It was a Tuesday.
That was the thing Damian kept coming back to afterward. Not a significant day. Not a day with anything particular attached to it. A Tuesday in the middle of an ordinary week, the city doing its ordinary things, the bookshop having its ordinary morning.
He'd locked up at six fifteen.
Kendrick had been inside — they'd been going through Sandra's latest notes on the 14C challenge response, spread across the counter the way their working sessions had started to look, two cups of tea going cold at the edges of the documents.
At six twenty Kendrick had packed the papers into his bag and they'd walked out together.
That was all.
