Wait. No. There is something else that would betray me, and I only realize it now. My case notes. I’ve been hiding them under that floorboard. Yes, Alice knows where it is, but if she found the notes, she’d think nothing of them—after all, Ihavebeen helping Gray and McCreadie with the case. But if the killer came into my room, wanting to prove to himself that I was not Catriona, those notes would do it.
Here I’m looking for a similar telltale sign. What I find is something altogether different.
I’ve done enough searches as a cop to scan a room and know where to look first. In the living room, it’s the settee—an old and ratty thing, the Victorian equivalent of a Goodwill find.
I check the back, looking for holes. I check the cushions. Then I flip itover to find a tear that’s been enlarged. Reach in. Root around. Pull out a small notebook.
I open to the first pages and see handwriting that looks like that on the back of Evans’s note—the information about Catriona. I take the note from my pocket to check. Yep, same script.
The book is Findlay’s case notes. The keen young constable eager to improve his craft, laboriously detailing every aspect of a case, particularly when McCreadie made a connection or uncovered a clue. A personal how-to manual for becoming a detective, and looking at it, I see myself reflected in these pages. I’d been this kind of constable. After helping on a case, I’d write up these notes on my computer and research anything I didn’t understand. Teaching myself how to be a detective.
I flip through the pages. Three-quarters of the way through, the handwriting changes. Oh, it’s not a marked change. It could pass for the other writing, if the author was in a hurry or writing on an awkward surface. Yet I don’t see that. I see someone trying to emulate the original handwriting, with all the stops and starts of practice before the script smooths out.
In these pages, the writer is no longer detailing his job; he’s detailing his life. My grandfather—on my dad’s side—had Alzheimer’s, and he kept a journal just like this. Reminders to himself that became increasingly heartbreaking as the disease sank its claws into him. At first, it was just regular notes like I might jot in my planner.Dentist appointment—ask about left top molar. Recycling is now the first and third weeks of the month. New parking spot is 18A.But then it became more. The names of people my grandfather knew. Reminders to do daily tasks, like showering. And finally, reminders of himself, of who he was.
That is what I see here. Those later stages. Copious notes on who Findlay was, everything about him and his job and who he might encounter on a daily basis. There are blank spaces where the imposter can come back and fill things in. There’s an entire page on McCreadie, starting with his name and appearance and a few personal details, some of which I know, most I don’t—lives alone, never married, engaged once, workaholic, ambitious, estranged from wealthy family. More has been added later, everything from McCreadie’s home address to how he takes his tea to his relationships with others.
I stare down at the page and my breathing catches enough that I needto take a moment to calm my racing heart. This is what I was looking for. More than I dared hope for. It’s like finding the imposter actuallydidwrite a diary of his time-travel adventures.
The first part of the book is Constable Colin Findlay’s notes for becoming a detective. The second part is the imposter’s notes for becoming Constable Colin Findlay.