‘Xander, listen to me.’ Blake leans over and stares at me, somehow managing to slow the thudding in my chest. ‘We weren’t aware of a body when you came to report this to us.’ She pauses. ‘Xander … the person you described to us? The one who you said was killed in front of you seven days ago?’

I nod, desperate for her to continue.

‘That person has been dead for thirty years.’

30

Tuesday

My head spins.

Thirty years.

The words land and keep landing around me in deep thuds. My palms begin to itch. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘There were two murders? In the same place?’

‘No, Xander – Mr Shute. Only one,’ Blake says flatly.

I’m lost. ‘What do you want from me?’ I have to pull my voice down from the ceiling, where it has risen.

Blake shuffles some pages in a file and then picks out a glossy image. ‘Do you recognise the person in this photograph?’ she says, sliding it over to me.

I stare at it. It is an enlarged picture of a woman with dark curls. I can make out the side of her face and the top half of her body. I look harder and as I do my breath begins to come in snatches. It’s her. It’s the woman from that night. The room comes then into my mind, cascading into place inch by inch. She’s lying down. Her face is turned, covered by hair spilled across her face.

‘When was this taken?’ I say, breathing hard.

She takes another photograph out and then another. They’re pictures of the room. Just as I remember it. The walls. That silk carpet. The chesterfields. The one I lay behind is there clear as day, in one photograph. The picture catches the light just as it was. It’s that room. Just as it was.

‘When were these taken?’ I am shouting now.

My heart drums, quickening with my breath.

‘December 1989,’ Blake says.

Everything stops.

Again, I look at the pictures. They do have the quality of pictures from the eighties: the colours are washed-out in places and over-bright in others. I can feel my brain filling with a rush of blood. I don’t know what has happened.

‘I …’ I shake my head at the table, confused, unable to piece the fragments of time together. ‘What? How?’

‘I began to dig into this case, Xander, after you came back. You seemed so certain. My superior officer recognised the address. He worked on the original case.’

‘Original case?’

Each new statement confounds me further. I am on the precipice of an abyss.

‘It’s kind of a cold case, Mr Shute,’ Conway says. ‘It was put down as an accidental death in 1989. Is this the woman you saw being murdered?’

I look again at the picture. It is unmistakeably her. I nod.

‘For the tape please,’ he says.

‘Yes, it’s her,’ I say, swallowing hard.