Phosphate Rocks Chapter 23: Nutmeg Grater

Inside the police interview room, the panes of glass are rattling in their frames. Through the high window, John can make out dark clouds scudding across the sky. Snow clouds perhaps. February often brings sleet and hail, although snow is uncommon in Edinburgh. It falls on the hills, rarely lying for long near the sea. 

After retirement, he often sat out the winter in southern Spain, a three-month package costing considerably less than heating his flat. Benidorm isn’t the same since his wife died. Now the February wind cuts him to the heart as well as to the bone. 

‘Did you recognise any of the mispers?’  

‘Can I look at the photos again?’ John asks.  

‘Take your time.’ 

John pushes away the dossier of missing persons. ‘Not these. The photos from the factory.’ 

‘The crime scene?’  

‘Aye.’ 

She picks up the phone and a few minutes later there is a knock at the door and a delivery. 

‘Thank you.’ He nods at the constable.  

‘You’re welcome.’ She smiles back. 

He flicks through the photographs and chooses one showing the objects on the table. Although they are covered in dust, John can still make out the shape of an elephant, a doll, a keyring, an air horn in the picture. He stands and starts to move the physical objects around on the tray. 

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.  

‘Putting them back as they were found.’  

‘Why?’ 

He doesn’t answer. He’s not quite sure himself. It’s important, but he lacks the words to explain.