I copied the registration numbers into the small gray notebook I kept in the lining of my handbag.

A woman at the next desk sneezed into her wool coat.

Then I looked at the date of the very first transfer in the record.

November, ten years ago.

Exactly three weeks after the memorial service the Duncan family had held for Jonathan’s sister, Rowena.

The official police report from that autumn had concluded that she drowned in the bay, though her body was never recovered from the deep water.

I sat very still in front of that glowing screen.