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watched Pam lumber back to her own desk and waited for her to sit down before picking up the phone. She tapped in the number for voicemail. After a pause the metallic voice told her she had ‘no new messages’. Caroline let out an impatient sigh and waited. ‘And no saved messages.’
    What?
    She went through the process again, with the same result. She was certain she hadn’t deleted Martin Fox’s message. She replaced the receiver and sat staring at the phone, trying to remember the sequence of events from going up to the seventh floor to see Martin to being ushered into the police car by the two officers. She hadn’t been allowed back to her desk in all that time; a police officer had brought her her handbag and jacket. So what had happened to the message? She punched in the number for facilities management, telling herself there had to be a perfectly innocent explanation, some glitch in the phone system. While she waited for someone to pick up, she turned on her computer and monitor. She typed her details into the login box and the PC started the slow process of loading her system preferences. After a dozen or so rings her call was finally transferred to the voicemail system. She hung up.
    The desktop appeared on her monitor and she quickly opened Outlook and scanned her long list of emails. She scrolled through the unread mails, opening each one and quickly judging whether or not an immediate response was required. After five minutes of firing off urgent replies she’d reached the bottom of the list. The message that was being held overnight hadn’t materialised. She punched in the number for the IT helpdesk, fully expecting to be shunted into the voicemail system again, but the call was answered after only two rings.
    Caroline explained the situation and the patient man on the other end of the phone informed her there was no email being held. Caroline asked him to check again. He did. No email. Not even any record of the other mails she’d received notifying her one was being held. The only explanation the man in IT could offer was ‘user error’, which Caroline interpreted as a nice way of saying she had either done something wrong or else imagined the whole thing. By the time she put the phone down she was almost convinced she had. She stared at her monitor. Four missing emails and a vanishing phone message. The man in IT confirmed no one else had reported a problem. It was just her. She screwed her eyes tight and opened them wide, straining to focus again on her monitor. Was it user error?
    Her son was always accusing her of having a peculiar effect on technology. Dan insisted that whenever DVDs stopped playing, computers crashed or digital radio broadcasts sounded like they were being transmitted under water, it was because she had just walked into the room. Maybe he was right.
    She thought about trying facilities management again, but just as she was reaching for the phone it started to ring. She noticed her hand was trembling. She clenched her fist and stretched her fingers before snatching up the receiver.
    ‘Yes?’
    There was a hesitation at the other end, then a bout of noisy throat clearing.
    ‘Is that Mrs Barber?’
    She didn’t recognise the voice.
    ‘I’m investigating the death of Martin Fox.’
    Caroline sighed. ‘I told you everything last night. Twice. Why do you need to speak to me again? What’s happened?’
    ‘I believe you were the one to find the body, Caroline. I was hoping you could give me a brief statement.’
    ‘Who am I speaking to?’
    ‘I erm…’
    ‘Who is this?’ She shouted into the phone.
    ‘I’m calling from the crime desk at the Daily—’
    ‘You’re a reporter?’ Caroline glanced up at her colleagues, who had stopped their work to stare at her again. She lowered her voice. ‘How did you get this number?’
    ‘Do you have a few moments to tell me how you felt at the time? How are you coping—’
    Caroline slammed down the phone. She looked across at