“Yes,” she said. “It’s pretty weird.”
“I suppose it’s not like it is in the movies.”
“No,” said Tabitha. “Not really.”
“Showers and strip searches,” said the driver.
Tabitha could see in the rearview mirror that he was grinning. She had a strong impulse to say something or even to do something. It might even be worth getting into a row with the driver. It might even end with him stopping and making them get out. How would Mary Guy deal with that? Reluctantly she stayed silent. They were heading to see the physical evidence that the police were holding. Examining it was a right she had as part of her defense, but if she caused a scene, Mary Guy was entirely capable of making things difficult. She could start talking about “security concerns” and going straight back to Crow Grange.
The driver began to describe at length a female prison drama he’d seen on TV but Tabitha let her attention drift and it turned into a comforting background drone like the wind blowing or a radio playing in another room. Instead she just continued to look out of the window. It was all so interesting. The most boring things—other motorists, the occasional cyclist, men dressed in yellow peering into a hole in the road—seemed magical to her, fresh and gleaming. She tried to store them in her memory, something she could smuggle back to the cell with her like contraband.
They were driving on the edge of town past car showrooms, furniture stores, a garden center, a DIY wholesaler.
“Couldn’t we stop nearby?” asked Tabitha hopefully. “Go for a little walk?”
Mary Guy looked at her watch. “We’re five minutes late. And any road, the answer’s no.”
The cab pulled into the forecourt of a large yellow warehouse store: “24-Hour Storage Solutions!” was the large, jaunty logo on the front. Next to the logo was a picture of a cheery, rubicund man in overalls, brandishing an oversized key and smiling a gleaming smile.
“Is this right?” said Tabitha.
Mary Guy got out, so Tabitha followed her, still thinking there must be some mistake.
“It’s storage,” said Mary Guy.
“I can see that. I just thought we were going to a police station or a government facility.”
The cab drove away and Tabitha looked around. A young woman was standing on the steps clutching a clipboard. She was dressed for business in conservative navy with a white blouse and black shoes. Tabitha would have guessed that she was an estate agent. She stepped forward, looking a little uneasy, and suddenly very young.
“Are you the . . . you know, the er . . . ?”
Mary Guy showed her pass and a typed letter. The woman checked the name off on her clipboard.
“It’s on the second floor,” she said. “It’s a bit of a walk, I’m afraid.”
Tabitha looked at the woman curiously as they were led inside and up a stone staircase.
“Are you police?” Tabitha asked.
“Oh no,” said the woman, looking almost alarmed. “We, I mean Sunburst, that’s the company I work for, we carry out all kinds of services for the police. Catering, logistics, storage like here.”
“You own this?”
“No, no. We rent it and arrange the transport and all that.”
They reached the second floor and walked past a series of spaces, each locked behind a grille. Tabitha glimpsed piles of furniture, packing cases, an upright piano, a rowing machine, fragments of people’s lives, the things that they could do without for a while but couldn’t dispense with. The woman looked at her clipboard.
“Two twenty-nine,” she said. “This is us.”
Tabitha looked through the grille. The space was lined on three sides by very basic shelving. There were objects on the shelves and various bundles on the floor. The woman unlocked the padlock and pulled open the door that was itself just a heavy grille on hinges. The three of them stepped inside. Tabitha looked around.
“A lot of stuff,” she said.
The woman looked at her clipboard.
“I think the material relating to your case is over there.” She gestured to the left-hand side. “Everything is labeled with the reference number.” She read the number off the clipboard.
“Hang on,” said Tabitha. She took her notebook from her pocket and got the woman to read the number over again until she had it written down.
“And each piece of evidence has a separate number.”
“You mean like “‘Exhibit A’?” said Tabitha.
“I think they’re numbered actually.”
“What can I call you?” said Tabitha.
“Kira,” said the woman.
Tabitha looked around once more.
“So, Kira,” she said, “if my stuff is over here”—she gestured to the left—“then other people’s stuff is everywhere else.”
“Yes.”
“So other people come in here,” said Tabitha. “People connected with other cases.”
“Sometimes.”
“Doesn’t this evidence need to be kept secure?”
Kira was looking more and more uneasy. “It is secure.”
“But you just said that people unconnected with the case are coming in and out of here?”
“Yes, but it’s police and lawyers mostly.”
“They could pick things up. They could pick up the wrong things. They could get them mixed up.”
Kira gave a nervous little giggle and her eyes flickered between Tabitha and Mary Guy.
“But they wouldn’t,” she said.
“Who’s making sure?” said Tabitha. “Other police?” She thought for a few seconds. “Have you got a business card?”
“What do you mean?”
“I might want to get in touch with you,” said Tabitha. “For the trial. Just to ask about storage and security. The sort of thing you do.”
Kira fumbled in her bag and produced a card.
“Don’t let her get to you,” said Mary Guy to Kira.
“I’m just asking for her card,” said Tabitha, taking it.
“You’d better get going,” said Mary Guy. “You’ll run out of time.”
There was nowhere to sit, no desk. Kira and Mary Guy just stood awkwardly to one side as Tabitha made a quick initial assessment of what was being stored. It was mainly the contents of her outhouse,
