Such a medieval word. Too grand, but then closet smacks too much of secrecy, and the secret is out now. Which is why there are no longer any robes warded here. Just an assortment of coathangers, telling their own forensic stories.
Coathangers of plastic, in a haphazard variety of sizes. Some with the logos of high street shops. A couple of diminutive ones for kids’s clothes. And a few of wood. Some of these had names on them: family names and maiden names, names of friends, and the name of a dry cleaning firm, in a Lancashire town he had never even visited.
the jangle of
a wire coathanger