“How much would he charge?” Val asked. She couldn’t see Tony consenting to this, so she’d have to fund it herself.

“I think he would do it out of curiosity, but let me give you his number and you two can talk direct.”

* * *

A week later, with Peggy babysitting for Nicole, Val drove to Paddington and parked in a back alley before walking up some metal steps to a first-floor photographic studio. There was no bell, so she knocked on the door and waited. She knocked again, and heard footsteps coming toward her before a man with a sweep of chestnut hair and a shaggy beard appeared.

“Mrs. Doyle? I’m Alan. Come in.”

“Call me Val,” she said as he led her down a dim corridor, past a bicycle and a stack of cardboard boxes.

“This is my darkroom,” he said, indicating a door with a sign that read Keep Out If You Value Your Life. “Your prints are hanging up inside. Follow me.”

It took a few moments before her eyes grew accustomed to the light, which emanated from a reddish bulb. Bottles of chemicals sat on a shelf along one wall, and a row of prints hung on a string above a sink. The smell was acrid, making her eyes water and her nostrils sting. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue and Alan sympathized.

“It’s a mix of vinegar and ammonia. I’m used to it so I barely notice anymore until visitors react as if they’re being poisoned.”

Val dabbed at her eyes, keen to get out again as soon as possible. “You said on the phone that some of the pictures have come out?”

Alan nodded. “I could see there were images on your film as soon as I took it out of the camera, but I had to leave it in the developer longer than usual to get any clear results, so they’re a bit overexposed. There are eight of them. Here!” He indicated the first picture hanging on the line. “This was clearly a group shot. I’ve enlarged it to pull out all the detail I could.”