I went inside the flat, switching on lights. It seemed too quiet, as it always did. I switched on the TV and automatically flicked to a news channel, turning down the volume until it was no more than a murmur in the background.
I wasn't tired any more. Adrenalin had washed away the fatigue, and I knew if I went to bed now I wouldn't sleep. I went to the cabinet in the sitting room and took out the odd-shaped bottle of bourbon with the miniature horse and jockey on top. It was almost empty. I'd brought it back with me from Tennessee earlier that year, and had been eking it out to make it last.
But I felt I'd earned a drink now. And I'd need one for what I was about to do.
I poured myself a stiff measure and took a long swallow. The bourbon was raw and smooth at the same time, and as its burn ran through me I went out of the sitting room and opened the door at the end of the hallway. Technically, it was a third bedroom, but a bed would barely have fitted inside. A lot of people have a boxroom, where old furniture and belongings are stored and forgotten rather than thrown away. But in this case the description was literal.
The room was full of boxes.
I switched on the light. They were stacked one on top of the other, an assortment of plain cardboard and document boxes that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Everyone has a past. Good or bad, it's what helps make us what we are.
This was mine.
After Kara and Alice had been killed I'd tried to run away from my old life. I'd dropped friends and colleagues, severed ties with anything and everything that connected me to what I'd lost. I'd sold or given away most of my belongings, but there had been some things that I either hadn't known what to do with or couldn't bear to let go. I'd put them in storage and done my best to forget all about them, until I'd felt able to come back and pick up the threads of my old life. Now all that remained of it was in these boxes. Photographs, diaries, memories.
Work.
I took another drink and set the glass down on a shelf. The boxes weren't in any order, but everything personal was in the plain and mismatched ones, flung into them in a barely remembered daze. I still wasn't ready to look in those. My research and case files were in the document boxes, and these at least were labelled.
I was dusty and sweating by the time I located the one I wanted. Carrying it into the living room, I set it on the low coffee table and opened it. The dry smell of old paper wafted out. The files were in alphabetical order, so it wasn't difficult to find the one containing my notes from the Monk case. There were several bulging cardboard folders, bound together with a thick rubber band. The band had perished with age, and disintegrated when I pulled them out. The folders themselves stirred echoes of memory: they were distinctive, blue and marbled, and I could remember I'd bought them in bulk to save money.
Shutting out that thought I laid them down and opened the first one. A bundle of old floppy discs slid out, meticulously labelled but useless on modern computers. Setting aside the outdated squares of plastic, I pulled out the rest of the folder's contents. There was a transparent folder containing the photographs of the grave inside the forensic tent. I flicked through them, the peat-caked remains caught starkly in the camera's flash. Each image brought a pulse of memory, but they could wait till later.
I turned to the case notes themselves. Most were printed hard copies, but mixed amongst them were pages I'd written in biro. While the script was obviously mine, it looked subtly different. Everything changes over time, including handwriting.
I wasn't even sure the person who'd written this still existed.
One of the sheets of paper was smeared with a dark smudge. It was only a few preliminary notes, hastily scribbled, and I'd started to put it to one side before I realized.
Kara mopping up the yoghurt Alice dropped on to the papers. 'Sorry, Daddy.'
I felt as though I'd been punched in the heart. Suddenly there was no air in the room. Dropping the smudged sheet on to the table I hurried out into the hallway The cold, rain-freshened air braced me when I opened the front door. I gulped it in, no longer caring who might be out there. Outside, the wet street glistened in the streetlights. The night held that fresh, post-storm silence, heightened by the drip and run of water in the gutters and the distant swish of traffic. Gradually, some measure of calm returned. The emotional jack-in-the-box was back in the compartment I'd made for it, where it would lie coiled and waiting.
Until next time.
Closing the front door, I went back into the living room. The document box and papers lay on the table where I'd left them. I picked up the page with the dark smudge and carefully tucked it away in the folder.
Then, taking a long drink of bourbon, I sat down and started to read.
Chapter 12
I guessed it wouldn't be good news when my doorbell rang next morning. It had been after three before I'd finally gone to bed, having pored over my old notes on the Monk investigation until my eyes swam. I'd felt sure I must have overlooked something, that there was some vital piece of information hidden among the dry pages. But they'd revealed nothing I hadn't known already. Tina Williams' injuries were horrific but hardly unique. I'd encountered worse since then, and even worked on a still unsolved serial-killer investigation in Scotland that bore chilling similarities. It was depressing to realize that there were others like Monk out there, still waiting to be caught.
In the end all I had to show for my efforts was another tension headache and a feeling that eight years was both a lifetime and no time at all.
I'd phoned the hospital first thing to see how Sophie was, only to be told they couldn't release any information. I'd left my number anyway, then debated what to do next. Though not for long. Whatever answers there might be, I wasn't going to find them in London. I called the university to tell them I'd be taking a few days off. I was owed holiday and Erica, the department secretary, had been telling me for weeks I needed a break.
Although this probably wasn't what she had in mind.
I didn't know how long I'd be away, so I packed enough to see me through. I'd almost finished when the chime of the doorbell echoed through the flat. I paused, tension knotting my stomach.
I knew who it would be.
Terry looked as though he'd hardly slept. Which perhaps he hadn't, given how long it would have taken him to drive here. His face was pouched and sallow, his jaw blued with stubble, and not even the mint of his chewing gum could hide the sour smell of alcohol on his breath.
'Getting to be a habit, isn't it?' he said.
I reluctantly stood back to let him in. 'Any news about Sophie?'
'Nope. No change.'
'So why are you here? It's a long way from Dartmoor.'
'Don't flatter yourself. I didn't come all this way just to see you. I've got other people I need to talk to while I'm here.'
He went into the sitting room without being asked. My notes from the Monk investigation were still on the coffee table, waiting for me to pack them away. Terry went over and picked up the top sheet.
'Been doing some homework?'
'Just going over a few notes.' I took it off him, put it in the folder and closed it. 'So what can I do for you?'
'No coffee this time?'
'I'm going out.'
He glanced at the bag. 'So I see. Anywhere nice?'
'Just tell me what you want, Terry.'
'I want you to tell me what happened yesterday, for a start.'
I'd been through this with the police numerous times the night before, but I knew there was no point in arguing. I went through it again now, from Sophie's phone call to how I'd found her unconscious on the bathroom floor. When I'd finished, Terry continued to stare at me without speaking. It was an old policeman's trick, but