After our exchange, I text Danny:
Cheers for the lawyer.
Wished you’d asked though.
He texted back four purple love-heart emojis.
The pressure of too much in one day presses down on me. Right, that’s it; I’m off home to renew my batteries and delve online again to see if I can find out anything about Pretty Lanes. There must be something about it somewhere. Though, if I’m honest it sounds like a dating app.
A mile out of town, my car’s GPS alerts me that I’ll need to change my route because of something going on. I put on the radio.
‘The trains and Tube are running a good service apart from the central line where there are delays. Traffic is being diverted due to a major incident.’
I groan; the last thing I need is playing dodgems in my car with the rest of London, trying to duck and dive our way home.
‘What?’ I say, startled.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The incident is on the same street as the Suzi Lake Centre. Something is very badly wrong. I know it is. I need to get out of here fast, but I’m boxed in by traffic. Sweat starts pooling around my throat like a watery necklace, dripping down my chest and back. I know banging my horn won’t help, but I do it anyway.
‘Lay off the car music,’ an aggravated voice shouts my way.
I don’t have time to listen to their moans, I’m too focused on the Suzi Lake Centre.
Suzi Lake Centre. Suzi Lake Centre. It bangs within my head until I think it’s left a dent in my brain. Finally, a space appears. I take it, swerve the car back and one-eighty the other way. Turn down a side street. I abandon my car. And then I’m running, running towards the street where the centre is. I don’t know for how long I run. Two minutes. Five. Ten.
The air changes suddenly. Acrid, the choking smell of something burning. I know, I know even before I see the smoke, even before I hit the street, even before I see the derelict house. When I reach the street, I realise I’ve been inside my own silent bubble because I rush into a wall of noise. Fire engines and police cars, children crying as they’re escorted away from the crèche. Voices of those who live on the street, standing in groups, shocked astonishment on their faces.
And the Suzi Lake Centre burns. Flames high and crackling, twisting and bending into each other, creating yellow-orange-fierce-blue snaking patterns. Smoke rises vicious and thick and black, blocking out the sun. I’m rocking, stupefied. I can’t believe this. I stand there watching the fire eating through the Edwardian beauty of a house that might have fallen on hard times but was once so proud.
And I know something else. This fire has something to do with me. Something to do with me and Miriam being here. Something to do with our investigation of missing women linked to that house. Someone deliberately burned this place down before it could reveal more of its secrets. Paranoia creeps up on me. Was someone watching us yesterday? Tracking our every move? A person bathed in the shadows of the night. I know Ronnie was there . . . But was someone else there too?
Are they here now? My side-eye secretly slides towards the neighbours standing huddled together; is it one of them? Or is it someone watching from a car? I see no one. I wait for the fire hoses to smother the flames, to dim the fire until it burns out. Time ceases to mean anything as I wait.
Suddenly my heart plummets through the hard ground. No! No! The Good Knight! It hits me hard that this was the last place that I had him. The contents of my bag tumbled out when I fell through the boarded-up stairs. Miriam helped me pick my stuff up, but probably in all the drama the Good Knight rolled away out of sight. How could I have left my constant companion behind? How could I? Sometimes, when I was young, after Mummy Cherry or Sugar had tucked me up for the night I would take out the Good Knight. I’d run my fingertips over every last part of him, pretending that it was my mother’s skin because she will have held him too. And now he’s gone. I imagine the fire taking him, the flames devouring him. I’m devastated, heart battered and broken. My constant companion is gone. Gone.
I pull out my phone and stare at the Good Knight in the photo. This memory will have to sustain me now.
But I’m not finished with the Suzi Lake Centre. I flash my doctor’s credentials at a cop who’s guarding the scene who allows me under the tape to approach what’s left of the building. It’s amazing what you can do with an official badge, whether you have any business there or not.
I get the attention of a firefighter. ‘Are there any casualties?’
He’s surprised. ‘Casualties? The place has been abandoned for years.’ He looks at the smouldering wreck, the collapsed walls and charred remains of the roof that has fallen inwards. ‘There was no sign of any activity. No one calling for help.’