He seemed to live on packet meals and alcohol. She counted three whisky bottles. Right at the bottom, unfortunately soaked in tea and orange juice, she found some pages torn in quarters. He’d printed out photographs onto ordinary A4 stationary, so the quality was poor. She tried piecing them together, but the shots were so similar that they were hard to restore or place in any order. They showed a darkened room, large, concrete, without windows. There was some kind of central structure, also concrete and new-looking, with a square panel in its centre. Milo was an architectural engineer, she reminded herself. This was just the sort of thing such men kept. But ten pages of the same room taken from every angle, then printed out and torn up? It was impossible to tell what he might have been thinking. She kept one reassembled page, taped it together and folded it into her desk drawer, then put the rest back in the binbag. There were some smaller photographs right at the bottom, printed out in the same way, just shots of a bland-looking lounge.
