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neck. I climb over the wall. From here, I can see the whole ground floor. There are only two cars parked on this level, so there’s nowhere to
hide.
    What was that?
    I turn my head, towards the stairwell and the lift lobby. What’s different?
    The lift light’s come on. Someone must be inside – or calling it from a floor above me.
    I try to move silently towards the lobby, but my boots echo against the concrete. Everything’s loud. The whine of the lift. My breathing.
    There’s an indicator light which shows that the lift is now on the second floor and still moving up.
    My finger hovers over the button. Should I call it back? I don’t know what the hell to do. My knowledge of surveillance techniques comes from 24 . And I didn’t watch how Jack
Bauer operated nearly closely enough.
    The lift light goes out.
    I try to stay calm. It could be anyone. A driver, someone from the coroner’s court.
    I can hear the machinery as the lift moves again. Down . Towards me. I should run. But I don’t. I’m frozen. With fear, yes. But with something else.
    Anticipation . . .
    This could end here. Whoever is in that lift might know everything: who killed Tim, who killed Meggie.
    A trickle of cold sweat drips down my back as I realise that only the person who committed both murders could know for sure.
    The lift brakes squeal like cats fighting at midnight. I flatten myself against the wall. Don’t think . Just be ready.
    Louder. Louder. Then the lift motor stops. Silence. And then it drops into place and I wait for the doors to open.
    This is madness.
    The metal doors groan open. I wait. And wait.
    What are they waiting for?
    Finally, I dare to twist my head to look to the side.
    The lift light that shines back at me is bright and unforgiving. I take a step. Then another step.
    No.
    I look up, around, down, unable to believe it.
    There’s a strong smell of vomit. A crushed can of Red Bull. A cover ripped from a magazine.
    But apart from that, the lift is empty.

16
    I run, and run. Tearing through deserted streets. Down the escalators in the tube station. Along the empty platform.
    I change carriage each stop. It probably makes me more obvious, but it’s the kind of thing they do in the movies. Staying on the move makes me feel less vulnerable.
    Even at Waterloo, I assess the passengers on my train with the wariness of a fugitive. I walk right the way through till I settle on a compartment with an old guy with double hearing aids and a
mother with a crease-faced new baby in a sling.
    There was someone in that car park, I’m sure of it. Someone connected to all that’s happened. So why did they let me get away?
    After the running, I’m pale and sweaty enough for everyone at school to believe I’ve been properly ill. Even Cara’s fooled.
    ‘Shit, I hope it’s not catching, Alice.’
    ‘I’m better than I was yesterday.’
    She shakes her head. ‘You must be so shocked about Tim. I know you thought he was innocent all along.’
    For once, I don’t stickup for him. Convincing Cara isn’t important, even though it feels like betraying Tim not to argue. ‘It was pretty devastating, yes.’
    ‘People our age shouldn’t kill themselves, should they? It’s unnatural.’
    ‘You never know what someone’s going through.’
    ‘No.’ She gives me a nervous look. ‘Do you want lunch, or . . .’
    ‘ Or sounds good to me.’
    We leave the common room, and head towards the sports store. Cara has the keys, thanks to the captain of the hockey team renting it out at break. It costs serious money, but Cara says it’s
worth it to be able to have a smoke in the warm. Last week, her mum took away her nicotine patches because she thought she was getting addicted, so Cara’s pretty desperate.
    We settle in a corner, on top of a string bag of netballs, which shifts under us like a beanbag. ‘I’m cutting down, Alice. Honest,’ Cara says, when she catches me staring at
her as she makes a roll-up. ‘It’s only a little