George is blocking the porch with his attempts to assemble brown boxes.
‘I managed to get these from Freecycle. Someone had moved recently and had a load of them to dispose of. Perfect for what we need.’
‘Clive would approve.’ I smile as I think about his love of upcycling. He is the original eco-warrior and it’s doubtful he even realises how on trend he is.
‘I’ve just been putting them up so far and distributing them throughout the house. I haven’t made a start yet. Be warned, there’s a lot to do. A lot more than I imagined. This might not be enough boxes.’ George pushes another box and forms it into a square, taking it inside and making space for me to enter.
‘Where do you want me to start?’ As I look around, I realise that Clive is somewhat of a hoarder. There are pictures and shelves full of trinkets in the hallway. A mirror shaped like a shell and small jewellery boxes made of real shells. Another shelf holds a collection of owls: ceramic, wooden and plastic. My mouth is ajar taking in the number of items.
‘Wherever you like. The choice is yours. If we pack up a room each by the end of the day, it’ll be a miracle.’
George passes me the box he’s holding and returns to his mission of putting them all together so that he’ll be able to close the front door once again. My stomach flutters and for the first time I admit it’s in response to him being close.
‘We should keep an eye out for anything that tells us more about Clive’s story,’ I say to divert myself from my realisation.
‘I’m not sure Clive’s charity-shop collection is going to tell us much I’m afraid.’ His fingers brush mine as I take the box from him and it’s too late to take my pulse.
I shake the thought away. My stomach playing up doesn’t mean anything. What I need to do is focus.
‘There does seem to be a lot here. I’ll go and get started.’ I take my box to the end of the hallway, where there are two doors to go through. The first leads to the lounge, which seems like a good place to start. But I don’t go in there straight away. Instead, I find myself drawn to the kitchen.
It’s the same as Clive’s description of the scene that never was. There is a door in the middle that leads to the lean-to. It’s the doorway that tallies with Clive’s depiction of the red mark.
Only there is no red mark, just the remnants of powder left by forensics where they’ve been dusting for fingerprints. We’ll have to make sure it’s clean before an estate agent takes any photos.
The breakfast bar is as I imagined and as I move into the kitchen area, I can’t help but stare at the carpet tiles. I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see. Especially when I know the answer is nothing.
I realise I don’t want to pack up the kitchen. Part of me thinks I’ll start treating it like a crime-scene investigation, trying to locate the things the police have missed. Already I’m looking at it like a place where something awful has happened rather than as a home. Lucy’s suggestion that I should investigate rings in my head, along with my own sense that there is more to this. But what will there be to find? I consider this as I trail a finger through the remnants of grey powder that are clinging on to the glass panel of the door. Surely nothing when the house has been subjected to such scrutiny?
It’s a silly thought process so I clean off my finger and move to the front room to get cracking with what’s in there. George is right, it will be quite the task. Every surface is covered with ornaments. An over-sized snow globe of Blackpool tower sits in the centre of one sideboard. There is a bookshelf with books cramming every nook and a display case full of more trinkets.
‘See what I mean,’ George says when he finds me gawping. ‘It’s quite the stash. I didn’t want to be in charge of deciding what stays and what goes so I thought boxing it up will be simpler. That was before I saw how much there would be to pack away.’
‘We’re not going to get Clive down here to make the decisions though. He’ll be able to decide for himself