I don’t reply. Instead I click open my emails, suddenly filled with adrenalin.

As promised Dad has taken photos of the contents of Sheila Watts’s file. There’s not much: a few articles from various different regional newspapers in the Kent area about her drowning, and a few sheets of what looks like paper torn from a lined notepad. I can’t make out the writing; it’s all dots and symbols. I recognize it as shorthand. I’ve seen Dad use it when taking phone messages. I scroll down. The last photograph is of a press clipping from a national newspaper – the same one Dad works for. The piece was written in 1978 and isn’t about Sheila but a crime that dated back to the early 1950s. I scan it, not understanding the relevance. Maybe it was put into Sheila’s file by mistake. I sit back in my chair, disappointed. There’s nothing new here. Unless there’s something in the shorthand notes. I’m just about to close the email when something about the last article catches my eye. The by-line. I peer closer. The piece was written by a Neil Lewisham.

I call Dad straight away. By the sound of the phones ringing in the background and the general hub of activity I can tell he’s still in the newsroom. I start to recount everything in fast, breathless sentences, until Dad interrupts me to say he’s just heard from a ‘source’. Of course he has. ‘Your gran could have been away when it happened,’ he says. ‘Just because he died when she was living in the property doesn’t mean she necessarily knew about it. Not if she had a lodger.’

‘I know. Weirdly, though, an article in the file you sent over is written by the same man,’ I say, goose bumps popping up along my arms when I think about it. ‘It sounds like Neil Lewisham worked for the Mirror back in the late 1970s.’

‘I thought the name sounded familiar,’ he says. ‘Although he would have worked here well before my time. I’ll see what I can find out. He might have been a freelancer. Is the article about Sheila?’

‘No. It looks like some kind of round-up thing. It doesn’t mention Sheila’s name. Oh,’ I say, suddenly remembering. ‘Would you mind deciphering the shorthand in photo four for me?’

‘Yes, I saw that. Unfortunately it looks like Pitman. I can only do Teeline shorthand. But I’ll ask around. Some of the older guys here might know it.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’ I feel a stab of remorse. ‘I’m sorry to ask you for this. You must be shattered. When do you finish?’ I wish he’d find himself a nice girlfriend. I worry that he works too much.