Martin’s eyebrows rose. But years of servicing the seemingly bizarre demands of journalists had rendered him immune to any serious curiosity. “Nasty business, that was,” he said. “You always did ask for funny things. Everything from famous murder cases of the fifties to the life and career of Tallulah Bankhead, as I recall,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the cuttings store. He pressed a button, and the hydraulics shuddered into noisy life. A few moments later, he returned with a bulging folder. “That’s the stuff about the murder and the trial. You can get started on that while I find Alison’s stuff in the morgue.”

Martin began searching through one of the filing cabinet drawers while Lindsay took out her notebook and started reading the files of cuttings from the Clarion and other papers relating to Alison’s murder and to Jackie’s trial. It was full of sickening detail, and Lindsay noticed with distaste how the tabloids had gone to town on Jackie and Alison’s sex lives. It was the kind of thing that was routine procedure in cases like this. She’d done it herself on occasion. But it left a nasty taste in the mouth when the stories referred to people she knew. She was glad she’d taken the decision not to earn her living like that any more. She’d grown tired of having to justify to herself the things she did in the name of journalism.

Lindsay worked through the file, noting down various details that were new to her. But she found little to suggest any new avenues to explore.

“There’s Alison’s files. Do you want a coffee?” Martin asked as he deposited two thick A4 manila envelopes in front of Lindsay.

“I could murder a mug of canteen soup,” she replied, glad of the chance to be left alone with Alison’s cuttings. She knew exactly what she was looking for, and judging by what she’d read and been told, no one else had found it. Although Lindsay had discovered its existence years before, she believed it would still be there.

Martin left the library, and Lindsay immediately opened the two envelopes. She hastily flicked through the first bundle, which consisted entirely of yellowing clippings from the second half of Alison’s career at the Clarion. Impatiently, Lindsay pushed them aside and started to search the other bundle. These clippings were older, the paper more brittle, and there were a few photographs and photostat sheets of typewritten copy among them. But there was still no sign of what Lindsay was looking for. She went through the pile again, this time opening out the larger cuttings that had been folded up to fit the envelope.