The bifold glass doors hold the St Albans morning in a cold, grey frame. At 7:48, the light catches a single film of condensation on the marble island, just beside Iris’s cold tea. Marcus is already on the 06:58, and Lila’s pink-and-grey backpack is a fading memory on the school bus. The kitchen should be silent, yet the side gate clicks shut with a finality that makes the air in the extension go brittle.
A man in a charcoal overcoat lets himself in. He does not rush. He moves with the practiced ease of a guest who has already been invited, though Iris has never seen his weather-marked face before. He sits at the oak table, his charcoal wool sleeves dark against the honey-coloured wood. He looks at Iris with steady grey eyes that suggest he knows exactly what happened in Hackney on the night of 12 June 2016. He’s been waiting for this.
Iris keeps her hands flat on the marble, the cold stone leaching the heat from her palms. The man doesn't reach for her. Instead, he reaches into the deep pocket of his overcoat and produces a small, plastic object. He does not speak a word of threat, but the clock above the doors seems to tick louder as he prepares the delivery. Voss's hand slides the cheap black burner phone across the marble island.
