dank papery smell making her sneeze. Terry had not stolen the documentation, he had copied it: photographs, newspaper cuttings, index cards laid two to a page, the details of every person who had come forward with information, however trivial. One woman had found the wrapping for a packet of Polos in the gutter by the Ram public house; another reported her husband; two teenaged girls had seen the victim walking with her boy along Hammersmith Terrace three weeks before the day of the murder. Many pages were blotted with actual as well as photocopied mug rings and smears of grease. Every page had an MIR number in the right corner and was in strict order.
Stella did not need telling that MIR stood for Major Incident Room, the basis of an indexing system and where the police conducted every murder investigation. At Hammersmith Police Station this room was the Braybrook Suite. Terry had taken her there.
Cold penetrated her bones and her feet were numb but she lifted out a few sheets stapled together: the Interim Report by Detective Inspector Darnell. In that instant Stella understood why Terry had the boxes.
The Rokesmith case had never been solved.
While the suitcase and the toy-box on the other side of the attic were coated in grey dust, the boxes were clean. Stella saw what had made her sneeze: a canister of Mr Sheen furniture polish stood in the shadow of the shelves, a folded duster beside it. She frowned: a damp cloth would have done better. The bulb flickered and she looked up expecting Terry.
‘Go and make us a cup of tea, there’s a love. Leave that to me.’
She snapped into work mode, hauling down the next box in the sequence and lugging the two over to the hatchway; her boots thumped on the boards despite her efforts to take light steps. She did not want next-door to hear, nor did she want to fall through the floor.
Two flights down the front door closed.
She clasped the boxes, ice-cold sweat trickling out of her armpits, and backed behind the chimney. The hatch door was down, the ladder was out; she would be found. She patted her pockets for her phone. She had taken off her anorak and draped it over the desk chair and her phone was in the pocket.
The church clock struck four, the sound muffled. If she shouted for help she might not be heard through the thick fire wall. She crept to the skylight and eased it up. A spattering of freezing rain drenched her face. Wiping her eyes she saw that the creeping blue light of dawn gave definition to Mrs Ramsay’s summerhouse. A bird twittered, answered by another, then another; the dawn chorus had begun. She could not climb out on to the sloping roof.
Below her the house was quiet and Stella dared to peer down into the study. Shredded paper had sprung out of the bin and trailed over the carpet tiles.
Stella hurled herself down the ladder and reached back for the two file boxes. There was no one on the landing, and now there was enough light to see without a torch.Terry’s bedroom door was closed. Her mind was playing games with her.
She took the stairs two at a time and in the hall skidded on the catalogues on the mat, falling heavily on one knee; keeping hold of the boxes and ignoring pain shooting up her thigh, she grabbed at a coat hanging from hooks by the door and got to her feet.
She was staring at Terry. Tired, cheekbones gaunt, hair limp, his jacket crumpled; dead staring eyes that would not stay shut as he lay on the gurney. He held something under each arm and put a hand to his mouth, as if caught in the act. The fingers were cold against her lips. She pushed back her hair; he did the same. She gasped and his mouth opened. She had never seen him frightened before; then a sharp gleam of dawn sunlight penetrated the panes in the front door, highlighting dust on the mirror.
Stella wrenched open the door, slamming it behind her and blundered out to the gate.
A coach roared along the Great West Road, its sleeping occupants slumped against the glass. Only
Stella did not need telling that MIR stood for Major Incident Room, the basis of an indexing system and where the police conducted every murder investigation. At Hammersmith Police Station this room was the Braybrook Suite. Terry had taken her there.
Cold penetrated her bones and her feet were numb but she lifted out a few sheets stapled together: the Interim Report by Detective Inspector Darnell. In that instant Stella understood why Terry had the boxes.
The Rokesmith case had never been solved.
While the suitcase and the toy-box on the other side of the attic were coated in grey dust, the boxes were clean. Stella saw what had made her sneeze: a canister of Mr Sheen furniture polish stood in the shadow of the shelves, a folded duster beside it. She frowned: a damp cloth would have done better. The bulb flickered and she looked up expecting Terry.
‘Go and make us a cup of tea, there’s a love. Leave that to me.’
She snapped into work mode, hauling down the next box in the sequence and lugging the two over to the hatchway; her boots thumped on the boards despite her efforts to take light steps. She did not want next-door to hear, nor did she want to fall through the floor.
Two flights down the front door closed.
She clasped the boxes, ice-cold sweat trickling out of her armpits, and backed behind the chimney. The hatch door was down, the ladder was out; she would be found. She patted her pockets for her phone. She had taken off her anorak and draped it over the desk chair and her phone was in the pocket.
The church clock struck four, the sound muffled. If she shouted for help she might not be heard through the thick fire wall. She crept to the skylight and eased it up. A spattering of freezing rain drenched her face. Wiping her eyes she saw that the creeping blue light of dawn gave definition to Mrs Ramsay’s summerhouse. A bird twittered, answered by another, then another; the dawn chorus had begun. She could not climb out on to the sloping roof.
Below her the house was quiet and Stella dared to peer down into the study. Shredded paper had sprung out of the bin and trailed over the carpet tiles.
Stella hurled herself down the ladder and reached back for the two file boxes. There was no one on the landing, and now there was enough light to see without a torch.Terry’s bedroom door was closed. Her mind was playing games with her.
She took the stairs two at a time and in the hall skidded on the catalogues on the mat, falling heavily on one knee; keeping hold of the boxes and ignoring pain shooting up her thigh, she grabbed at a coat hanging from hooks by the door and got to her feet.
She was staring at Terry. Tired, cheekbones gaunt, hair limp, his jacket crumpled; dead staring eyes that would not stay shut as he lay on the gurney. He held something under each arm and put a hand to his mouth, as if caught in the act. The fingers were cold against her lips. She pushed back her hair; he did the same. She gasped and his mouth opened. She had never seen him frightened before; then a sharp gleam of dawn sunlight penetrated the panes in the front door, highlighting dust on the mirror.
Stella wrenched open the door, slamming it behind her and blundered out to the gate.
A coach roared along the Great West Road, its sleeping occupants slumped against the glass. Only
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