Like This, for Ever

chairs, pretending to watch television. The mother, father and one of the mother’s sisters, who seemed to have worked out a rota between them, and the twins’ fourteen-year-old brother, Jonathan. Their sixteen-year-old sister was in her room, if the music drifting down the stairs was anything to judge by.
    Seeing Dana, Mr Barlow rose and turned off the television set. He stood by its side, waiting. His wife seemed to have frozen in place on the sofa.
    ‘I have news,’ said Dana, her eyes flicking from the mother to the father. ‘Would you like me to speak to you alone?’ Her eyes wandered to their son. He caught her meaning instantly and movedacross the sofa to sit next to his mum. He took hold of her hand, looking frightened and much younger than fourteen.
    ‘Go on,’ said the dad. He knew, too. They all did. ‘Get on with it.’
    ‘I’m very sorry, but we found the bodies of two young boys this evening. We believe they’re Jason and Joshua. I’m so very sorry.’
    ‘Two?’ he said. ‘Both of them?’
    Dana wondered whether, if she listened to the mother’s howl for long enough, it might actually drill a hole in her head.

8
    THE KNOCKING HAD stopped. He’d followed the usual pattern. Three sharp knocks, loud enough to be heard in the garden but not so loud as to sound aggressive or threatening. Repeated twice. Nine times his knuckles made contact with the wood of her front door. She never heard him climb back up the steps.
    In the old days, he’d have been able to break into her flat using a credit card. The state-of-the-art security he’d had installed himself had put paid to that. Funny, really. It had been intended to protect her from a killer; now it was protecting her from him.
    At least two minutes since the last knock. He’d gone. Feeling herself breathe easily again, Lacey walked the length of her long, narrow garden. The walls around it were high, but whoever had planned the space had chosen carefully and its plants all thrived in the shade. In summer, the sweet scents of jasmine, honeysuckle and old-fashioned roses cloaked the acrid smells of the city. In winter, the frost and occasional snow made fairytale ice-sculptures.
    There was light coming from the top floor of the house next door. She could see the top of Barney’s head, just above his computer. Strange, sweet kid. He was on his own in the house after all, there wasn’t a single other room lit up. It was getting on for ten o’clock. It wasn’t right. He was sensible enough but he’d be scared, with everything that was going on, with the newspapers and thetelevision news full of stories of boys his age going missing from their homes.
    A scuffling noise on the other side of the wall. For a second, adrenaline pumped, then Lacey recognized the head and shoulders of the man who appeared over the top. He pushed himself up and swung his legs over the top of the wall before dropping down on her side.
    ‘Hi,’ he said.
    ‘What are you doing?’
    Detective Inspector Mark Joesbury, of the special crimes directorate that handled covert operations, rotated one shoulder, as though he’d tweaked a muscle. He’d cut his hair short again, close to his scalp, making him look tougher, less attractive. ‘You don’t answer my calls, you ignore my emails, you don’t even open your door,’ he said. ‘What am I supposed to do?’
    ‘Get the hint.’
    A sharp blink and the tiniest jerk back of his head. The lines of his face hardened. ‘I thought you should know that the Cambridge gang have all been officially charged and a date set for their first hearing. Next month. The twenty-eighth.’
    Cambridge. Just hearing the name of the city made her feel sick. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘But you could have sent a constable to tell me that.’
    He turned to look at the conservatory door. ‘Can we go inside?’ he asked.
    ‘I was about to go to bed,’ she said. ‘So it wouldn’t really be appropriate, would it?’
    Joesbury gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Perish the thought. They’re all expected to plead not guilty.’
    ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else.’
    The twenty-eighth of March. She’d known it was only a matter of time. The British legal system was slow but relentless. They probably wouldn’t need her at the first hearing. The evidence-gathering would take months. She had time. Time to deal with the panic, rising like molten lead inside her every time she thought about the events of January.
    ‘There’ll be a trial,’ said