The impulse to enter the room was irresistible. He gripped the smooth metal handle, but it would not budge. If only he could remember where he found the key last time. He ran his hand along the top of the doorframe, his fingers gathering a film of dust, the only reward for his endeavour. A search along the edge of the carpet proved futile. He clenched his fists as frustration swept over him. 
 
“Think.” He took a lungful of air and slowly breathed out.   
 
Next to the front door stood a table but its surface only held a few letters. A search through the pockets of the coats hanging from a row of pegs produced nothing except receipts and mints. An old map hung on the wall at the bottom of the stairs. The village green and pond dominated the centre of the map. At the end of the High Street, just before the church, a police station was marked. A red string led from it to a small photo stuck at the top right-hand corner of the map. A police constable, a smile on his youthful face, stood outside a small building with a blue lantern above the door and a notice board with writing too small to decipher. A memory of entering the building was accompanied by a feeling of trepidation. Above the photo, a faint glint of metal was visible on the top of the wooden frame around the map. Success, he’d found the key. It turned in the lock with a satisfying click. He glanced over his shoulder to check no-one had heard and come to investigate, then slipped inside the room. 
 
An ancient wooden desk occupied the alcove by the bay window. A swivel chair was pushed back as if someone had just got up and left the room. He must be quick in case they returned. The top drawer of the desk held writing paper, envelopes and pens. He opened the bottom drawer revealing hanging files, each clearly labelled. Unlikely that whatever he was searching for would be found amongst household bills. At the back of the drawer was a  photo album. Each black and white portrait on the first page had a name underneath. The names meant nothing to him, who was great auntie Vera and would knowing provide him with the answers he sought? He turned the page, the photos more recent, although the colour faded to sepia. Pictures of a small boy building a sandcastle on a wind-swept beach with a woman looking on, the love in her eyes palpable. The bucket and spade evoked boyhood memories of sand between his toes. On subsequent pages, the  pictures depicted the boy as he grew into a gangly teenager and then a young man dressed in baggy jeans and a bomber jacket, his arm around a beautiful woman. Her head was tilted back, and he could hear a tinkling laugh. Was it from his memory or had it come on the breeze carrying the scent of Jasmine through the open window? The afternoon was cooling as the sun sank below the trees at the bottom of the garden. Time was running out, he should carry on his search, there might be a safe, but he could not resist the pull of  the remaining pages of the album.  
 
In a wedding picture the bride gazed lovingly at her bridegroom, a tall young man with broad shoulders and dark wavy hair. A sensation, close to pain, took hold of him and tears stung his eyes. He turned his head away and caught a reflection in the mirror on the wall, a man with short greying hair stared back at him. Why did he look so old? He was in the prime of his life, doing the job he loved. What his job entailed, eluded him at that moment. He shook his head and carried on looking through the photos. It was as if they were telling him a story and he wanted to find out the ending. Pictures of two children, with their mother looking as young as on her wedding day, were followed by photos of the children as they were growing into adulthood. One featured the man from the wedding photo, sporting a moustache and sideburns, playing with the children. He stroked his upper lip, smooth now, but a memory of stroking the thick hair surfaced. Finally, a photo of a mother with a baby, his eyes fixed on his young mother. The sensation of a new baby smell was strong. Who were these people and what did he need to find out about them?  
 
Folded between the last pages of the album was a  newspaper article. The headline read, ‘Local police crack biggest fraud case in the country’, and under a blurry picture,  ‘Detective Inspector Radcliffe who led the investigation is in a critical condition in hospital’. The name was familiar, his gaze rested on a framed certificate from the University of Manchester displayed on the desk. Paul Radcliffe had a degree in criminal psychology, useful for a career in the police.  
The door opening startled him. He jumped up. A woman walked in and smiled. His hand instinctively reached into his inside jacket pocket but there was nothing there, and he began patting the other pockets of his jacket.  
 
“What are you up to in here?” 
 
“Um,” he hadn’t got a warrant card, he sensed that he should not be without one.  
 
“Have you lost something?” 
 
“Yes, I’m looking…” his voice trailed off. What was he looking for? A phrase came to mind and with more confidence he said, “Yes, I’m conducting an investigation into a fraud case.” 
 
“Well, that sounds serious, can I help?” The woman smiled encouragingly and he began to relax. His eyes met hers and as a flash of recognition struck him, he put his hand on the desk to steady himself.   
 
“Natasha?” 
 
The woman blinked away tears, one escaped and slowly trickled down her soft cheek. He felt an overwhelming desire to wipe the tear away and comfort her, but he should remain professional, and he stayed routed to the spot. He lowered his eyes. Why on earth was he wearing slippers?  
 
To cover up his embarrassment, he turned back the pages of the album and pointed to the picture of the young woman laughing. “I feel as if I should know her.” As he scrutinised the woman’s face, a slow realisation swept over him, the eyes were an exact match. He turned to the woman in the room, her face showed signs of age, but she was still beautiful, and he felt drawn to her. “This must be you.” 
 
“You’re right. Of course, I was a lot younger when that picture was taken.”  
 
A fragment of memory returned to him, the sound of the sea on the pebble beach, salt on his lips. “We put the camera with the timer on the breakwater, a wave came in and wet our feet, it made us laugh.” 
 
She reached out a hand. He took a step towards her and took her hand in his. It was soft and comforting. Memories of other moments like these swam around his mind like elusive clouds. 
 
“I’ve lost my memory, haven’t I?”  
 
“You still have your memories, but it’s just that you’ve lost the key to unlock them.” 
 
He pointed at the newspaper cutting. “And is this me?” 
 
“That’s you. Detective Inspector Paul Radcliffe.” 
 
“This is the story of my life, isn’t it? You set me a case to solve and hid these for me to find.” 
 
“Yes. You were a great detective, and you still are. Every time you find your way in here you remember more. Now come outside and have some tea with me in the last of the afternoon sun. Tilly is in the garden with your grandson. We need to make the most of the summer before it’s over. I’ll bring the photos, and tell you the story of your life, and all about your family who love you dearly and the joy you’ve bought to every one of us.” 
 
He stepped out into the garden. A young woman holding a baby walked towards him. 
 
“Here’s grandad,” she said, and held the baby out to him. 
 
He took the child and bent his face towards the soft, downy head. His heart swelled with memories of holding a baby long ago.  As the sun came out from behind a cloud warming his face, the images floating in his mind grew a little clearer.  
He smiled at his daughter. “I remember holding you when you were a baby.” 
 
The blackness that threatened to engulf him was receding, he was lost but was finding his way back.

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