been the mystery man in Rosie's life, it made sense that she would keep his identity secret. Her troublemaking brothers would have hated her seeing a copper. Then there was the way that Lawson always seemed to turn up when he or his friends were under threat, as if he had appointed himself their guardian angel. Guilt, Alex thought now. Guilt would do that to a man. In spite of having killed Rosie, Lawson still retained enough decency not to want someone else to pay the price for his crime.
But none of those circumstances was any kind of proof. The chance of going back to witnesses after twenty-five years and finding someone who had seen Rosie with Jimmy Lawson was nil. The only solid evidence was inside that caravan, and if Alex didn't do something about it now, it would be too late.
But what could he do? He wasn't versed in the techniques of burglary. Breaking into cars as a teenager was light years away from picking a lock, and if he forced the door, Lawson would be alerted. At any other time, he might put it down to kids or some homeless wanderer. But not now. Not with so much interest in the Rosie Duff case. He couldn't afford to treat it as anything other than significant. He might just torch the place.
Alex stepped back and considered. There was, he noticed, a skylight on the roof. Maybe he could squeeze in there? But how to get up to the roof? There was only one possibility. Alex trudged back to the gate, wedged it open and drove into the boggy field. For the first time in his life, he wished he was the kind of moron who drove a big fuck-off four-wheel drive around the city. But no, he had to be Mr. Flash with his BMW 535. What would he do if he got stuck in the mud?
He cruised slowly down to the caravan and stopped parallel with one end. He opened the boot and unfastened the car's standard-issue toolkit. Pliers, a screwdriver, a spanner. He pocketed everything that looked as if it might be useful, took off his suit jacket and his tie then closed the boot. He clambered over the bonnet and onto the car roof. From there, it wasn't far to the top of the caravan. Scrabbling for purchase, Alex somehow managed to launch himself onto the roof.
It was disgusting up there. The roof was slippery and slimy. Particles of dirt clung to his clothes and his hands. The skylight was a raised plastic dome about thirty inches by twelve. It was going to be a very tight squeeze. He jammed the screwdriver under the edge and tried to lever it up.
At first, it wouldn't budge. But after repeated attempts at various points along the rim, it slowly shifted, creaking upward. Sweating, Alex wiped the back of his hand over his face and peered in. There was a pivoting metal arm with a screw adjustment that kept the skylight in place, so it could be raised and lowered from within. It also prevented the skylight from opening more than a few inches at one end. Alex groaned. He was going to have to unscrew the metal arm and then replace it.
He fumbled to get the right angle. It was hard to get any purchase on the screws, which hadn't been moved since they were first put in more than a quarter of a century before. He strained and struggled until, eventually, first one screw and then the other shifted in their moorings. At last, the skylight swung free.
Alex looked down. It wasn't as bad as it might have been. If he lowered himself carefully, he reckoned he could reach the bench seat that ran along one side of the living area. He took a deep breath, gripped the edge and let go.
He thought his arms would fly free from their sockets as the jolt of his full weight traveled upward. His feet bicycled madly, trying for purchase, but after a few seconds, he just let himself drop.
In the dim light, it looked as if little had changed since he'd sat here all those years ago. He'd had no intuition then that he was sitting in the very place where Rosie had met her violent end. There was no tell-tale smell, no giveaway blood smears, no psychic stain to set his nerves jangling.
He was so close to an answer now. Alex could hardly bear to look up