While there were other open cases, much of my time was consumed by Daniel Robertson. The case fascinated me for many reasons. Not the least of which was the question of why Daniel had come home to kill himself. There was no emotional attachment left for him here. He had gone to great lengths to separate himself from his childhood and there was no reason why he would suddenly be overcome with a feeling of nostalgia. I thought about the note he had written after his father’s heart attack: “no worse than the old cunt deserves.” I asked myself: was his detachment an act? There were other questions, too. Such as, why were the police treating an apparent suicide in such a hush-hush fashion? But I typed up the report. There was no need for speculation in a professional investigation. James Robertson needed cold, hard facts. He was looking for closure. I wanted to deliver that. It was early evening when the phone rang. Bill transferred it through from the front, telling me it was urgent.
