She opened the front door and heard the sound of the radio playing. The song was ‘Dancing in the Street’ by David Bowie and Mick Jagger. For some reason it reminded her of Oaklands, of Velma, of Nathan Stone. It reminded her of the mistakes she had made and the lies she had told. But they had only been white lies about how she had found out where Eddie was living. They had nothing to do with his murder. She wished, though, that she’d had the courage to be more honest.

Instead of going straight upstairs she veered to the right to where the music was coming from. The ground floor had been converted so that Joel could use half the space to work in and the other half to exhibit his furniture. It was a slow process but he was gradually building up a client base. Some people still valued craftsmanship.

Sadie stood in the doorway, watching as he planed a piece of oak. He had his back to her and she studied the curve of his spine, his strong shoulders and slender artistic hands. She envied him his talent and his passion for what he did. He knew exactly who he was, what he was and where his place was in the world. While she walked vaguely through life, taking this path or that, his road was long and straight and direct. Although she enjoyed working in the bookshop, she didn’t see it as a job for ever. Perhaps one day she would find a niche of her own.

Joel was so absorbed in his work that he remained oblivious to her presence. Not wanting to distract him, she turned away and started to climb the stairs. She passed the door to his flat, wondering what they would do with it after they were married. The house was owned by his parents and at the moment she and Joel were paying rent on two separate apartments as well as the ground floor space. It would be a help, financially, if they could let out one of the flats. Maybe they should move into his and rent out the top floor so that the tenant wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise from the workroom.

Even as she mused on these plans, Sadie’s stomach did a flip. It felt dangerous to plan too far ahead as if she might be tempting providence. What if… But she quickly shut down the thought. She wouldn’t get through the day if she gave in to her fears. She wished she had a solid faith, a belief like Joel’s, but for her God seemed a capricious creature, rarely there when you needed him and decidedly picky as to who he would help and who he wouldn’t.

She unlocked the door to her flat, went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle. While she was waiting for it to boil, she took off her coat and hung it over the back of the chair. The wool was damp from the mist and had a slightly salty smell. Sitting down at the table, she opened the paper and flipped through the pages. She checked all the stories but there was nothing about Eddie. His death, at least for the moment, didn’t warrant as much as a column inch.

She made a coffee and sat down again. Her fingers turned over the pages of the paper but she barely registered the words she was reading: Margaret Thatcher being urged to call a General Election, unemployment figures, the assassination of Gérard Hoarau, an exiled political leader from the Seychelles killed by a gunman on the doorstep of his London home. Another murder, and one that got more publicity than Eddie’s.

It was only when she came to a piece about Bob Geldof and Live Aid that her head shifted back into gear. The concert had taken place that summer and she had watched it on TV with Joel. A roll call of the most memorable artists slid through her head: Queen, The Boomtown Rats, U2, The Who and Elvis Costello. She could remember searching the faces at Wembley Stadium, looking for the familiar features of her runaway husband, convinced that Eddie must be in the crowd somewhere. She had forgotten to ask when they’d met on Sunday. And now the time for asking was over.

Half an hour later Joel came upstairs. ‘Hey, I didn’t realise you were back. How did it go?’

‘Not bad, thanks,’ she said. ‘It didn’t take long.’ He had offered to go with her to the police station but she had turned him down. There were some things, she thought, that you had to face on your own.

‘This came for you,’ he said, brandishing a small package. ‘The postman just dropped it off.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Sadie took the Jiffy bag from him and examined the front. She didn’t recognise the handwriting on the label, a round, almost childlike scrawl. Who was it from? What was it? She wasn’t expecting anything. Turning the packet over, she saw that there was no return address. She ripped open the flap and pulled out the contents.

Inside was a slim paperback and as she caught sight of the title the blood drained from her face and her hands began to shake. Strangers on a Train. As if the book was red hot, she quickly dropped it on the table.

‘What is it?’ Joel asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

But all Sadie could think about was Mona Farrell and a mad conversation on a train. You could kill my father and I could kill Eddie. And now… this was a message, wasn’t it? The crazy girl had sent the book because she’d actually gone through with it. Suddenly, she felt nauseous.

‘Sadie?’

She looked up at him, her mouth dry, her heart pounding in her chest. Sweat prickled her forehead. Now was the time to come clean, to tell him everything. But as she gazed into his trusting brown eyes, she still couldn’t bring herself to do it. What was stopping her? She knew what it was: a fear that he might not believe her side of the story. The tale was so incredible, so bizarre. What if a tiny seed of doubt started growing in his mind? What if he thought that she’d agreed to the arrangement?

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, snatching up the paperback again and flicking through the pages to see if there was a note inside. There wasn’t. But Mona must have sent it. Who else could it have been? Glancing up again, she saw the puzzled, concerned expression on Joel’s face. ‘I was… I was just thinking about Eddie.’ The lie was out of her mouth before she could stop it. ‘He bought me a copy of this book once. It gave me a shock, you know, seeing it again.’

Joel placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘It’ll get easier. It’s hard now but…’

‘I know,’ she said, forcing a smile and trying to affect a calmness she didn’t feel. She put the book down and pushed it away. ‘I leant it to a friend ages ago. I didn’t think I’d ever see it again.’

Joel leaned over and picked it up. ‘It looks brand new,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s even been read.’

‘Maybe she lost it and bought me a new one.’

‘That was nice of her.’

Sadie gave a vague nod while her thoughts continued to race. How could it be Mona? The girl didn’t even know where she lived. Except… God, yes, she might have mentioned Haverlea when they were talking. And then there was the private investigator’s report with Eddie’s photo clipped to it. Her address had been written at the top. Had Mona memorised it? It was possible; she had spent a long time staring at the picture.

‘Would you like a drink?’ Joel asked, putting the book down and walking across the kitchen to turn on the kettle.

‘No thanks. I’ve just had one.’ Suddenly, Sadie felt like the walls were closing in on her. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. She had to get out. Quickly, she rose to her feet and put on her coat. ‘I promised Mum I’d pop in and see her. I’ll catch you later, yeah?’

‘Okay. Say hello from me.’

‘I will.’

It took every inch of her will power to walk calmly out of the room but once she was free of the flat she sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time before launching herself through the front door and out into the street. She gulped in the cold air as she half walked, half jogged to the corner. Where was she going? She had no idea. She just needed to be alone, to try and figure things out.

Sadie’s breath flew from her mouth in small misty clouds. Maybe she was getting it all wrong. It was possible that Mona had read about Eddie’s death in one of the London papers and sent the book as a joke. But what kind of joke was that? You’d have to be sick in the head to do something so bizarre. But then Mona wasn’t exactly normal. She’d gathered that much even from the short amount of time they’d spent together.