The shirt he’d been wearing was crumpled on the floor next to it. I sat down on the end of the bed and nudged it aside with my foot. Underneath were a hairbrush and a brown glass bottle of pills. I didn’t recognise the name. I opened the case. There was an empty chest of drawers in the room, but he hadn’t unpacked. Carefully, I lifted one corner of a pile of folded clothes. Another pill bottle. Two more in the side pocket. I didn’t recognise any of those names, either, but I’d have bet on uppers, downers, or sleepers—or maybe all three. At least that explained the behaviour, I thought: up one minute, down the next. And with the booze as well . . . It was more than that, though. Something else . . . Kitty? If it was an accident, why not just go to the police? There was definitely something more. Something worse. But what? I rummaged on the other side of the case, under Jack’s toilet bag, and found a rectangular box. Brown cardboard. Too narrow for shoes—in any case, there was a lumpy drawstring shoe bag sticking out from under the bed.
