The room was a shrine. Or a chamber of madness.

There were no curtains at the window and the clear moonlight shone through on to the floor. The dress lay in its glow. The sleeves had been stretched out on each side, and both of them were fixed to the floor: drawing pins had been pushed through the cuffs, into the floorboards. Two further pins had been driven through the hem of the dress, on the right and left sides, causing the lower half of the dress to flare out.

It was easy to imagine a woman lying there.

Every Contact

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the woman lying on the floor, her body wrapped in the blue and yellow dress, torn, the cloth extended over her head to cover her face.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the house of Bridlemere empty of all life, except that which can never be seen clearly, can never be tested for, or found by any forensic analysis.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw Adeline rising from the floor of the cellar, her skin clothed in ash and dust, her lips sealed with clay. Her flesh was torn where the dress was torn, and the blood had once flowed, but was now dry, dry as the bone that lay exposed within.

With half-closed eyes, he walked the corridors and hallways of the house, from room to room, seeing one after another, each dress, each pair of shoes, each scarf, and he saw the dresses moving of their own accord, empty, empty of all warmth and flesh, the cloth itself animated, the blue and the yellow flowers and the blood on the petals.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the bodies of all the victims he had ever witnessed in his career, the hopeless ones, the lost, those still clinging to life, helplessly; the ones he had helped and the ones he had failed, the closed cases and the ones still open, all the way back to his mother, whom he had found dead on the floor of their kitchen when he was sixteen years old.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the metal jewellery box being opened and the various objects tumbling out, five in number, each one different, each one a mystery.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw the woman in the dress, as he had seen her at the funeral, breathing, young, strong and vital, her face always hidden in shadow, no matter where she turned, and no matter how close he came to her.

Through half-closed eyes, Hobbes saw his own son’s face disfigured, the skin as blue as his fingertips.

Through half-closed eyes, he saw his own bedroom as he woke in the gloom, stilled and silent, the walls, the ceiling, the dawn light struggling through the curtains, the facts of the case heavy on him, a weight, holding him down in the sheets.

Through half-closed eyes …

Hobbes got up. There would be no sleep now, his mind was working.

A shower in the tiny cubicle, as cold as he could bear it.