Sergeant Draper was hammering an incident report into the computer system when he arrived. He was almost surprised the letters were still attached to the keyboard such was the enthusiasm of the officer's one-fingered typing skills. He waited to be noticed for a second or two before rapping on the desk. “Morning, Col.”
The sergeant paused and looked up. “Sir.” He jerked his head toward a series of doors. He's in room three if you want a shufty.”
“Just give me the outline, would you?” White stifled a yawn. “You said he'd been dead for twenty years?”
“Yes sir. I had the files sent up from records.” He tapped an old, pre-computer case file, woefully thin and with a stamp on the front that claimed it had been weeded for extraneous paper subject to archive directive twenty-slash-four-oh-three.
White picked up the file. It contained three sheets of paper. An incident and procedure report, a statement from the witness and a photograph of the missing man. “Mind if I borrow this?”
“Be my guest. It's a bloody weird case, if you ask me. He doesn't look a day older than when he disappeared.”
“Perhaps he's the son.” White looked at the report. Perhaps he isn't Percival Trubshaw but his son...” His face clouded as connections were made. “Perhaps he's really Sam Trubshaw, the lad I've been looking for since Tuesday.”
“Doubt it, sir. Miss McKinty swore it was her old boyfriend and not her son.”