He flicks through the contents quickly. ‘Tedious.’ He tosses it onto the bed. ‘Irrelevant, as you said.’

My eyes follow it, though I don’t move even a millimetre. Is he going to ask for the photograph too? Perhaps I’d slipped it into my bag before he arrived, so he didn’t see.

‘You were right about how Jane Miller died, by the way. Smothering, you told Maxine and Tess. Well done.’

Well done?

He smiles. ‘There was bruising on her chest and upper extremities. Looks as though he crouched on her upper body, with his knees digging in and his feet splayed out over her arms, holding them against the sides of her torso so she couldn’t fight him off while he pressed a pillow against her face. Afterwards, he arranged her in that pose.’

As if he didn’t have the courage to look at her while he did it. There is something un-Zac-like about that. He prefers to watch, so he can study the effects of what he does to you, and how you respond. He likes to see your face move between pain and pleasure and fear. I swallow hard. ‘Was she raped?’

‘Sexual intercourse took place before she died. I’m told there was no vaginal bruising or bleeding, but you can’t infer force from the presence of those signs, or infer that there wasn’t force from a lack of them.’

Is Martin glad Jane is dead? And that she died so horribly? This supposed traitor they have chased for years? If he is sorry, it is probably because he didn’t manage to get his hands on her first.

He goes on. ‘There’s more in the forensic pathologist’s report, but that’s the gist of it – Maxine can let you have a look. And I gather our friend George has been briefing you.’

‘When can I see the report?’ I say.

‘Maxine will talk to you. Good to run into you, Holly. I’m sure we’ll meet again.’ And he walks out of the room.

I grab the document wallet, slide it into my bag for the second time, and hurry down the stairs. Zac is gone. Martin is talking quietly to the same tall detective with dark hair and dark-rimmed glasses who stood outside the cordon of the house where Jane died. He looks exactly as he did then. The prince of death in a dark suit. Martin puts a light hand on the man’s arm, to stop him from questioning me. I head straight through the open front door. When I crunch across the gravel drive, I see that Horton Hatches the Egg is gone.

Then
The Memory Box

One year and eleven months earlier

Cornwall, Late May 2017