Lucy had written down Victor Brionne’s address as he gave it with wavering self-pity to the court. Holmleigh Road, Stamford Hill. The words had mesmerised her, for they signified a home and garden – providing a life free of care on the other side of escape. She parked a few doors down, her eye on the neatly painted window frames. Night settled upon her conscience. She opened her bag and unrolled the duster. She pushed open the chamber and fed in the cartridges. Her hands moved quickly professionally. She watched them, marvelling at their adroit purposefulness, their separation from her. She walked at a pace, before the light came back and she lost her nerve. Reaching the door, she struck it hard three times. It swung slowly back. Brionne appeared, slightly swaying on his feet.
‘Yes?’
‘I am the adopted granddaughter of Agnes Aubret. I want to talk to you.
He stared at her through maudlin tears. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lucy Embleton.’
‘Come in, but ignore the mess. I’m just beginning a bad patch.’
She hated the lurching intimacy of drink, the promise of unwanted confidences. And she hated him. She said, ‘That doesn’t bother me.’
‘You’re very kind,’ he replied, retreating into the gloom. ‘Would you like some tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Lucy, shutting the door and flipping down the lock. ‘I won’t be staying that long.’