residues of silver, black and white powder where prints had been lifted. Furniture and possessions had clearly been moved and not returned properly to their original positions. Drawn curtains added to the gloom.
‘Check the shelves,’ said Phil. ‘See if there’s a diary, anything like that. A photo album, anything.’
‘We did that,’ said Rose.
‘I know,’ said Phil. ‘But you were looking for a misper. I’m looking for a killer. And open those curtains, let some light in here.’
Phil went into the kitchen. It was clean and tidy for the most part. A single mug stood on the draining board, coffee stained dry inside it. He checked the dishwasher. A small number of dirty dishes in it, ready to be washed.
He went looking for other rooms. Found the bedroom. Bedrooms, in cases like this, were even worse for Phil than living rooms. Living rooms were for show. There were no secrets in bedrooms. No hiding.
He looked round. It was hard to tell whether it had been left in a mess by Julie Miller or by the investigators. The bed was unmade. Underwear and jeans were piled at the bottom. A pair of trainers that looked liked they had been kicked off. Drawers pulled open, their contents spilling out.
Phil looked at the bedside cabinet. A Jodi Picoult novel lay there, the bookmark about a third of the way in. He opened the bedside cabinet door. Another couple of books, some prescription blister packs of contraceptive pills. Nothing else.
He knelt down, looked under the bed. Saw something silhouetted against the light on the other side. He stretched his arm in, made contact, pulled it out. A laptop wearing a thin coat of dust. Phil took it out, opened it, booted it up.
‘You missed this,’ he called out.
Rose Martin entered the bedroom, stopped when she saw what he had. ‘Where did you find that?’
‘Under the bed. Right under the bed, mind.’
Rose nodded, her features tight. ‘As you say, we were looking for a missing person. Whoever searched this room wouldn’t have thought she’d be able to fit under there.’
Phil, eyes on the laptop, didn’t rise to her words. He just hoped it wouldn’t be password protected. It wasn’t. Desktop wallpaper appeared, a shaggy-haired dog, its tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.
‘What about the boyfriend?’
‘Clean. And, believe me, we looked at him from every angle.’
His fingers moved over the keys, searching for anything that would give him a clue as to Julie Miller’s life. He established Wi-Fi connection, clicked on Facebook. Julie Miller’s homepage appeared. In the corner was a photo of a dark-haired woman in her twenties, lying on a bed, her hand in her hair, smiling shyly for the camera, her mouth open as if she was in mid-sentence to the photographer. The photo looked both innocent and intimate at the same time.
‘That her?’
Rose sat down next to him. ‘From the other photos I’ve seen, yes. Do you agree with me that it’s her down there?’
Phil tried to imagine the smiling, pretty face before him superimposed on to the body on the boat. It was depressingly easy to match the two. ‘I . . . it’s looking that way.’ He kept looking at the photo. ‘Why did she put this one on? Out of all of them she could pick, why this one?’
Rose looked at it too. ‘Because it’s flattering, a good likeness . . . Maybe her boyfriend liked it.’
‘Maybe.’
He sighed, kept looking through the Facebook profile. She had her place of work as Colchester General Hospital, her schooling as the local secondary in Stanway, her university as Essex in Colchester. She hadn’t moved far away from home.
She didn’t have an enormous number of friends, which was good news for the officers who would have to trawl through them, but there were enough. He started to look through them but didn’t get far.
‘Phil?’
He hadn’t noticed Rose get up and move away. Her voice came from the living room. He got up, followed her. She was standing by the window,
‘Check the shelves,’ said Phil. ‘See if there’s a diary, anything like that. A photo album, anything.’
‘We did that,’ said Rose.
‘I know,’ said Phil. ‘But you were looking for a misper. I’m looking for a killer. And open those curtains, let some light in here.’
Phil went into the kitchen. It was clean and tidy for the most part. A single mug stood on the draining board, coffee stained dry inside it. He checked the dishwasher. A small number of dirty dishes in it, ready to be washed.
He went looking for other rooms. Found the bedroom. Bedrooms, in cases like this, were even worse for Phil than living rooms. Living rooms were for show. There were no secrets in bedrooms. No hiding.
He looked round. It was hard to tell whether it had been left in a mess by Julie Miller or by the investigators. The bed was unmade. Underwear and jeans were piled at the bottom. A pair of trainers that looked liked they had been kicked off. Drawers pulled open, their contents spilling out.
Phil looked at the bedside cabinet. A Jodi Picoult novel lay there, the bookmark about a third of the way in. He opened the bedside cabinet door. Another couple of books, some prescription blister packs of contraceptive pills. Nothing else.
He knelt down, looked under the bed. Saw something silhouetted against the light on the other side. He stretched his arm in, made contact, pulled it out. A laptop wearing a thin coat of dust. Phil took it out, opened it, booted it up.
‘You missed this,’ he called out.
Rose Martin entered the bedroom, stopped when she saw what he had. ‘Where did you find that?’
‘Under the bed. Right under the bed, mind.’
Rose nodded, her features tight. ‘As you say, we were looking for a missing person. Whoever searched this room wouldn’t have thought she’d be able to fit under there.’
Phil, eyes on the laptop, didn’t rise to her words. He just hoped it wouldn’t be password protected. It wasn’t. Desktop wallpaper appeared, a shaggy-haired dog, its tongue lolling from the corner of its mouth.
‘What about the boyfriend?’
‘Clean. And, believe me, we looked at him from every angle.’
His fingers moved over the keys, searching for anything that would give him a clue as to Julie Miller’s life. He established Wi-Fi connection, clicked on Facebook. Julie Miller’s homepage appeared. In the corner was a photo of a dark-haired woman in her twenties, lying on a bed, her hand in her hair, smiling shyly for the camera, her mouth open as if she was in mid-sentence to the photographer. The photo looked both innocent and intimate at the same time.
‘That her?’
Rose sat down next to him. ‘From the other photos I’ve seen, yes. Do you agree with me that it’s her down there?’
Phil tried to imagine the smiling, pretty face before him superimposed on to the body on the boat. It was depressingly easy to match the two. ‘I . . . it’s looking that way.’ He kept looking at the photo. ‘Why did she put this one on? Out of all of them she could pick, why this one?’
Rose looked at it too. ‘Because it’s flattering, a good likeness . . . Maybe her boyfriend liked it.’
‘Maybe.’
He sighed, kept looking through the Facebook profile. She had her place of work as Colchester General Hospital, her schooling as the local secondary in Stanway, her university as Essex in Colchester. She hadn’t moved far away from home.
She didn’t have an enormous number of friends, which was good news for the officers who would have to trawl through them, but there were enough. He started to look through them but didn’t get far.
‘Phil?’
He hadn’t noticed Rose get up and move away. Her voice came from the living room. He got up, followed her. She was standing by the window,
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