The Cold Light of Mourning - By Elizabeth J. Duncan Page 0,37

her parents will be leaving today, as planned, and as for her room, we are going to go through it again this morning, and then we’ll release it to you, and the contents to her parents.”

Burton, listening carefully, nodded.

“This jewellery now, is a bit different,” Davies continued. “Why don’t we hold it for you? We’ll take it off your hands and give you a receipt for it, and that way, if there’s any disagreement over it later, that won’t be your problem.”

Burton nodded gratefully.

“Of course, what we hope will happen is she’ll turn up within a day or two in London or somewhere, and then we’ll make sure everything is returned to her.”

With a relieved smile, Burton turned away again to remove the boxes from the safe once more.

“All right then?” said Davies. “Very good. Thank you so much for all your help. If you would put those boxes in a bag—any old bag will do—the sergeant here will give you a receipt for them and we’ll pick them up on our way out. When we’re finished upstairs, we’ll take the tape down, and let you know on the way out that we’ve finished with the room.

“Oh, and here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else, no matter how trivial or unimportant it might seem to you.”

Davies and Morgan made their way upstairs to Meg Wynne’s room, checked that the tape across the door had not been disturbed, and then peeled it away.

Everything was as they had left it the evening before, but now, in the bright sunlight of a beautiful June morning, the room felt stale, closed in, and lifeless.

“Let’s see what we can find,” Davies said. “Handbag, credit cards, money, address book, diary, passport, receipts, anything and everything like that. I’ll start over here, including the closet,” he said, pointing toward the window side of the room. “You do over there, the dresser, and bathroom.”

They worked their way around the room for about twenty minutes without speaking. There was the occasional sound of a drawer opening and closing, clothes hangers being pushed along the rail, bedclothes being turned over, and one or two cracks of protest from Davies’s knees as he bent down and stood up again.

Morgan held the curtains back to check the windowsill and then, opening the drawer in the nightstand, glanced in. She leaned closer, then withdrew something and called out to her boss.

“Why on earth would she be reading this?” she asked, holding a slim volume entitled Street Drugs. “I would have thought something from the Shopaholics series would have been more in her line.”

Davies glanced over and then held out his hand. She crossed over to him and handed over the book. He thumbed through it, shook his head, and gave it back to his sergeant.

“Go through it carefully, see if any pages are marked and make a note of it. You’re right, it does seem strange.”

A few minutes later Davies crossed his arms and looked around the room.

“Right,” Davies instructed. “That’s it. We’ve done all we can. We’ll notify the manager that we’re finished and he can let her parents take her things. If they want them.”

He glanced at his watch and then gestured at Morgan to get ready to leave.

“Our bulletin should be on the noon news. Let’s hope it gets results. And now, let’s follow up with surveillance tapes of the street that might show which way she went. We’re looking for, say, nine A.M. and later. We’ll leave no stone unturned.”

They stepped out into the hall and just as Davies was about to close the door, Morgan stuck her foot in front of it to keep it open.

“I’ll be right back,” she said over her shoulder as she headed back into the room.

A few moments later, she returned, holding up a scrap of yellow paper.

“It looks as if she was writing something, changed her mind, and then tore it up. A first draft of a letter, maybe. This little piece was hiding under the wastepaper basket. Probably fell out when it was emptied. It was you saying that about no stone unturned that made me realize I should have looked under the bin.”

She smiled up at him.

“Good work,” said Davies. “Now I wonder. What do you suppose it can tell us?”

Eleven

As Rev. Evans began his sermon that morning, Penny’s thoughts began to drift, and she decided to spend the afternoon sketching. When church was finally over, she returned home to pack up a bread roll, some