‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ Shona asked Dan. ‘Or maybe a drink? I’ve got a bottle of red open, if you like.’
It was a few minutes past seven in the evening and they were standing in her small kitchen in Pimlico, Shona leaning heavily against one of the tatty old units, hair tied back in a bun, still in her work clothes, Dan hovering by the door. She looked tired, he thought, but nonetheless happy to see him. A large shoebox loosely wrapped in brown paper sat on the table, Mickey’s handwriting recognizable on the front.
She had called him earlier that day to say she had picked up a parcel from the post office and, on opening it, discovered that it contained her husband Kevin’s diaries, which she had given to Mickey. She was in a flutter about it and very apologetic. It seemed that Mickey had posted them back to her second class, but hadn’t put enough stamps on the package. Not realizing it was anything urgent, she hadn’t gone to collect it immediately and it had been waiting at the post office for nearly a week. According to the postage mark, Mickey had posted it the Friday before he was murdered, the day before he had gone to the races. Dan was itching to go back to his office to start going through the notebooks, but he had the impression that Shona wanted company, sensing a loneliness in her that had maybe been awakened by the sight of her husband’s diaries and notebooks. He could also use a drink. It had been a frustrating day having to speak to Kristen, who had been unpleasantly brusque, and then trying to chase up the researcher from the Channel 4 programme, playing phone tag with him all day. A small, nagging voice in his head was also telling him that someone should call Fagan about the package. Maybe he could slip the little red memory stick in between some of the notebooks and get rid of it that way. It didn’t appear that Shona had gone through everything in the box. He hated doing it. She had been so straight with him. But he couldn’t think of any other way of getting it to the police without being hauled in for more questioning. He made a mental note to wipe off his prints first.
‘Wine would be good,’ he said. As he watched her pour out a generous glassful, and one for herself, he added reluctantly, ‘Thinking about it, maybe you ought to hand these over to the police. They may have nothing to do with Mickey’s murder, but better to be safe than sorry.’
She nodded. ‘I was going to. I just wanted you to see them first. You could take copies, if you like. A few hours’ delay won’t hurt, I’m sure. I’ve got a scanner in my study.’