The Day She Died

Eighteen

He put the lamp off and we sat in the firelight, side by side on the couch. It still had a bit of a creamy smell when you shifted.

“Okay. Well, first, my granny wasn’t angry,” I said.

“No?”

“But my mother was furious with me.”

“What for? For upsetting your gran?”

“My granny wasn’t upset. She laughed. She thought it was funny.”

“Really? She wasn’t pissed off?”

“Look, I’m sorry I lied before. I’ll tell you the truth this time.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay.” A log shifted and fell and the flames burned brighter. “So my mum, right? One of her favourite bits of the Bible is, He who spareth the rod spoileth the child.”

He reached out and touched my cheek again. “What did she hit you with to leave a wee hole like that in your face?” he said. “I can’t understand parents who hit their kids.”

“Really?” I said. “You’ve never lashed out?” I remembered the day with the cakes and how angry he’d been.

“At the babies?” He sounded shocked. “Ruby’s the size of a button.”

“Did Becky?”

He was silent. “You’re telling the story,” he said at last, which was my answer in a way.

“Okay, so, my granny should have known better probably, but she told my mum the funny story of little Jessie making a snowstorm in the spare bedroom, and my mum went ballistic. She asked what punishment I’d had and my granny said none. Ballistic squared. Granny had been going to chuck the quilt but my mum stopped her.”

“Christ, she never made you stuff them all back in again.”

“I’m telling the story,” I said, nudging him. “And a bit of hard work wouldn’t have screwed me up as badly as I am.”

“You’re not screwed up,” said Gus. “You invented a phobia to stop yourself getting screwed up. Clever girl.”

“How come you know about phobias? You said to me the very first night you didn’t know anyone else-”

“I looked it up yesterday,” said Gus. “And a wee bit today. ‘A mistake in adaptive learning’, isn’t it? And not even that much of a mistake. You’re dead right to be scared of feathers after what feathers did to you.”

He sounded like every self-help book and website and first appointment in the world.

“After what feathers did to me,” I agreed.

“Which was what, exactly?” said Gus. “Go on with the story.”

“Yeah, okay, so, my mum, right? She put the quilt-dead thin now-on my bed and made me sleep on top of it. And to make me not me pick at it… she tied my wrists to the bed.”

A log settled in the fireplace. Gus reached out and took my hand.

“How old were you?”

“Five,” I said

“And how many times did she do it?”

“Just once.”

He was stroking my hand very softly now, like that game we used to play in school where you tried to tell when someone’s tickling finger reached your elbow and you never could. Just like that game used to do to me, his fingers tracing my skin made me pop out in goosebumps and I had to make myself not pull my hand away. He’d said something.

“What?” I asked him

“Your cheek?”

“A feather end was sticking in it,” I said. “It made a hole. Made me bleed, cos of leaning on it for hours and hours.”

“Why didn’t you turn the other way?”

I remembered it with the kind of sharp crystal-clear remembering you only get after hours and hours of regressive hypnosis. I’d looked at that bloody room from every angle: the bed, the floor, the ceiling, close up and far away, in colour, in black and white. Play the tape forward, play the tape backwards, double-speed, triple-speed, shrink it down, fold it up, put it in a box, and lock it away.

“I didn’t want to,” I said.

“Jessie?”

“Stubborn,” I explained. “There was a”-think fast, think fast-“a picture of Mum and Dad and me on my dressing table, from before he’d left, and I didn’t want to see it. So I kept my face turned the other way even though there was a feather end sticking in my cheek.”

“All night?” said Gus. I nodded. “But wasn’t it dark?”

I was stupid enough to try to remember. And then of course, it was the real room that came back to me. The real thing I didn’t want to see.

“Not very,” I said. “There was a street light right outside her house and just a cotton blind.”

“Whose house?” said Gus.

“Mine. My mum’s, I meant.”

“And a photo of your dad from before he’d left?”

“Yeah. Yep.”

“And you were five?”

I saw the mistake I’d made. Because Dad didn’t leave until I was seven. But Did Gus know that? Had I told him?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s all I can tell you.”

