Nothing at all.
They began light-heartedly with the obvious places: Euston, the airport, Victoria; pleased with the formula that worked so well.
‘Hullo, Inspector. What can I do for you today?’
‘Well, you might be able to help my young friend from America.’
‘Yes? One for the three-thirty?’
‘We’ve got one for the three-thirty. He wants to know whether his buddy left a couple of suitcases here. Do you mind if he has a look round? We don’t want to move anything. Just to look.’
‘Well, that’s something that’s still free in this country, Inspector, believe it or not. Come behind, will you?’
So they came behind. Each time they came behind. And each time the tiered luggage looked back at them, contemptuous and withdrawn. As detached as only other people’s belongings can look.
From the likely places they moved on to the mere possibles, sobered and apprehensive. They had hoped for a diary, for personal papers. Now they would settle for even a sight of those suitcases.
But there were no familiar cases on any of the shelves.