The apartment was typical in almost every way. There was only one small separate bedroom and consequently the living room had been crudely partitioned to create an additional sleeping area. This makeshift division was common in many households, a line hung from wall to wall with a sheet draped for privacy shielding two narrow single beds from the kitchen area. Leo moved to the borderline between the communal space and the designated sleeping area. Bags had been packed, one beside each bed, ready to go. He tested their weight. They were heavy, one notably more than the other. Over many years, having searched hundreds of apartments, he’d developed an acute sense for anything out of place. A person’s home revealed secrets in the same way that a suspect revealed their guilt, through the smallest details. In apartments, clues could be the amount of dust on a surface, tiny scratch marks on the floorboards or a single sooty fingerprint on a desk. Leo’s eyes were drawn to one of the beds. With the intense summer heat there were no blankets, just a thin sheet, enabling an easy view of the mattress. It displayed a small bump, like a headless pimple, almost imperceptible, hardly worthy of attention except to someone trained by the secret police.

Guided by these instincts, Leo crossed into the sleeping area and squeezed his hand under the mattress. His fingers touched the edge of a book. He pulled it free. It was a notebook with a hard cover. There was nothing written on it, no title or image. It was not one of the cheap flimsy books used by schoolchildren. The paper was expensive. The spine was stitched. He turned it over, checking to see how many of the pages were creased. Half the journal had been filled with writing, perhaps two hundred pages’ worth. He tipped it upside down, shaking the contents. Nothing fell out. With the preliminary examination over, he flicked to the first page. The handwriting was neat, small, precise, written in pencil, the tip of which had been kept pinpoint sharp. There were several faint smudges where words had been rubbed out and written over. Time and care had been spent on it. He’d examined many diaries in his lifetime. Often entries were written in haste, scrawled, words flung down without much thought. Careful redrafting was a promising indication that the diary contained valuable admissions.

The first entry was dated a year ago and Leo wondered if that marked the beginning of this volume, or the beginning of the author’s first diary. His question was answered by the opening sentence:

For the first time in my life I feel the need to keep a record of my thoughts.

Leo shut the book with a snap. He was no longer an agent: he no longer firstd for the secret police. This was not the apartment of a suspect – it was his home. And this diary belonged to his daughter.