“That’s plenty,” he answered. “She tied you to your bed when you were five, even though your granny wasn’t angry. Even though your granny was absolutely fine.”

“Don’t,” I said. “Please.”

“Jessie,” said Gus, “you are the bravest, best little girl there could ever be. You worked out a way to handle things that hurts no one else in the world. But you know what?” I shook my head. “It takes too much out of you. It’s time to let go.”

“Not really,” I said. “It’s a case of being careful.”

“You love children, don’t you?” he said. I felt a sob bulge up inside me. “Why don’t you have one of your own?”

It burst out of me like a shout. And the pain. Christ, it felt like he’d cracked my ribs open and squeezed my heart in his fist.

“So it’s time to lay it down,” he went on.

“How do you know what to say?” That was a translation of what I was thinking. What I was thinking was that for someone who’d only looked it all up on a computer that day, he certainly talked a good game.

“Because I care about you,” he told me.

“Someone else cared about me once. And he didn’t get the first thing about it. Couldn’t stand it.”

“Becky said she loved the kids, but she didn’t love feeding them or changing them or bathing them or singing to them or playing with them. So what did she love? Babies need you to do stuff. That’s what babies are. And you’re fucking terrified of feathers even if you won’t tell me why. Loving Jessie King means getting that.”

“Jessie Constable,” I said. But even though I was correcting him I didn’t mind really. He’d nearly said I love you, and I knew it was true.

“Big excitement yesterday then,” said Steve when I arrived the next day.

I straddled one of the black bags piled in the doorway and started on the many locks. We have locks and alarms and deadbolts so that folk won’t break in and steal the free clothes, but nobody ever takes the black sacks of crap that people dump on us when we’re closed. The sign with the donation hours is two feet square and written in red and the note along the bottom-do not leave donations in doorway when shop is closed-is outlined in waves of orange and yellow highlighter, but it’s still an obstacle course every damn day.

“You said it,” I agreed, thinking about Kazek and then stopped and turned. “What do you mean?”

“The cops bringing those clothes,” Steve said. “Of course. Why, what else happened?”

“How did you know about that?” I asked him. I was booting the bin bags inside. I didn’t want to have to take my gloves off and touch them-it was that special kind of cheerless cold this morning, the river fog seeping up the side streets, beading our hair and clothes, dripping down the windows.

“Dot told me when she phoned to check the shifts,” he said.

I kicked a bag that didn’t have clothes inside and hopped about a bit until my toe stopped throbbing.

“That better be boots,” I said. But it felt like metal and my guess was pots and pans. The Free Clothing Project has a massive clue in the name, but when folk get to clearing out their cupboards they just think “charity shop” and if we’re the nearest to where they live, we get whatever they’re clearing. I usually bung it all in a supermarket trolley and trundle it up to Oxfam, who’re never that happy to see it either, but they can’t say no until they’ve at least checked it through.

“She said you might have recognised the jacket,” said Steve. “But you denied it. Quite right. You need to ask Management where we stand, confidentiality-wise. I’d have done the same.”

“God’s sake, Steve,” I said. The neck of the heavy bag looked clean enough actually-even though a doorway in St. Vincent Street is nowhere to leave anything overnight if you want it fresh in the morning, between the dogs, the drunks, and the gulls-so I squatted and untied the handles. “Think I’d give a stuff about line management when some poor bloke got slashed and chucked in the Nith? I didn’t recognise the coat. It was a work jacket with plastic shoulders. A donkey jacket.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Steve had a problem with donkey jackets. First, we weren’t allowed to call them that. And then he vetoed them altogether, along with army surplus, those silvery marathon blankets, and terry-towelling nappies. I reckoned the jackets and blankets were warm and practical, but Steve thinks they’re humiliating and one step up from asking tramps to stuff their clothes with newspapers. (He was all for the towelling nappies, mind you, and vouchers for the launderette, until I pointed out that you’re not allowed to wash nappies in a launderette, which he wouldn’t know because he’s never had to use one. And since nothing makes Steve madder than someone making out he’s clueless-or “insinuating that he’s out of touch with the reality of our clients’ lives” as he put it-that meeting ended on a sour note.)

