And my face stopped.
"What?"
"Have you taken anything out?"
"No. I've just opened it."
"Dervla. Close it."
And I looked at that case. "Freya. What's going on?"
"Just zip it up. Please. I'll come and get it."
And after fifteen years I know what that woman sounds like when she is embarrassed.
That was not embarrassment. She sounded annoyed.
I should have done what she said.
Instead I moved the red jumper to one side.
And when I saw what was under it my stomach went.
What was under it.
Eleven envelopes, held together with a rubber band.
All of them addressed to me, at my house, in the same handwriting.
All of them opened.
Underneath those, a plastic wallet with a photograph in it and a compliments slip from an agency in Brackenmere called Larkmoor.
And a small notebook with about four lines written in it in Freya's handwriting.
