38

Izzy sits at the desk in the back of the restaurant and opens Google. Earlier, she made a list of the names of the men who worked at the restaurant regularly.

Tony, Chris, Marcus the regular, Geoffrey Adams, a waiter. She adds Daniel Godfrey, too, the waiter her mother sacked.

If her mother had been having an affair, then maybe there is an explanation other than Gabe’s jealousy, Gabe’s debt, Gabe’s temper. The prosecution wanted the jury to believe that she meant nothing to him. That he was controlling, that she had got him into debt, and that he killed her in a temper. But what if one of these other men had killed her – or knew something about who might have?

She gazes around the office. The walls know. The walls know who was in here with her. And her mother knew. And whoever was with her knew – if it was anybody, and not another one of Gabe’s lies. But nobody else. How can it be this way? Something happening, deep in the past, and leaving zero imprint, zero trace. It wouldn’t now, Izzy reasons. There’s CCTV in the corner, just up there. Her phone is probably recording everything she says and sending it to advertising companies.

Last night, Izzy finished checking the 1999 statements. She still hasn’t found the extended licence or seen any evidence of it having been paid for. Why? Was her mother lying to Gabe about having applied for it? Or was she merely disorganized, and the application was lost somewhere in the swathes of paperwork?

Izzy googles Marcus, Daniel and Geoffrey. There’s nothing of note. Charity JustGiving pages. LinkedIn profiles. That’s all.

She looks them all up on Facebook. Marcus isn’t on there, but Daniel is. He’s still a jobbing actor. Was in a mobile phone advert a few months back. Geoffrey might be on there, but his profile is locked down, the profile picture a white figure on a grey background.

Chris walks into her office and she closes the laptop guiltily. His eyes linger over it, but he says nothing, as is his way. ‘Charger needed,’ he says, waving his phone, then plugs it into the socket at the bottom of the wall, sitting on a spare chair and looking at her. ‘How’s the boss?’ he says.

‘The boss is tired,’ Izzy says, rubbing at her eyes.

‘You could never hack it,’ Chris says with a lopsided grin. ‘Sleepover wanker.’

Izzy laughs. That’s what he used to call her when she’d fall asleep before midnight and he’d have to stay up watching horror alone. Sleepover wanker.

‘Nick brought these in for you,’ Chris says, producing a tiny bag of chocolate coins.

Izzy takes them, not saying a word. Chocolate coins. She has always loved them. The cheap, plasticky chocolate. She only ever has them at Christmas. Here they are; a love note from him to her.