Robin stared at the faces of the Standedge Five, his eyes sliding across the picture, and then he noticed that someone else was in the picture. If the caption hadn’t pointed him out, Robin may have missed him. Behind Edmund Sunderland, a few steps away, standing next to the canal and looking over it and not into the camera, was another young man. He was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, in comparison to the others’ smarter shirts and trousers and dresses, and he had his hands in his pockets. He wasn’t smiling—he had an entirely blank expression, as though he were thinking absolutely nothing. He obviously wasn’t aware of the picture being taken. The caption said that this was Matthew McConnell.

Robin peered at him, getting closer to the picture, turning it, as though that would help him to better see past Edmund Sunderland. Something in one of the articles nagged at him, and he looked at the expanding mess of printed articles scattered across the table. A few minutes and he found what he was looking for. The Red Door article that said Matthew may have had something against the rest of the group. This picture seemed to illustrate that, and what was more, maybe the rest of the group had something against him. Matthew hadn’t mentioned anything to indicate that. But seeing as he was in prison charged with their murders, Robin guessed it wouldn’t be the first thing he’d talk about.

Robin scratched his chin, feeling the stubble that had appeared since the morning. The natural light in the kitchen was dying, and he got up to turn on the overhead light. From his new vantage point, he looked down at the table. It was a mess. And it didn’t really amount to anything.

All Robin knew was that it was real. Matthew was telling the truth about Standedge. His friends were gone. And he was left. He’d left out the dog, but that hardly seemed important. His friends vanished—they were gone. They went into the tunnel and they didn’t come out.

It was definitely a mystery—a rather tantalizing one. One of the articles had detailed how long the journey took—two hours and twelve minutes. Two hours and twelve minutes of untracked, unseen and unknowable events. And the only lifeline into that world, that chunk of missing time, was Matthew McConnell, unless the dog started talking anytime soon.

Of course the police would suspect Matthew. Of course they would arrest him. Because, with all the facts Robin had, there was no possibility other than Matthew killing his friends. The puzzle for the police would be where the bodies were, and they would lean on Matthew until he told all the truths he had to give.