white under yesterday's snow, though he knew the truth was different. Already, pavements were filthy with slush, the roads a slippery morass of grit and melt. Beyond the town, the gray smudge of the sea melted imperceptibly into the sky. It must be a fine view on a sunny day, he thought, turning back to the magnolia-painted woodchip and the white candlewick bedspread, still rumpled from where Rosie had last sat on it. There was a single poster on the wall. Some group called Blondie, their lead singer busty and pouting, her skirt impossibly short. Was that what Rosie aspired to, he wondered.
"Where would you like me to start, sir?" Janice asked, looking around at the 1950s wardrobe and dressing table which had been painted white in an effort to make them look more contemporary. There was a small table by the bed with a single drawer. Other than that, the only place where anything might be concealed was a small laundry hamper tucked behind the door and a metal wastepaper bin under the dressing table.
"You do the dressing table," he said. That way, he didn't have to deal with the makeup that would never be used again, the second-best bra and the old knickers thrust to the back of the drawer for laundry emergencies that never happened. Maclennan knew his tender places, and he preferred to avoid probing them whenever he could.
Janice sat on the end of the bed, where Rosie must have perched to peer into the mirror and apply her makeup. Maclennan turned to the dressing table and slid open the drawer. It contained a fat book called The Far Pavilions, which Maclennan thought was just the sort of thing his ex-wife had used to keep him at bay in bed. "I'm reading, Barney," she'd say in a tone of patient suffering, brandishing some doorstop novel under his nose. What was it with women and books? He lifted out the book, trying not to notice Janice systematically exploring drawers. Underneath was a diary. Refusing to allow himself optimism, Maclennan picked it up.
If he'd been hoping for some confessional, he'd have been sorely disappointed. Rosie Duff hadn't been a "Dear Diary" sort of girl. The pages listed her shifts at the Lammas Bar, birthdays of family and friends, and social events such as, "Bob's party" "Julie's spree." Dates were indicated with the time and place and the word, "Him," followed by a number. It looked like she'd gone through 14, 15 and 16 in the course of the past year; 16 was, obviously, the most recent. He first appeared in early November and soon became a regular feature two or three times a week. Always after work, Maclennan thought. He'd have to go back to the Lammas and ask again if anyone had seen Rosie meeting a man after closing time. He wondered why they met then, instead of on Rosie's night off, or during the day when she wasn't working. One or other of them seemed determined to keep his identity secret.
He glanced across at Janice. "Anything?"
"Nothing you wouldn't expect. It's all the kind of stuff women buy for themselves. None of the tacky things that guys buy."
"Guys buy tacky things?"
"I'm afraid you do, sir. Scratchy lace. Nylon that makes you sweat. What men want women to wear, not what they'd choose for themselves."
"So that's where I've been going wrong all these years. I should really have been buying big knickers from Marks and Spencer."
Janice grinned. "Gratitude goes a long way, sir."
"Any sign she was on the pill?"
"Nothing so far. Maybe Brian was on the money when he said she was a good girl."
"Not entirely. She wasn't a virgin, according to the pathologist."
"There's more than one way of losing your virginity, sir," Janice pointed out, not quite courageous enough to cast aspersions on a pathologist that everyone knew was more focused on his next drink and his retirement than on whoever ended up on his slab.
"Aye. And the pills are probably in her handbag, which hasn't turned up yet." Maclennan sighed and shut the drawer on the novel and the diary. "I'll take a look at the wardrobe." Half an hour later, he had to concede that Rosie Duff had not been a hoarder. Her wardrobe contained clothes and shoes, all in current styles. In one corner, there was a pile of paperbacks, all thick bricks of paper that promised glamour, wealth and love in equal measure. "We're wasting our time here," he said.