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The dog comes to mind. Hermother’sdog.
Another job for tomorrow. I make a mental note. Because if the dog does not belong to her adoptive mother in Spain (quite apart from Libby’s vivid physical tells when she explained the situation to me, who shares a dog with a mother in Spain? Nobody), then Libby has another person she considers to be a mother. Might this be Marie Caron, the female beneficiary of a third of her inheritance who is now ‘on holiday’ without a phone? And might Marie Caron be another of the indeterminate number of teenagers who disappeared from 16 Cheyne Walk in April 1994?
My head loops round and round the sphere, trying to find another way to complete it, but this feels like enough for now.
Justin.
The dog.
A man called D. Thomson.
I set my alarm for 5 a.m. I have much to do.