“So how’s Gus?” he said, changing the subject. “Have you heard from him again?” This was very innocent-sounding, but I was sure Dot had told him I’d come to work in Gus’s car.

“Gus is great,” I answered, and I couldn’t help smiling. I looked down to hide it. “Wow. Cake tins,” I said. “Yeah, that’s the thing about destitution. It can play havoc with your home baking.” I retied the bag handles and took it through to the Oxfam trolley.

“When I say ‘great’, mind you,” I added coming back again, “I mean he’s doing really well for the kids. And he’s a great guy. He’s not so hot in himself, obviously. And he beats himself up like you wouldn’t believe.”

Steve was raking through the rest of the bags now. Holding up a shirt with an appraising look in his eye. He put it down quickly when he saw me watching. “For what?” he said. “Survivor guilt? He needs counselling.”

“Not exactly. Coffee? Tea? He doesn’t even think he should take time off work, if you can believe it,” I said. “He was freaked out because he couldn’t crack on with what he’s meant to be doing.”

“Sculptor’s block,” said Steve. “I never thought of that. Coffee.”

Sister Avril phoned then to tell me there was a volunteer care-worker coming in today to pick up some women’s clothing and take them to her client’s house for trying on.

“Why can’t the client come and choose her own?” I said. You hear about those care homes where they don’t even try to make sure the old dears get their own clothes back from the laundry. I heard once about a place where they washed the teeth in one great big bowl and just dished them out again. “The whole point of the Project is that it’s supposed to be a shopping experience. Not a-”

Sister Avril cut me off. “Size twenty-eight,” she said.

“Ah,” I said. Not much dignity for the client if we had to move the racks back against the wall to wheel her in. “Twenty-eight. Wow. I’ll see what we’ve got.”

“God be with you,” said Avril, like she always did, making it sound as if he’d phone her at the end of the shift to tell her what I’d been up to. She and my mother would have got on like a house on fire, if only each of them didn’t sum up the other one’s hunch that Satan still walked among us.

I took Steve his coffee and switched the computer on.

“So what’s he working on?” he said. “It wasn’t like a statue of her or anything, was it?”

So I told him about Dave’s House and was pleased to see the frown growing. Hah! I thought. You might have done a hundred and fifty Open University courses, but you’re still one of us. You don’t get it, do you?

“Have you seen it?” he said.

“No. Why?”

“Just… it sounds… ” He couldn’t seem to finish.

So I told him all about Shed Boat Shed, laying it on thick. His frown deepened.

“Yeah, that too,” he said. “Did you see that one?”

“No, it’s sold. That too what?”

“They sound… familiar,” said Steve. I could feel myself blushing. Not only did Steve get Gus’s kind of weird sculpture, but he’d heard of them, read about them in the kind of Sunday papers they’d get mentioned in. Maybe he’d even been to a gallery and seen them.

“There must have been publicity when Shed Boat Shed got sold,” I said. “I know it went for a bundle.”

Steve shook his head and sipped his coffee. His wee round glasses steamed up and when they cleared, he was staring at me. “But the one you say he’s doing now sounds dead familiar too,” he said. “And you haven’t actually seen either of them.”

“What are you saying, Steve?”

“Just… sounds like he talks a good game,” Steve said, and I don’t think I managed to hide how I felt to hear my own thoughts come back at me.

“But I have seen something he made,” I said. “Listen to this, eh?” I might have made it sound better than it was. “Lights and like… landscapes inside, like a grotto. You can’t really see it. It’s a bit of a nightmare to be honest, and you wouldn’t want it in your house if you lived alone. But it’s totally brilliant and it’s right there in the workshop. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Steve had finished his coffee and he fiddled with the cup, not looking at me.

“You didn’t see him make it,” he said. “He might have bought it.”

