Nothing in that report was news.
Every single thing in it, I had seen a version of between 2023 and 2025. The money that never quite added up. The way his mother talked about Nadine, once, at Christmas, and then never again. The company that had a new name.
I had all of it. I had two years of first-hand evidence and a father who had paid for the professional version, and the difference between us is that he was holding a folder and I was holding a marriage.
And I did not need a general and two saloons to tell me what that man was.
I needed twelve dollars on a pavement, which is a thing I could have had in about 2024 if I had been willing to look.
And the eleven voicemails, which I have never listened to and which Yolanda Skerrit has.
She listened to all of them in the April of 2025, with my permission, because she needed to know whether there was anything in them that mattered.
