From his breathing it sounds like he’s walking. I like the thought of him striding through the streets of London with perhaps a takeaway coffee, his notebook tucked away in his jacket, on his way to a job. My big, handsome dad. ‘Well, actually, I did find something,’ he says.
I stand up straighter. ‘Oh, yes?’
‘In Archives I found a file on her.’
I gasp. ‘Really? What was in the file? Was it the same Sheila?’
‘I imagine so. I’m up to my eyes finishing off a big story, so I only flicked through it. It didn’t look like much, I’m afraid. I’m surprised it hasn’t been shredded. A lot of stuff in Archives has just been forgotten about. But it might be useful. I can take some photos of it and ping them over to you?’
‘That would be great.’
‘I’ve got to go. I’m at a job, but I’ll email you later.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
I end the call intrigued to see the file.
I need to clear my head before I start work so I decide to take Snowy for a walk. He circles my legs eagerly while I retrieve his lead and clip it to his collar. Before leaving the house I peer through the small section of glass in the front door to make sure there are no journalists outside. When I see the coast is clear I open the door and step onto the driveway. Pulling my jacket on, I head for the narrow lane a few houses down that leads to the woods behind the Skelton Place properties. Mum thinks the woods are creepy and oppressive, but to me they’re beautiful and tranquil. I love the woody aroma of the trees, the damp earth, the bluebells that provide a violet carpet at this time of year, and how the sun sparkles through the leaves. I feel I can properly breathe out here, no pollution, just nature.
I trudge deeper into the woods where the trees are so dense it’s hard for any sunlight to get through and I shiver slightly in my thin jacket. Snowy pulls on his lead as we pick our way over snaking pathways and gnarled tree roots sticking out of the ground, like a network of pipes.
I’m so engrossed in my own thoughts that I don’t hear anyone behind me at first.
And then a twig snaps.
It’s so loud it makes me jump and I whip my head around. A man is standing a few feet away. I recognize him as the one outside the house the other day, the one I’m sure followed me to Gran’s care home last week.
Heat rises to my face and my mouth goes dry. Snowy stops sniffing the tree trunk to stand next to me, his ears pricked forward.
The man has on a waxed jacket and thick boots. He looks like he should be on some posh estate with a hunting rifle in his hand. ‘Hi,’ he says, smiling.
I nod to him and continue walking.
‘Saffron, isn’t it?’
I stop. Who is he? Is he a journalist? I turn to him, trying to keep my voice even. ‘Look, if you’re a reporter I know nothing more about the bodies that were found in my garden. I’m as clueless about all this as you are. It happened way before my time.’
He holds up his hand. ‘I’m not press.’
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what else to say. I feel the first prickle of unease. The woods are deserted as far as I can tell and I’m sickeningly aware that I’m alone with this strange man.
‘Actually,’ he says, ‘the name’s Davies. I’m a private detective.’
‘A – a private detective?’ Why would a private detective be following me into the woods? Why didn’t he just knock at my door?
‘I wasn’t following you,’ he says, with a little chuckle as though he’s read my mind. ‘I thought it might be a bit too early to come calling so I decided a walk in the woods was in order. They’re so beautiful.’