“He couldn’t afford it! God’s sake, Steve. He’s got a workshop full of bits and bobs and a half-finished sculpture and a finished sculpture and he says he’s a sculptor, and you knew he was an artist from knowing his family, but you still can’t work out how all that fits together? What’s your problem?” I knew, of course. It was just like the disciples, except for the other way on. You believe what you want to believe, and you don’t believe what you don’t want to believe. Steve didn’t want to believe in Gus, so it didn’t matter what I said, he’d find away to make it seem dodgy.

“I don’t trust him,” said Steve, right on cue. “It’s been a week, Jessie, and he’s… it’s like he’s put a spell on you. He’s got his hooks right in you, and I can’t see why.”

“Thanks a bunch!”

“I didn’t mean that. God, hardly. Just, you’re usually so careful with people. Even with… us.”

He’d been going to say me.

“I just don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “I trust him.” I felt a flicker, but it was small enough to ignore. “I’m glad I was careful with people all these years, so nobody else managed to get their hooks into me and I was free when Gus came along.” I didn’t care if I was hurting him. He didn’t look hurt, though. He looked puzzled.

“You make it sound as if you’ve only just met him,” he said. “I thought you were friends.”

The shop door dinged before I could answer and I turned, gratefully, away. I didn’t recognise the man who stood there. Definitely not a client. He was in his fifties, dressed in jeans and Timberland boots, with a Gore-Tex fleece on top and a Gore-Tex shoulder harness on top of that with a phone velcroed on. He smiled at me.

“Miss Constable,” he said. “I’m here about the clothes.”

I blinked. Then I got it. This was the volunteer care worker, and I hadn’t started searching for what we might have in a twenty-eight. I smiled back. A few years ago I’d have said he didn’t look like a typical volunteer, back when they were all church ladies. But it was getting hard to tell now. Folk were getting nervous about their jobs and rounding out their CVs. And some of the big companies in town had cottoned on to giving time instead of money too, all those middle managers taking an afternoon to streamline some charity into efficiency and sending the little old church ladies packing with the new rules and the computing system.

Father Tommy was sick of the lot of them. “Say it with cash” was one of his slogans. He’d tried to tell that to the Peter Pan steering group. But he’d said a lot of other stuff too. “Hierarchy, a line of command, central control of resources. It’s not a quilting bee.” And someone at the meeting had piped up-I knew because Dot had told me-“Would His Holiness be interested, Father?” and there’d been a lot of tittering and a few jokes about Bishoprics and Presbyteries, which didn’t sound all that funny and Father Tommy resigned from the committee saying that it would all end in tears.

And hadn’t it just! Poor old house was lying there with the roof off and the blue polythene sheet flapping and a bulldozer sitting chained up in the garden, because the plant hire company wouldn’t let the volunteer building crew use it and wouldn’t send a driver (or even come and pick it up) until they got paid. A fiasco, just like Father Tommy had said, and who could blame him for sounding a bit chuffed about it.

I was on my way to the outsize section when I turned.

“Women’s clothes?” I asked. How could a male volunteer help a woman try clothes on?

“Men’s clothes, Miss Constable,” he said. And that was another thing. Volunteers were Miz users all the way. Only the little old church ladies ever Miss’ed me.

“Size twenty-eight is a woman’s size, though,” I said.

He stared at me. I stared back. Steve cleared his throat and disappeared through the back. When he had gone, the man moved forward, pretty fast, between the rails and tables.

“I hear you didn’t want to say where you’d seen them,” he said. He spoke without moving his bottom lip, as if his teeth were clenched. Made him look like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Bit late for that,” he said. “You did better than that yesterday. ‘If only he hadn’t been wearing a donkey jacket, he might not have drowned.’ ” He said in a high, mincing voice, mocking me.

“Those clothes!” I blurted. I started back, but he grabbed my arm.

“Hey!” I said. “Steve?” I heard the toilet flushing and shouted louder. “Steve!”

“Where is he?” he said. “What do you know?”

