Hobbes stepped forward. ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’ The two workers left the room.

The shape was wrapped in what looked like tent material, perhaps a ground sheet. It would have offered some protection over the decades. Hobbes bent down, but Latimer said, ‘Don’t open it, Guv. Let’s get Scene of Crime in here.’

He nodded reluctantly.

And so it began: a snip at a piece of string here and there, only enough to allow access. A pulling apart of several layers of canvas, until a larger opening had been made. Fragments of a finer cloth lay on the floorboards, having escaped the makeshift shroud. Hobbes picked one up. It was delicate, fragile, the threads loose, almost decayed. But he saw a hint of blue, and an edge of yellow. Which would make this dress number twenty-eight. Yes, they were close now. The forensics officers kept at their work. It took longer than anticipated – it always did. But Hobbes stayed where he was. He never closed his eyes; he fought back hunger.

‘Come on, come on.’

His words had little effect. The officers worked on at the same pace. And then at last something was drawn free from the package. Hobbes smiled – he couldn’t help it.

It was a pair of scissors, old, discoloured along the blades.

A weapon.

One of the officers exclaimed. He called for silence.

Hobbes held his breath.

A second object had been exposed, within the layers of canvas.

A human skull. Some areas of brown wrinkled skin still clung to the bone, mummified from being in the wall cavity for so long.

Hobbes turned to Latimer, then to Fairfax. ‘Well, then. Here we are.’

Latimer nodded. ‘Adeline Graves.’

The three detectives started to chat about the case, but were soon disturbed by a noise from downstairs.

‘Who the hell’s that?’ Hobbes said. ‘Keep them away!’

It was too late. Rosamund Graves was already on the landing, her son David close behind. She looked distraught, and she screamed when she saw the body lying on the floor, still in its wrappings.

‘My baby! Oh, my poor baby! My baby!’

A female police constable was holding her back, or trying to. Rosamund struggled and almost pulled free. Her voice rose to a howl, calling for her long-lost child, her daughter.

Other Pathways

That night Detective Inspector Hobbes sat alone in his living room. The television was on, but he hadn’t heard a word that was being said, not for a while now. The pictures moved on the screen in a blur of black-and-white: a movie of some kind, he’d forgotten the title. A hardback novel lay open on the arm of his chair; he had managed only a paragraph before his mind wandered off. A half-eaten sandwich on a plate. He’d already thrown up twice, clearing his system. Or trying to.

Every contact leaves a trace.

It always came back to that, to Dr Edmond Locard’s Principle of Exchange. What was left at the scene of the crime, and what was taken away. But not in terms of physical items, no: he wasn’t thinking of dust and fingerprints and shreds of skin, but of the pain left behind, and the love taken. Christ, the way life goes, the way it is.