Salt watched as the helicopter rose vertically into the air, blasting the tree branches on either side.
He walked back to the front of the Centre, where his car was parked. The driver stepped out from behind the wheel and opened Salt’s door.
Salt settled himself into the back seat, which was empty apart from a large battered suitcase.
He flipped open the lid of the case and looked inside.
‘You’re sure this was everything?’ asked Salt.
The back of the driver’s head nodded.
‘Yes, she had them resting on the surfaces. None of them were hanging. So, no holes in the wall. I wiped down the furniture afterwards. That’s all of them.’
‘Good,’ said Salt.
His fingers searched the contents of the case. There must have been sixty framed photos inside, of the girl and boy. The mother appeared sporadically across them. The room must have looked like an antique frame shop before the driver swept it. It was a comprehensive chronicling of a family until the girl was six years old. A family frozen in time. Similar to his own hallway gallery. Two families remembered, pickled and preserved, to remind the curator of what their interaction with military intelligence had cost them.
Salt did not feel guilty about hiding the pictures from Sara. It was Phoebe who had taken her daughter’s memory. She had given her a blank screen, something to be repopulated and reshaped, a new identity. He was finishing what she had started.