He was gripping my arm really hard just below the elbow and he started turning it back, like you do when you’re taking a drumstick off a roasted chicken, until it snaps. But I’d been well trained in getting out of someone’s grip who was bigger and stronger and thought they could bully you. I looked quickly to check my aim and then stamped down on his boot. My foot bounced back, aching. Steel-toe caps? But I’d distracted him long enough to let me knee him hard in the groin. Then I felt his grip slacken, and I twisted my arm away. I got myself behind the counter and yelled again.

“Steve!”

He was limping badly, but he made his way to the door.

“Hey, pal,” I said. He looked up, just for an instant, and I had him. Click! We always keep a camera behind the desk in case there’s trouble.

“I haven’t finished with you,” he said, pointing at me, jabbing the air with his finger. His other hand was cupped over his crotch.

“Oh, you’re a big scary man that’s holding his willie,” I said. If someone really goes for me, I always turn lippy. And it worked on this guy. He left without another word.

“Were you shouting?” said Steve. “I was in the loo.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Listen, Steve, what exactly did Dot tell you happened yesterday?” Because someone had told that guy everything, down to the very words. So either Dot or Steve, whether deliberately or accidentally, had said far too much to someone.

“What I said,” said Steve. “Why?”

“Trust me,” I told him.

“Dot said the police thought you recognised the coat.”

“Did Dot say whether she thought I did too?”

“No,” said Steve.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Tell them what? What’s going on, Jessie?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I need to think. So if you didn’t mind looking out some twenty-eights, I’m going to slip away.”

There was an idea growing inside me, like some kind of toxic toadstool, but I couldn’t root it out. Dot had said something to me and when I called her on it, she’d toughed it out, counting on me not asking her to follow through. She’d slipped and she knew it. Then I shook myself. Dot? Dittery Dot? Dot lived in a bungalow in Thornhill with a Corgi. But still.

I took the camera with me. Round to Catherine Street, into the library. I didn’t have time to check for myself, so I went to the reference desk and asked the librarian there.

“Hi,” I said. “Listen, am I right in thinking that you keep press clippings?” He nodded. “So does that mean you go through the papers every day?” Another nod. “So if something had been in the news about Dumfries, you’d know, right?”

“If it was memorable enough,” he said. “I’m not the oracle.”

“Oh, you’d remember this,” I assured him. “Are there gangsters in town? Known gangsters?”

He laughed. He must have wondered why I couldn’t join him. “No, not that I can recall,” he said, clearing his throat.

“So there’s not been anything in the paper about real proper master gangsters?”

“Not in the Standard,” he told me. “Maybe the Marvel.” And he laughed again, at his own joke this time.

I thanked him and left, my head fizzing. However Dot knew about gangsters in town, it wasn’t from the paper like she’d said. She was in this. She had to be.

I hurried across the road to my flat. I’d told Kazek I’d be back in the evening, so I hoped I wouldn’t surprise him in the shower. But it was better to do it now. If the Timberland boot man was going to have me followed, he’d do it at four when the Project closed. This might be my last chance to drop in on Kazek safely, for a while anyway. Thinking that, I changed direction, went to the corner shop, and stocked up on milk, rolls, chocolate bars, big bags of crisps, some bacon and eggs. The girl behind the counter stared at me and couldn’t help her lip curling. I know, I know, I wanted to say. Only stoners buy bags and bags of junk food in corner shops in the middle of the day. But where would your business be without them?

Kazek was in the shower, but fully dressed, with the shower head in pieces on the floor of the bath. “Jessie-Pleasie?” he called.

“It’s me!” I called back.

“Broke. Fix,” said Kazek. “Come in.”

And then he explained very fast, with lots of pointing at the shower head, what I already knew: that the water only came out of one side and the hot and cold didn’t mix together properly. “Fix,” he said. He had my pathetic little collection of tools laid out on the slip mat. An adjustable spanner, a set of screwdrivers from out of a Christmas cracker, and a hammer and measuring tape in matching purple flowers that I’d got at work in the Secret Santa.

