Cyrus walks him out, while I go to the back garden and throw a ball to Poppy, bouncing it off the wall. Later, I carry my schoolbooks upstairs and do an hour of homework, not bothering to show Cyrus my maths paper. It doesn’t seem to matter any more.
39
Cyrus
The police property stores warehouse looks like something built during the Second World War with red-brick chimneys and iron downpipes that are rusting in patches where the paint has bubbled and peeled away. The cavernous interior has been broken up by rows of shelves reaching to the rafters where cobwebs glow silver beneath the skylights.
The property officer is a sergeant who introduces himself as Theo. He has ginger hair and a tattoo of a tiger on his right forearm where his shirt is rolled to his elbow. We’re both wearing hi-vis vests and hard hats and I’ve had to sign a safety disclaimer in case a box falls on my head.
I get the impression that Theo doesn’t get many visitors as he eagerly escorts me down a long aisle, triggering lights as we pass, telling me how he helped design the system.
‘How long have you worked here?’ I ask.
‘Sixteen years. Other police forces are following us – they come here to learn.’
This section of the warehouse has cages of meshed steel that are chained and padlocked.
‘Everything must be labelled and packaged properly,’ he explains. ‘Banknotes in a money envelope. Sharp instruments in knife tubes. Hypodermic needles in a sharps’ container. Drugs in a self-seal drug bag. Clothing, bedding and footwear are kept in paper sacks, unless they’re stained with body fluids, which means they’re marked with health hazard tape.’
We turn a corner and I feel as though I’m getting lost in a maze.
‘We have regular audit checks to make sure nothing important has gone missing – the dangerous and valuable stuff, firearms or drugs.’ He turns to talk over his shoulder. ‘We once had a diamond in here worth over half a million pounds. Belonged to a duchess who had it nicked from her stately home. Turned out to be her daughter. Families, eh?’
Theo doesn’t wait for me to answer. We have reached his office, which is tucked in a corner of the warehouse and smells of sugared biscuits and coffee grounds. On a large table beneath the window there is a miniature landscape of papier-m?ché hills and valleys, upon which there are legions of hand-painted lead soldiers doing battle. There are knights, archers, axemen, pikemen, vassals, retainers, swordsmen, mercenaries and crossbowmen.
‘I collect them,’ says Theo. ‘I don’t have enough room at home, and nobody bothers me here.’
I lean over the table. ‘What battle?’
‘Hastings.’
‘Where’s King Harold?’
He points to a figure who is standing defiantly, brandishing a shield and an axe, surrounded by his enemies.
‘He’s a goner,’ I say.
‘You can’t change history.’
Theo goes to his computer and types in a search, using the information I’ve given him.
‘OK, we have the statements, CPS briefing papers, photographs and – yes – the exhibits,’ he says, pulling up the reference numbers. ‘One item was returned to the victim – a piece of jewellery.’ He pauses to read on. ‘An application was made to dispose of the rest two years ago. Nothing was done.’
‘Who made the application?’
‘Doesn’t say. The police most likely.’
Theo prints out the reference sheet and leads me back into the warehouse.
‘We have an eponymous law in this place, you know, like Murphy’s Law?’
‘Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.’
‘Exactly. We have Theodore’s Law. The box you want will be on the highest shelf, in the hardest place to reach.’
He has been counting down the aisles, before pulling a ladder into place. He climbs. I watch from below. Theo has clearly done this before. When he reaches the highest shelf he asks me to push the ladder a few feet to the right. It moves on wheels. He reaches for a box and checks the label.
‘This is it.’
Lifting the sealed box onto a platform next to his feet, he lowers it with a pulley, before climbing down to join me. He slices it open with a retractable blade.
‘What exactly are you looking for?’
‘A length of soft hemp rope.’
He consults the printed page. ‘Exhibit eleven.’
One by one, he takes items from the box, setting them out on an empty lower shelf. A pillowcase. Bedding. The remnants of a nursing uniform, trousers and a blouse that were cut from Lilah Hooper’s body.
‘That’s odd,’ he says, gazing into the empty box. ‘It’s not here.’
‘Why would that be?’
‘No idea. It’s on the list. Exhibit eleven. It was tendered in court.’
‘Who else has access to the archives?’
‘Police. Lawyers. People like yourself.’
‘When was it last opened?’
I follow Theo back to his office, where he sits at his computer screen, calling up the visitor logs.
‘You’re the first person to request these files since they arrived here.’
‘Maybe somebody entered the wrong details,’ I say.
Theo looks aggrieved. It’s as though I’ve found a flaw in his perfect battle plan – a missing soldier in the massed ranks of his infantry and history might have to be rewritten.
Suddenly, he has an idea and rolls his chair across the floor to a different computer.
‘Gotcha!’ he says, triumphantly. ‘My colleague Derek is notoriously slow at updating the visitors’ log. He made a note but didn’t complete the application form.’
I lean closer. ‘You’re telling me someone took the rope.’
‘It happened yesterday. Another request. They viewed the material but there’s no record of them removing any item.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Hold on. It was someone from the East Midlands Forensic Services.’
‘Craig Dyson?’
‘No. Stephen Voigt.’
40
Evie
I’m ten minutes late for work and Brando treats it like a hanging offence, threatening to dock my pay if it happens again. The others seem pleased to see me. Eric is unpacking glasses from the dishwasher. I reach past him and take a packet of peanuts from the shelf and tell him to put it on my tab.
‘You don’t have a tab.’
I blow him a kiss. ‘Start one.’
‘Is that the only outfit you own?’ asks Brando. I’m wearing the same black jumpsuit that Cyrus bought me.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘You wear it every night.’
‘Maybe it’s a different one.’
‘Is it?’
‘You shouldn’t make demands on female staff that don’t apply to the men. Look at what Eric is wearing.’
The bartender is dressed in stone-washed jeans and a Rolling Stones T-shirt.
‘That’s different,’ says Brando.
‘Why?’
He tries to think of an answer but isn’t quick enough or can’t be bothered to argue. Instead, he tells me to check the loo rolls and soap dispensers. I pick up supplies from the kitchen, stealing a taste of the tapas meatballs that are simmering on the stove. The chef swears at me. He swears at everyone. He says I remind him of his daughter, who lives in Scotland, but she doesn’t visit him very often because her boyfriend is terrified of him. I don’t blame him.