It was yellowed, it was old, it was a grainy picture with a bit of text. It fell out of the back of a chest of drawers while we were emptying the bedroom before repainting it.
A dead body had been found, it did not say where. It was probably a certain Mr Thimblethwaite who had been missing for weeks. There was no mention of the person in the grainy picture. Not very helpful.
“No!” she said. It wasn’t him, not the body and definitely not the picture. “I kept the cutting, I don’t know why. I haven’t seen it in years.”
“You have never told me much about your late husband, have you granny?”
“I never really thought about it, really. But I can see that it, the cutting and perhaps him, have a meaning for us. We both suffer from bad dreams, I think we must talk about them, and perhaps get help from others. We are in danger.”