Now, Kelly went into the tiny bathroom and opened up the narrow skylight above the sink. She used the edge of the bath as a single step and levered herself carefully through the opening out onto the roof.

The skylight led out onto the interconnected rooftops that had become her secret refuge. A huge rolling contour map of hips and valleys dotted with TV aerial forests and chimney stacks that rose like rock formations towards the sky. She’d taught herself to navigate the slate and tile landscape like a ghost so those beneath never knew she was there.

For a moment Kelly stood balanced easily on the sharp slope and breathed in the night air above London. The smell of freedom.

She picked her way nimbly across the slanted rooftop avoiding loose wires and broken tiles by instinct and familiarity. The end of the terrace butted up against a taller building, its elderly brickwork face providing a relatively easy ascent.

The first time she’d scaled this wall Kelly had shaken with delayed reaction afterwards but now it was almost second nature. She moved smoothly, continuously, using the mortar gaps and concentrating on texture and grip. Free climbing was risky but by ensuring she always had three good points of contact she could contain the risk. And the prize made it worth the effort.

Kelly’s favourite spot faced nominally north-east. From there perched on the ridge with her back to a substantial brick chimney she could see the glow of Big Ben, the giant London Eye Ferris wheel, the four huge funnels of the disused power station at Battersea and the glimmer of a thousand lights reflected on the slow water of the river.

Even if she shut her eyes she could point to every landmark in turn, see them spread clearly across the canvas of her imagination. She’d always had an excellent memory, had once been noted for her ability to recite facts and figures in court with absolute conviction and without recourse to notes.

But suddenly six years ago she’d had a blackout. A total void that stretched for hours. And when she’d come back to herself she’d discovered that all the evidence—for which she’d always had such respect—pointed to her being a murderer.

Her victim’s name was Callum Perry. She remembered that much. Secretive and cryptic, Perry had called her claiming to have information she needed to know about a dead prostitute. That case looked straightforward at first glance but Kelly had run into anomalies. Questioning them had not made her popular in some quarters.

So she arranged to meet him. That was the last thing she knew until she woke next to his corpse.

So for the first time she’d found herself in the dock rather than on the witness stand, assailed by roiling uncertainties. She’d believed herself to be innocent but didn’t know it. Not for certain. And certainly couldn’t prove it.

Her friends—ones she’d made through her work and all connected with law enforcement—steadily melted away. Even those who thought she might be innocent were told by their chain of command that if they valued their careers they’d cut her loose.

She thought of David as she hadn’t thought of him in years. As she had conditioned herself not to think of him. David who had shared her life, her heart, until …

She’d felt him pulling back from her right from the moment of her arrest, had often thought he’d only stuck around as long as he did because it looked worse to go than stay. In the end he’d stayed too long and the wash of associated guilt had almost drowned him alongside her.

David resented her for that she knew. Held her bitterly responsible for the permanent stall in promotion that followed. He’d hoped for chief superintendent if not higher. Now he was likely to see out his twenty-five as the longest-serving detective inspector in the Met.

The police, it seemed, were very quick to turn on their own.

Alone, all Kelly could cling to was faith in the evidence she’d always trusted. That it would somehow come to her aid.

But the evidence had let her down.

Now, she thought back to the scene of Veronica Lytton’s supposed suicide.

“I know she was murdered,” she told herself. Even if the evidence was gone—all bar a few digital images and her tainted expertise. Neither of which were likely to stand up in court. Especially when she had personally helped wipe out all physical trace.

Safe in her eyrie looking out over London she hugged her knees to her chest and shivered despite the balmy air.

9

Dmitry slumped in the driver’s seat of his black Mercedes-Benz, watching and waiting.

It was a long time since he’d had to sit like this in silence and darkness waiting for his prey. Not since the old days, he thought sardonically and half-smiled. In some ways he almost missed it.

But since he had left his homeland Dmitry had tried hard to acquire western sophistication. Take the car for instance. The ten-year-old S-Class coupé was all Dmitry could afford but he’d made up for the age by kitting it out with huge chrome alloys and heavy tint on the glass. Very classy. Back home it was the kind of motor that would have brought people out onto the streets to stare as he passed. In London it didn’t warrant a second glance.

But for something like this the car’s anonymity was a good thing.

He’d been waiting for three hours. Three hours without a cigarette and with nothing to occupy his hands. Nothing to occupy his mind either except idly wondering how far to go with the message he had come to deliver. A little further with each passing hour most likely—something had to make up for this boredom.

He was parked in a side street near the Tube station at Stonebridge Park in northwest London. As he arrived he’d caught glimpses of the arc of the new Wembley stadium in the distance. It was an area more industrial than residential which was a good thing. Not that people were likely to look when they heard noises outside anyway.

Such a polite race the British. So careful not to get involved even to the point of allowing a stranger to be beaten to death on the very steps of their home. Besides, he was a stone’s throw from the North Circular inner ring road. The constant traffic flow even at this time of night would mask any small sounds. Dmitry prided himself that he was good enough for there to be little else.

In fact his only brief worry was the Ace Café just a little further along the road. It seemed to be a local bikers’ haunt and there was a lot of coming and going, and groups of people milling around outside. He shrugged it off. If anything the bad press bikers usually got meant they could well be blamed for his actions.

And then finally the lights flicked off in the office window above the line of roller-shutter doors.

At last!

Dmitry was out of the car and across the road in a few seconds, moving fast without seeming to hurry. He made sure to blip the locks on the Mercedes as he walked away from it. It would be bad news if the car was stolen while he was otherwise engaged.