The next morning Robson was in the kitchen when I came down. He was sitting at the table, drinking tea, with a sheaf of photographs in his hand. It reminded me of the days as a kid when we’d come back from a trip and my father would send his roll of film away for processing, then jump on the prints the moment they arrived in the mail. Only, the pictures Robson was holding were larger, and they’d come special delivery from the crime lab.

“Seen these?” He held up the pictures.

I nodded. “Looked at them last night when I got back.”

“I just went through them again.” He shook his head. “There’s no sign of any cup, or any fragments of china. Not in any of the photos. And not in the inventory. I have to say, that doesn’t augur well for Pardew.”

“That’s true. But I checked in the kitchen when I was up at the house. One of the cups is missing.”

“That doesn’t prove his story. It could have been broken at any time. By anyone.”

“In theory. But you have to understand how sentimental my father was about those cups. You had to treat them as if they were filled with weapons-grade plutonium, only more carefully. If you grew up in that house—if you spent any time there at all—you’d rather hack your own head off with a blunt potato peeler than chip one. Let alone break one.”

“It’s still possible. Cups can break however much care you take with them.”

“Maybe. But the theory’s moot now, anyway. We needed Mrs. Vincent to corroborate the details. If we’d been able…Wait. Pass me that photo.”

Robson handed me the photograph from the top of the stack. “It’s not one of those magic pictures, you know. The image you want won’t appear if you stare for a while.”

“I’m not looking for the cup.” I took out my phone and opened its magnifying app so I could study one section. “This is weird.”

“What is?” Robson came around behind me and looked over my shoulder.

“See the picture frame on the floor? It’s broken. The picture’s fallen out. It was of my parents, on a ski trip. It was cute.”

“How can you tell? It’s facedown on the floor.”

“I recognize the frame. And my father only had one picture on display in his study. He only had one anywhere. But that’s not the point. Out of its frame, you can see part of the photo is folded back. Why would he have done that?”

“To make it fit in the frame?”

“No. It actually looked too small for the frame. He made a cardboard surround to fill the gaps at the sides. I thought the picture must have been some odd ’80s format, or that they’d had it developed in Switzerland, or wherever.”

“If those are your mother’s hands, it looks like she was holding a trophy. A big one. Could your father have been jealous?”

“No. Definitely not. Jealousy wasn’t in his nature.”

“Then I’m out of ideas.”

“Look at this. It’s even weirder. See, there’s something engraved on the trophy? On the plate on its base.” I handed Robson my phone.

“It says, ‘Women’s Downhill, Open. First Place. 15th August 1983.’ She won. Awesome. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong is that in August ’83 my mother was seven months pregnant with my sister. How was she winning a downhill skiing competition?”

“Paul, you caveman. Life doesn’t have to stop just because a person’s pregnant.”

“Sure. Early on. If you’re talking about working. Driving. Swimming. But downhill skiing? At seven months? That’s recklessly irresponsible.”

“You’ve been known to do the odd reckless thing yourself from time to time. Maybe it runs in the family.”

“I’ve never been reckless when someone else’s life is at stake. And here’s another thing that doesn’t add up. I saw my mother’s ski suit yesterday, at the house. I recognized it from the picture. It was regular-sized, not maternity.”

“You’re reading way too much into this, Paul. She could have had another ski suit from the same brand that she didn’t keep. The one suit could have been baggy enough for her to wear it, anyway. Not everyone swells up to the size of an elephant when they’re expecting a baby. I actually think it’s quite cool to ski one day, give birth the next.”

“Except that my sister was stillborn, and my mother died in delivery.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Paul. I didn’t realize. No. That’s not cool. Maybe it’s why your father hid the trophy part of the picture? Maybe he resented it, if he thought the race played a part in the outcome.”

“But why—” My phone beeped. Robson passed it back and I saw an email had arrived. From Harry. I opened it and quickly scanned the text. “All right. Forget all that sad stuff. Some news is in and it’s just what the doctor ordered. How do you fancy a trip to Albany?”

“Have you got anything sharp I could stick in my eyes, instead?”

“No, you’re going to like this. It’s going to be fun. Harry found something in Klinsman’s contacts. One of them did business with Rooney.”

“The same kind of business Pardew did?”

“Correct. So I’m thinking we should have…shall we call it an elevated discussion with the guy?”