But which story?

There was no easy answer.

Hobbes took one last look around the cellar. The household’s subconscious. He laughed at this notion as he walked back upstairs. And then he stopped. He stood where he was, halfway up the stairs, and he waited as the cellar creaked around him, the bare bulb above his head already fizzing: this room wanted only to return to darkness, to silence.

Something nudged at him, a stray thought.

He really didn’t like leaving things half done. Check, and check again. Just in case. Because he’d missed too many things when he was a rookie.

Hobbes went back down the stairs. He crossed the floor and, without hesitating, set to work on the pile of unwanted household goods, moving them aside one by one. It took him fifteen minutes. And now he stood and stared at the floor, at the patch of exposed cement, which had so obviously been disturbed some time before, perhaps years before, dug up and replaced in a roughshod fashion with cleaner cement, as best as could be done at the time.

Placed on the patch of lighter concrete was another of the dresses – number fifteen. It was torn and bloodied, as the others were, complete with accompanying shoes and scarf. No stockings this time. Hobbes bent down. A phrase in black lettering – previously hidden by the pile of rubbish – had been scrawled on the wall.

R.I.P.

ADELINE

Hobbes cursed. He should’ve been more careful, worked more slowly. Called Latimer back to take photographs. Now the scene was compromised. Yes, he was already thinking of it in such terms, a crime scene. His mind settled on one thought only. He stood up again, looked down at the dress and at the exposed patch of floor. And he knew: someone was buried under there.

He was certain of it.

Marks on the Skin

He stayed in the car for a few minutes just to steady his breath and to calm himself. He turned the rear-view to examine his face: the scar seemed darker today, more prominent, but he had to think that was just his nerves adding their own portion of blood. Well, there it was. His nose was crooked. Redness in the whites of his eyes. And the bloody recede didn’t help! His wife hadn’t seen him since he’d been attacked a few months ago: one brief phone call had sufficed, a quick asking of how he was, and if he needed anything. It wasn’t really an offer, he could tell that from her voice. And now … and now Glenda wanted to see him again. He felt jittery, like he was going into the fray on a Saturday night after chucking-out time.

Leeside Road, Crouch End. Two up, two down, the last years of a mortgage ticking away. They’d always planned on moving up when a second kid came along, but that never happened. Just walking up to the path and pressing the bell set the memories going. He ran a hand through his hair, to pat it into place. And he suddenly realized he was holding his stomach in. Christ. What am I doing here?