She carried on into the library. As always, the sight filled her with awe. On one side of the room, banks of ceiling-high metal cases housed quantities of newspaper cuttings, filed and cross-referenced, stored in huge mechanically driven carousels that were supposed automatically to produce the relevant cardboard folder. But this was Disnaeland, and at least one machine was usually out of order at any given time. On the other side of the room was the morgue—ordinary filing cabinets, crammed full of cuttings no longer current because they referred to events of more than fifteen years ago, or their subjects were dead. Above the filing cabinets there were rows of reference books. In a small annexe, there was a photocopier, a collection of back numbers of the daily and Sunday papers, and several tables where reporters could work away from the hurly-burly of the newsroom.

At a table among the filing cabinets, Martin Cameron the night librarian was sitting in front of a pile of the day’s papers, carefully clipping items that were destined for the library’s extensive files. He was so engrossed he didn’t hear Lindsay enter, and looked up in surprise when she rang the bell for attention. As he recognized her, his pale face lit up in a welcoming grin and he struggled to his feet. “Lindsay Gordon!” he exclaimed. “What a nice surprise. Come on through.”

She lifted the flap in the counter and threaded her way through the filing cabinets to his side. She’d known Martin for years, and he’d always been her favorite among the bunch of oddballs who seemed to find their way behind the counter of newspaper libraries. They all had their foibles. Martin’s had been importuning night-shift journalists into chess games which he won with depressing regularity. “Hi, Martin,” Lindsay said. “Good to see you. How are you?”

He shrugged. “I can’t complain, well I could, but you don’t want to hear my problems. What brings you back to this den of vice?”

“I need some help, and I thought you might be able to oblige,” Lindsay said, perching on the edge of his desk.

“For you, Lindsay, anything!” Martin laughed. “I’d guessed it wasn’t just my company you were after.”

“Don’t be daft,” Lindsay said. “Seeing you is a bonus.”

Martin smiled. “You always were a smooth operator. So what can I do for you?”

“I’d like you to have a look at the files relating to Jackie Mitchell’s trial. And Alison Maxwell’s byline files,” Lindsay said.