‘Well, they would’ve had a crowd in last night, wouldn’t they?’

‘That’s true.’

‘And probably the fella would’ve got her drinks. She’d not have gone up to the bar herself.’

‘You’re right, I know, but still. First, Hollis does a midnight flit and now she’s absent without leave. We can’t ignore it.’

‘But you said that she could go. You said she didn’t even need to ask.’ He couldn’t tell who he was trying to protect, his sister or himself, though he was drained by the resistance.

‘Frankly, Charlie, I don’t know what’s best. I really don’t.’

Florence cut in then: ‘I think we ought to check her room and see she hasn’t taken anything. Not stolen,’ she took care to say, ‘I meant, she might’ve packed a change of clothes … But I don’t want to rummage through her things.’

The silence that came after this was freighted. ‘OK. I don’t mind. I’ll do it.’

‘Would you, Charlie?’

‘Yeah, it wouldn’t be the first time.’ This sounded much more damning than he’d hoped for and it brought a faint reaction out of Florence. ‘What should I do first? The crumble or the screw’s inspection?’

She threw a tea towel at him. ‘Oi. You know that’s not what I’m suggesting.’

‘He was joking,’ Mr Mayhood said. ‘Right, Charlie?’

He untied his apron. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I don’t care. I might be worried over nothing, but I’m worried. I can’t help it.’

‘Fine. I’ll go up now and have a look,’ he told her. ‘But when she sees I’ve touched her stuff, I’m blaming it on you.’

‘I’ll live with that.’

‘Just don’t phone Kimball. Please. Not yet.’

‘We promise we’ll hold on,’ said Mr Mayhood, setting down the document at last. ‘And we appreciate your help with this.’

His sister’s room was as she must’ve left it: in its customary state between abandonment and order. A wardrobe door was open and she’d hung a bath towel over it. Her bed was made with borstal corners, but she’d flung a pair of nylons on the counterpane and they were hanging from it, beige and ropey. There was still a flowered scent about the air: the fancy perfume she’d been loaned by Florence, with its bottle like two doves entwined, was resting on her desk. Her coat was gone, but that was hardly unexpected. Including her work boots, she owned two pairs of shoes and only one was missing. Tucked behind the curtains, on the windowsill, there was a ratty hardback called The Border Legion that she must’ve dropped into the bath and left to dry. Her drawers were stocked with clothes she hadn’t ironed yet, or else had worn and put back in. Everything seemed right and in its place, as far as he could tell.

Except her suitcase wasn’t there.

She’d kept it resting on her wardrobe since the day they’d been assigned their rooms. It was the same make, size and colour as his own – good leather, issued to them on their discharge. That she’d moved it didn’t trouble him too much, unless it was a sign she’d been preparing to pack up her things and leave. He checked the obvious spots. Behind the ottoman, beside her desk, below the bedstead – there it was. He dragged it out and laid it on the counterpane to open. There was just a cardigan inside, which looked too small for her. But as he lowered down the lid, he felt something dislodge and shift – a lump there, in the lining. He worked his fingers on the baggy fabric to make out the shape a little better. It was long and on the narrow side.