The Third Shadow

Twenty-one

~~~~~

The flat was located on the fourth and final floor of what Marston had told me was a former textile factory. One which had undergone a radical facelift, been converted into what would have been known back in the eighties as yuppie apartments. The foyer was cluttered with potted plants, their leaves a brilliant green in the light well opened up to the high glass ceiling. The lift doors opened smoothly, soundlessly, the ascent effected without even the merest hint of a jolt. Out on the landing, I was greeted by more leaf-dripping plants, more churchlike slabs of sunlight.

Olivia had left the door open for me, was rinsing something under the tap of the kitchen island, her back turned. The flat was one of those typically minimalist, modern affairs, everything open-planned and open-bricked. Beneath my feet, sleek swathes of wooden flooring stretched out almost to the horizon; matching, angled beams towered overhead. One of the huge, floor-to-ceilng windows afforded a magnificent view of the castle grounds perched high on their rock. Another framed the eastern sweep of the city, this featuring three closely huddled sets of floodlights: Trent Bridge cricket ground, the city's two football teams... A minor detail suddenly came back to me from nine months earlier: on the night of the disappearance, Sean Bracewell had been wearing a red Nottingham Forest shirt.

"You've got a nice place here," I commented, my footsteps padding on the parquet as I approached her. It was something of an understatement: I didn't suppose Nottingham real estate came any primer. This was undoubtedly the realm of the city's highest charging lawyers and medical specialists. Its most successful entrepreneurs, shrewdest crooks... Lee Bracewell, of course, had fitted into both the latter categories.

"They wanted to take it away from me," came Olivia's response. Her back was still turned to me at the sink, my visit seemingly anticipated; as Sarah had explained the day before, they had a mother-in-law in common. "He'd started with nothing, I told them. Everything he had he'd earned through his own hard work and enterprise." She turned then, switched the tap off, a dripping baby bottle in hand. "It would be like taking the nest away from a hatching bird."

As an analogy it was a little overblown perhaps: a hatching bird could equally get by in a much smaller, less luxurious nest.

I watched as she set the bottle into sterilizer, added a recently used dummy. Further evidence of the new arrival lay scattered here and there around the room: blankets, toys, bottles of powders and creams. With Ellie, I recalled, the clutter had seemed far worse: the same amount of stuff perhaps, but all crammed into the much more claustrophobic confines of a police married quarters.

"It's nice to see you again Mr Jacks." The weak accompanying smile suggested otherwise however. She'd had her hair cut since I'd last seen her, the sleek blonde locks butchered to a boyish crop which didn't suit her. Like Sarah, she'd aged noticeably; given the sleeplessness and physical strain of recent weeks, this was only to be expected perhaps.

"Congratulations," I offered, passing her the small gift bag I'd brought with me: a soft, rattly ball I'd picked up on the way back to the hotel. More baby clutter to add to the rest.

"You shouldn't have." Her tone seemed more suspicious than grateful. She then nodded towards the corridor which led from the main living area. "Fast asleep."

My timing was fortunate it seemed. "Imogen," I reflected out loud. "Unusual name. A pretty one though."

"Of Gaelic origin. Means 'innocent'." Her explanation was terse, unsmiling. "I just hope when she's older... If people are still saying the same things they're saying now. You know, about her father... Well, I hope it might give her strength."