the front of the house Rose felt a shock of recognition. Beside the front door was the metal number plate that her mum had found at a car boot sale. What’s the chance of that? she’d heard her say. A number plate for sale and it’s the number of our house! Karma. I have to buy it!
    ‘This way,’ Wendy Clarke said.
    They followed her into the hallway. Rose noticed immediately that it had been carpeted and the walls painted a dark colour. The place looked considerably smaller or maybe she’d just got bigger. They walked past the front room door into the kitchen-diner. This room had also undergone extensive change. Where it had been wood everywhere it was now a white shiny kitchen with a black tiled floor. Rose felt like a stranger.
    ‘We’ll go out into the garden in a moment. We won’t be going down to the crime scene but you’ll glimpse it from a distance. I should say one or two things to you before we go. Firstly,’ Wendy Clarke rubbed her eyelids with the tips of her fingers, ‘I’m aware of your history and the tragedy of your