I call Dad straight away. By the sound of the phones ringing in the background and the general hub of activity I can tell he’s still in the newsroom. I start to recount everything in fast, breathless sentences, until Dad interrupts me to say he’s just heard from a ‘source’。 Of course he has. ‘Your gran could have been away when it happened,’ he says. ‘Just because he died when she was living in the property doesn’t mean she necessarily knew about it. Not if she had a lodger.’
‘I know. Weirdly, though, an article in the file you sent over is written by the same man,’ I say, goose-bumps popping up along my arms when I think about it. ‘It sounds like Neil Lewisham worked for the Mirror back in the late 1970s.’
‘I thought the name sounded familiar,’ he says. ‘Although he would have worked here well before my time. I’ll see what I can find out. He might have been a freelancer. Is the article about Sheila?’
‘No. It looks like some kind of round-up thing. It doesn’t mention Sheila’s name. Oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Would you mind deciphering the shorthand in photo four for me?’
‘Yes, I saw that. Unfortunately it looks like Pitman. I can only do Teeline shorthand. But I’ll ask around. Some of the older guys here might know it.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ I feel a stab of remorse. ‘I’m sorry to ask you for this. You must be shattered. When do you finish?’ I wish he’d find himself a nice girlfriend. I worry that he works too much.
‘You never have to be sorry to ask me for anything,’ he says softly. ‘And I’ll be leaving soon. Oh, and Saff, if you get any more bother from any reporters just tell them Euan Cutler at the Mirror is your dad. That’ll shut them up!’
I end the call feeling better. I stand up and glance out of the window just in time to see the three remaining journalists walking off down the hill.
I call Mum’s mobile again but there’s no answer. It’s the third time I’ve rung since the detectives left. Anxiety gnaws at my insides. She always picks up when I call. What if something’s happened to her? What if she met up with an Alan Hartall and he’s not an old man at all but a psychopath? Mum is so gung-ho, she wouldn’t think of the dangers. She believes she’s invincible. Gran used to tell me stories of how Mum hitch-hiked back from town when she was a teenager and I know she was only telling me these things as a warning, to keep me safe, but she needn’t have bothered. I would never have been so irresponsible.
I leave a voicemail asking Mum to call me urgently, that I have news.
But by 8 p.m. she still hasn’t got in touch.
The sun is going down, the remaining rays glinting through the woods out at the back. The inside of the cottage looks dark and gloomy, but it’s too early to switch on the lights. Tom texts to say he’s on the 18.34 train so he should be back here within the next half an hour. I go to the kitchen, make a Red Bush tea, and lean against the ugly kitchen units, comforted that I have Snowy, who has lain across my bare feet. I’m beginning to feel uneasy here now. That’s the reality of it. Not just the bodies – although that’s bad enough – but the private detective earlier and his insistence that Gran has some kind of information that his client wants back. I’ve looked through Gran’s boxes again but there’s nothing that would be important enough for someone to hire a private investigator.
Gran. As he’s got nothing from me he might go to her. I slam down my mug so that liquid slops over the side onto the counter and retrieve my mobile from my pocket. I call the care home.
‘Elm Brook, Joy Robbins speaking.’
‘Joy, hi, it’s Saffy here, Rose Grey’s granddaughter.’
‘Oh hi, Saffy, how are …？’
‘Has anyone tried to contact you about Gran? A Mr Davies perhaps?’
‘Um … no, I don’t think so. Why?’