she said lamely, pointing upwards. ‘I kept all the old ones up there.’ Something icy shivered in her belly. The break-in wasn’t random; whoever had been there had come for a reason. Dora didn’t know whether that made it better or worse. Open-mouthed, she stared at Jon.
‘Did the fingerprint lads come in here?’
Dora shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I think they did the window, the door –’ She stopped, feeling dizzy. She could feel her colour draining.
Jon guided her back out into the hall. ‘Tell you what, I’ll arrange for someone to come and have a look at this in the morning. There’s not a lot we can do now.’
Dora was still staring at him. ‘I suppose not. I meant to ask you on the phone whether we were eating fried chicken in or out. Can I safely assume from the lack of chicken about your person we’re going out?’
Jon grinned. ‘I thought we’d go for a drink first.’
Dora nodded. ‘Good idea, I think I need one.’
Dora locked the street door with exaggerated care. She glanced around as Jon went across to his car, half expecting to see the man in the hood or worse. It was darker now and part of her was angry that she felt so vulnerable. Gunners Terrace seemed very quiet, very empty, strafed by a crossfire of dark shadows and street lights. She hurried to join Jon.
As they drew off, he looked at her. ‘Did you get the locks checked and ring up about a security window?’
‘Yes,’ she lied, and then fell silent.
Jon grinned. ‘Make sure you give the bloke a ring tomorrow.’
Dora watched the countryside peel off past the car, still annoyed with herself for reacting to one late-night caller and the missing diaries with such an overwhelming rush of fear. Seeing the lights of Keelside, she realised with a start that she hadn’t spoken since they’d driven out of Gunners Terrace and coughed, sorting through her thoughts to find something to say that didn’t sound inane, and failing.
‘At least it’s not raining.’
Jon glanced across at her. ‘I thought you’d gone to sleep.’
Dora grinned. ‘Sorry, I was thinking. What would someone want my diaries for?’
‘Information – you said they took Calvin Roberts’ filofax too.’
Dora let the silence wash over her again, tacking ideas and thoughts together at random, looking for patterns that looked right stitched side by side. Time and time again the patchwork formed the same image: Lillian Bliss.
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