The Unanswered Question

The police archive was not the sort of place Emma had imagined when she was twenty-one. She had pictured shelves of brown folders and an officer willing to search them for a persuasive journalist. Instead she had spent three days establishing which records could be requested, which were restricted and which might no longer exist in their original form.

The document she eventually received was a partial copy of a 2011 incident log, released with names and contact details removed. It was not the complete investigation file. Emma wrote that distinction at the top of her notebook before she read a word of it.

The entry for 22 September recorded a report from the Morrison family. A later line referred to a possible sighting on the road towards Inverness. Beside it was a short notation: D. Reid — follow-up pending. No completed follow-up appeared in the extract.

Emma checked the page numbers. Two pages were missing, both explicitly withheld. The absence of a visible report could mean the officer had never filed one, or simply that the report was elsewhere. She had no right to choose the more dramatic explanation.

Before calling, Emma compared the reference printed at the top of the extract with the one in her old notebook. She had copied the latter from a press briefing, and two digits were reversed. It was a minor mistake, but it altered the route by which she could request the original material. She corrected the entry and dated the correction. Fifteen years earlier, she would have erased the mistake and hoped nobody noticed. Now she wanted a record of how her understanding had changed.

A second document arrived from the archive that afternoon: a short explanation of the retention policy. It did not identify Reid or Claire, but it made clear that administrative extracts and witness statements were held in different systems. Emma highlighted the passage. The missing pages might not be missing from the investigation at all. They might simply belong to a category she had not been authorised to see.

She telephoned the records office. The administrator explained that the extract could not establish what action had been taken after the notation. Emma asked whether she could submit a narrower request for the follow-up reference number. She could, the administrator said, although the response might still be restricted.

Then Emma searched her own 2011 notes. Daniel Reid's name appeared once, in a list of officers who had spoken to reporters outside the police station. She remembered a tall man who had answered questions cautiously and then walked away when a camera crew arrived. That memory might have belonged to a different day; she had never written a description beside the name.

She found a current professional listing for Daniel Reid, now retired from policing and working with a community transport charity. The public contact number led to an office rather than a private address. Emma left a message saying she was reviewing her own reporting about the Morrison case and wanted to clarify a historical record. She did not mention the letter.

Sarah rang before Reid returned the call. Emma described the notation and the missing pages.

"You've got the old log?" Sarah asked.

"An extract. Two pages are withheld."

"So don't write 'missing pages' in the headline. You know how people will read that."

"I haven't written a headline."

"A miracle. I might put it in the staff newsletter."

Emma laughed, then glanced at the notation beside Reid's name. "It says his follow-up was pending. I'm going to ask him what happened."

"Good. Ask him. And Emma?"

"Yes?"

"Let him answer before you decide whether you believe him."

The joke faded, leaving Emma with the old headline open on her screen. Sarah knew precisely where to press.