The fluorescent tubes overhead flicker with a rhythmic, institutional hum. It is eight-fifteen in the morning, and the Avon and Somerset cold-case unit smells of stale radiator heat and scorched coffee. DC Anwen Marsh stands before the corner desk, her charcoal blazer still holding the chill of the Bristol fog. This was Helen Brydon’s space for twelve years. Now, it is a graveyard of half-empty staplers and a single silver propelling pencil, abandoned near the monitor stand.
She runs a thumb over the silver barrel of the pencil. It feels heavy, a relic of a detective who reportedly left for stress but forgot her tools. Anwen takes her seat, the spring of the chair groaning under her weight. Sergeant Carew had been vague about the vacancy, mentioning only that the desk was clear and the workload was heavy. He had also mentioned Iola’s terrible sense of direction on the Mendips during the search in 2019, a comment that still tastes like ash in Anwen’s mouth.
She tugs at the bottom pedestal drawer. It resists at first, jammed by the weight of something tucked behind the metal runner. With a sharp jerk, the drawer gives way, revealing a stack of redacted legal invoices from 1998. Beneath them lies a shadow. Anwen reaches to the back of the bottom drawer, her fingertips brushing the edge of a taped manila envelope.
