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         Two large boxes and a polythene bag. That is all of her things ready and waiting for me to examine. I start with a box emptying out its contents one item at a time, listing them as I go.
         Four small blue photo albums each one bulging with the overcrowding of photos. I’m not sure if this is how she kept them or if one of our officers just shoved all the photographs together. It wouldn’t surprise me; I’ve seen this kind of incompetence before. I put these to the left of the table ready to scrutinize later. Two hairbrushes matted with blonde hair, I put these to the right ready for the lab. Two red lipsticks, one sticky red lip-gloss and a clear evidence bag of cigarette butts, each one smeared in red lipstick. The lab will be busy tonight. I have to work quickly to get the boss off our backs but I don’t want to make any mistakes. I finish the rest of the box writing frenetically in my notebook. Toothbrush right, diary left, Filo-fax left, purse left, several unopened letters one of which is hand written left, a folder of bank statements and certificates of accreditation all put to the left. Three bottles of multi vitamins, one box of paracetamol, two boxes of anti depressant and one bottle of herbal sleep aid all put to the right.
My thoughts leap ahead of me as I list each item and I have to keep going back through the list to make sure I don’t miss anything. There is nothing alarming on this table. This is just another evidence login with nothing noteworthy but something is making me feel uneasy. Like low static buzz in the background or the flickering halogen light that is about to black out. There’s a knock at the door and Mark appears.
                   “Coffee?”
                   “Yes please, anything new?”
                   “Not yet. But I’ll let you know.”
       I take the photo albums over to another table. This is where it gets interesting for me, looking at a person through a lens, a flash of their life, piecing together seconds of their happy events, I enjoy this moment because it is private. I’m a spectator in their lives peering into it and making judgements on who they are. I can make a dramatic play in my mind of their holidays and parties. I can keep their happy smiling faces with me to block out all the pain I know I'm going to find. I do this to keep sane and to barricade and repress my true findings.
        The first album is overflowing with photographs and I have to tip some out. They are mainly black and white but some have colour tinting in light blue, pink and olive green. They have been stored rather clumsily and without care, most have cornered edges or creases and others have glue marks on their backs. The first page of the album has a sticker on it, which states, ‘Jennifer is a secret lemonade drinker,’ and underneath the word ‘Family’ is written in black marker.  Every picture tells a story they say. A thousand words can be expressed in every one. There’s a picture of two young women walking down a street in the first photo; from the cut and length of the dresses, you can tell it’s the late 1930’s. Another photo of the same young women standing in a doorway laughing at each other with their short hair in pin curls. I look through the whole album and they are all taken at around the same time, some even as late as the 1950’s. I pick up the next album as Mark walks in with my coffee.
                  “Found anything?”
                  “No, not yet. Can you take the DNA samples off to the lab please?”
                  “Yes”
         Our conversations are clearly controlled, short sentences without any real commitment. Mark feels awkward as if he has to say something to me when he enters a room; I suppose it’s his way of making me one of the guys. I like how pointless our conversations are like we are gliding along only on the surface. Roller-skating over the importance and the horror behind what we do. He’ll be back in another half hour or so to add to our useless banter.
                                                                                                                                                                          The next album has no stickers or labelling. It’s jammed with colour photos of Jennifer as a child and every one has a date on the reverse. Jennifer doing the splits in the park aged eight, Jennifer standing in a cluttered hallway in school uniform aged eleven, Jennifer doing a handstand against a tree aged nine, Jennifer held by Nana aged three. She smiles in every photo and I now recognise Nana as being one of the young women from the 1930’s photos. She has the same shape smile as Jennifer and the same light eyes.  I will keep this photo. I study their smiles and their happiness absorbing it. I want to memorise their joy in that moment to use as a shield. I can’t keep the photo. It’s against the rules and I'm all about the rules.
          The third album has a large folded envelope inside. It has ‘solicitors copy’ written on and it looks worn. Inside I find several photographs taken at some sort of venue. They are recent and show Jennifer smiling with an assortment of friends. I notice him straight away, in every photo. He stands in the background like a shadow just to the left edge. I see him, the way he stares at her, angry that he has been seduced by her, it’s that smile that does it, full of joy & cheer, natural without pain. I must have taken too long with the photographs because my coffee is cold. I drink it anyway.
Mark enters the room again, he says nothing but I can hear his awkward shuffle behind me.
               “I may have something.”
               “Good, we’ve finished all of the family’s interviews and we have nothing.”

         I have to find Jennifer’s letters from her solicitor. I know I’m on the right track now and I know where it’s going to end up but in my mind, Jennifer is still smiling held safe in the hands of her Nana.