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to drive the cold from her bones. It didn’t work so she pulled the heavy mohair throw around her, huddling in further as she blinked back the tears. She stared at the happy picture in her hand, trying to burn the image of Lissy into her mind to replace the one she’d seen earlier that day.
    The Lissy in the photograph smiled up at her, her eyes as brown and large as her own, her long dark hair shining and tumbling down her back. Her arms were full. A certificate in one hand, a bouquet in the other; newly degree-ed and ready to take on the world of law. She’d wanted to be a barrister, full of the oratory and wigs inspired by ‘take your daughter to work day’. Watching her from the gallery while she testified in court.
    A tear rolled down Melanie Trainor's cheek and she let it fall, watching as it splashed on the costly slate hearth. The room was full of expensive things paid for by hours of study and work. All meaningless now. She would give them all to hear Lissy’s voice again. She listened, trying to recall her youthful tones. They came through loud and clear, but how long would she hear them for? How long before she couldn’t recall her voice or hear her laugh at all? She gulped down her brandy and made herself a vow. Whoever had done this would pay with the rest of their life. It was no comfort at all.
    ***
    Craig raked his hand through his hair in exasperation then closed the file in front of him. He couldn’t believe the sparseness of its contents, but who was he to judge? At a time when there’d been tens of murders each week and a police force under siege, he could understand that things might have been forgotten, and handwritten memos misfiled. It was difficult to imagine a world without computers, but he remembered using an old typewriter in London, twenty years before. Things hadn’t been so efficient then, even there, and they hadn’t been dodging petrol bombs every day. It had been a dark time in Northern Ireland’s history. He glanced again at the thin file in his hand. But even so…
    He turned to see where Andy was and found him in a corner of the records room. They were at Headquarters in Belfast and they’d been lucky, the records sergeant had heard of the ACC’s loss and been willing to throw open his archive doors at the weekend. There were plenty who wouldn’t have been so cooperative, especially at half-term.
    He watched as Andy’s eyebrows rose as he perused a buff file with a red stripe on the front, signifying it was probably a terrorist offence. Andy had studied law before he’d joined the force, just like he had, and he was fascinated by court reports. It was probably why they were both so hard on Barristers; it felt like they’d sold the law out for the highest price.
    Andy had been in fraud and vice before drugs, so the details of terrorist atrocities had been through the spin cycle of the evening news before either of them had heard. The men on the ground through the worst of it had different stories to tell. An image of Liam in uniform flashed into Craig’s mind and he gave him a mental salute.
    “What have you got, Andy?”
    Andy shook his head and screwed up his face. “Nothing you’d like to read. There were some real bastards running around back then, hey.”
    “You’ll get no argument from Liam on that one. Any particular bastard leap out at you?”
    “Aye. The one convicted on Ronni Jarvis’ murder. Jonno Mulvenna, a really nasty bit of work.”
    “Mmm…”
    Andy stared at Craig questioningly. “Was that mmm…yes, or mmm…no?”
    “Yes, he’s a nasty bastard, but no, I don’t like him for Jarvis’ death.”
    “Why not?”
    “Mulvenna’s one of the few from back then that I remember. He targeted the police and army but he wasn’t part of a punishment squad.”
    He pulled out his mobile and pressed dial. A moment later the call was answered by a laughing Nicky and he smiled at the sound of her voice.
    “Docklands Murder Squad, can I help