Hobbes pressed at the clasp that kept the box closed. The lid clicked open. He switched on a desk lamp and angled it just so, directly over the contents. With utmost care, with his fingertips, he lifted each item from the box, placing it on his desk. Now they lay in a line for his scrutiny.

OK. Good. Now then, let’s see, let’s work this.

Five items altogether.

Five objects, given a power and an intensity beyond their everyday scope simply by context. By mystery. For some reason these items had been gathered together in a box, and then placed, along with a dress and a pair of shoes and a scarf, oh, yes, and a dead bird. The whole collection wrapped in a curtain and buried beneath the floor of the cellar, out of harm’s way, out of sight. But why? Why?

Hobbes thought of the old Anglo-Saxon burial ritual. Grave goods. That was the phrase. Items placed with the body, to accompany the dead person on their journey.

He leaned forward slightly, the better to examine the objects.

Item number one was a Player’s cigarette card, depicting the film star Greta Garbo.

Item two was a lipstick tube. Gold-coloured, mottled with black. Hobbes unscrewed it, revealing the dried-up remains inside. Crimson Sunset, something like that. Scarlet Temptation.

Item number three was an old coin from before decimals were introduced: a threepenny bit. Silver, smaller and lighter than the later brass edition. It was dated 1919.

Item four was a military medal, a coat of arms on one side and the phrase Distinguished Conduct in the Field on the other. It was attached to a very tatty blue-and-red-striped ribbon.

The final item was a lady’s brooch, silver inlaid with three rubies. There was a hollow where a fourth gemstone had once nested.

On whose lapel had this once been pinned?

Who had stared at Garbo’s face in wonderment?

Who had painted her lips, or had them painted for her?

Who had earned, but never spent a small coin?

Who had been honoured with that medal, for what bravery, in which campaign?

Why had these particular items been placed in the box and buried alongside the dress?

Hobbes frowned. Too many questions were clouding his mind.

Together these five items made up a life. But whose life?

1962

The smog had closed in on Saturday, and two days later it was still clinging on, as thick and as deadly as ever. Hobbes had been called out to a car crash on Wardour Street, one of the numerous slow-motion collisions that had taken place in the darkened streets. The chaos seemed overwhelming. What could he do? People were standing around at the kerb or moving away already, stumbling into each other. The young detective constable directed a team of three uniformed officers to help where they could. His own job was to comfort the driver of a blue sedan, a middle-aged man barely conscious, his eyelids fluttering. His body was twisted, crushed around the middle. It seemed hopeless. Maybe just to be there, that might be enough, standing close by until at last the welcome sound of a klaxon pierced the darkness of day.