I know the papers were there a few weeks ago, when we went to Paris to celebrate the end of Emma’s chemo. I was right next to her in the study when she got her passport out. And I remember grinning at the state of her folder, because it was even more full than mine.
I’d have noticed those papers, if she’d got them out: this is not a big house. I’d have had to shift them to put down a cup of tea, or to stop Ruby covering them with paint or glitter glue or bogies: there’s something about their absence that feels a little odd.
I don’t know it yet, but this moment is the moment I start spying on Emma.
I go down into the dining room; a sea of paper. It’s all Emma’s granny’s; she died years ago but Emma still hasn’t sorted through her things. There’s only about four square feet of floor space available in here; the rest is stacked knee-high.
I climb from one clear patch of floor to another, looking around me. There is no pile of Emma-related papers. It’s mostly musical scores and violin studies and yellowed bank statements that should have been thrown out decades ago. Most of the paperwork is stuffed into shopping bags from the eighties – white Sainbury’s with orange lettering; Tesco with thick blue stripes. Everything is covered in a substantial layer of dust.
. . . Except for the old Marks & Spencer’s bag in the corner, which I see when I climb over to the furthest floor clearing. It’s also from the eighties, when their bags were bright green with St Michael in gold cursive. And, although most of the bag is as dusty as the rest, there are several shiny gaps where the dust has been disturbed by someone’s fingers. In the last few days, by the looks of things.
I pause. This mission is beginning to transcend its fact-finding scope.
But this bag.
It’s in the furthest corner of the room, half-under Emma’s grandmother’s old desk. It’s concealed from the view of anyone standing in the doorway by a brass fireguard; I can only see it now because I’ve climbed so far in.
To put something in this bag, in this corner, would be to deliberately hide it. Why would Emma want to hide something?
I reach over and pick it up.
The very first thing I see is her master’s certificate from Plymouth University. The next paper is the letter she got from Berkshire Police when she was caught doing 40 mph in a 30 limit in Slough last year. Briefly, I smile. This letter made her furious – I’m surprised she kept it, but equally, I know how hard she finds it to throw anything away. She really is her grandmother’s granddaughter in that regard; hoarders, the pair of them.
Next is the leaving card her crew and colleagues from the BBC series sent her after she was mysteriously sacked. We will miss you so much! I will never look at a breakfast buffet in the same way! Really hope we can work together again soon!
Next is Ruby’s passport, then two of Emma’s – one of them current, the other expired, with the corner clipped off by the Passport Office.
I open the expired one, smiling in anticipation of an old photo of her I might not previously have seen, only to find the name and photo page ripped out. I flick through but there are no stamps. I return to the missing page. It’s been done in an amateur way, with tears still visible, as if perhaps someone was in a hurry.
I check the photo page of the other passport: this one is definitely hers. EMMA MERRY BIGELOW.
I stare at the expired one. Is it Emma’s? If so, why would she rip it up?
Slowly, tentatively, unease begins to snake through my veins. A large part of me is still quite sure there’s a sensible explanation for this hidden bag of things, but I’m struggling to imagine what it would be.
I flick through a pile of Emma’s industry achievements – acceptance letters from academic journals, a prize, fellowship and chair appointments.
Next there’s a university section, from which I pull a piece of paper topped by the University of St Andrews crest. But this is a letter, not a degree certificate.