The Notting Hill house is a fortress of transparency. Floor-to-ceiling glass reveals a kitchen of white marble and brass, as silent as a gallery before an opening. Bryony Acheson stands on the limestone step, her scuffed leather suitcase a blemish against the pristine finish. She presses the buzzer. The vibration travels through her thumb, mechanical and cold.
Cressida Vale descends the floating oak staircase with the grace of a woman who never has to check her reflection. Her silk blouse is the colour of an unbruised pear. She doesn't smile, but her gaze over Bryony’s shoulder is a forensic sweep of the street. Inside, the foyer smells of Stargazer lilies and expensive filtered air. A silver letter opener sits on the desk, its blade catching a shard of morning sun. Cressida gestures toward the upper levels, her rings clicking against the glass balustrade.
Everything here is polished to a high, deceptive shine. The silence is thick, pressing against the eardrums like deep water. Then, the stillness breaks. From the floor above, the heavy, uneven sound of someone dragging something across the floorboards begins.
