He was down in the basement of HQ, where the more ancient case files were kept; dumped would be more accurate. These days such materials were carefully stored and indexed, some documents even available digitally, but for matters pertaining to quarter of a century ago he had to brave this cluttered oubliette. The system gave a deceptive impression of order and efficiency. He had been able to do cross-reference searches from the comparative comfort of his desk, the computer listing files in a way that suggested they would be neatly and conveniently arranged when he went down to pick them up. Ha. That had been hours ago. Or maybe days. On the plus side, he could at least munch a couple of apples at his leisure without worrying about Zoe Vernon snaffling the rest of the bag. A cross-reference on James Donnelly had unsurprisingly brought up several results; indeed Anthony would have expected more, but the most recent dated from only a couple of months after the nightclub fracas. Then he remembered McLeod mentioning that Donnelly was two decades missing, presumed dead, rumoured to have been murdered by Glen Fallan.