“Thank you,” I said. I held up the carrier bags and then went to the kitchen to put them away. He’d been busy in there too. The cheap cabinet doors that had slipped down on their hinges until they were all hanging crooked were all hanging straight again. And-was this even possible?-the wrinkles were gone from the vinyl flooring. I bent down and squinted along the length of it. There should have been ripples like in the mouth of a whale, but there was nothing.

“Fix,” he said, coming up behind me.

“How?” I asked him. He reached into the swing bin and pulled out a rolled-up strip of vinyl, then he showed me the line of tacks along the far end holding it down, screwing his face up in apology for the shoddy workmanship.

“I’ll let you off,” I said. “You lifted and relaid my lino?” I turned round and checked out the living room. “Haven’t hemmed the curtains yet, I see. Free-loader.” He caught my tone and smiled.

“Okayyyyyyy,” I said.

“Okayyyyyyy,” said Kazek.

I pulled the camera out of my bag, found the picture of the Timberland boot guy, and handed it over. I should have seen it coming. Kazek dropped it. Good hands though; he caught it before it hit the floor.

“Bad man,” he said. “Jamboree.”

“Let’s phone Ros’s sister.” I had to mime before he got me, but he got me in the end. I handed him the phone and watched while he punched in the number.

“Hello?” she said, when he passed the phone to me.

“Eva?” I said. “Hello. My name is Jessie Constable and I’m a friend of Kazek’s.”

“He told me,” she said. “He gave me a different number for you but no one answered, and then he called me yesterday. Thank you so much for taking care of him.”

“How do you know Kazek?” I asked, but she had her own priorities.

“Do you know where my sister is?”

“I don’t. I hoped you could tell me something that might help me find her. She left the place she was staying on Saturday.”

“She would never leave Kazek and Wojtek. Or worry me this way. Why has she not phoned me?”

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I really can’t say. But here’s a good thing. She took her stuff with her. Some of it anyway. She left deliberately. Packed and made plans.”

“She would not leave Kazek,” Eva repeated. “Why would she do that, eh?”

Now this was a problem. I didn’t know what her sister knew about Ros’s life, the possible Becky connection, the money, the kind of people Ros hung around with if Timberland Guy was one of them.

“Listen,” I said. “I showed Kazek a photo of someone,” I said. “I’m going to pass you over and I want you to ask the name. Okay? Ask who it is.” It only took a moment until I had her back again.

“Gary,” she said “Gang man. Does he know where Ros is?” Here she broke down into dry heaving sobs. I put my hand over the phone.

“Gary?” I said to Kazek, pointing at the camera. He nodded and crossed himself. “But who is he?” I said into the phone. Gary the Gangster? Didn’t seem likely. Thomas the Tank Engine. Larry the Lamb. And if Ros’s sister knew there was a gang mixed up in this, did she know about the money too?

“How does Ros know him?” I asked.

“She doesn’t,” the sister said. “Why would she know such a person?”

“Look,” I said, “I don’t want to worry you, but Wojtek is dead.” Her gasp made the line crackle. “And Kazek is terrified for his life. It’s true, even if he hasn’t told you. I can’t actually believe this is happening-and if you knew Dot, you’d know I’m not kidding-but Ros is involved somehow. A young woman killed herself. Not Ros, for God’s sake! Her friend Becky. So I really need to find Ros, because she’s the one who’s skipped and left all this behind her. She must know something.”

“You are looking for my sister to answer questions?” said Eva. “Not to make sure she is safe and okay?”

“Where did Kazek get the money?” I asked her.

“What money?” she said.

“Ask him.” I passed the phone over and listened to them. I was beginning to think I could understand Polish by now. I could get the gist of the intonation anyway, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I grabbed the phone back.

“Well?” I said.

“He doesn’t know what money you mean,” Eva said.

“He bloody does,” I said. “God, if we had Skype, I could show you.” Except of course I didn’t know where he’d stashed it this time. “Okay, listen. Can you think of anyone Ros would go to? Any town she’s got friends in, any particular reason she’d have to go somewhere instead of somewhere else?”

“I think I don’t trust you,” she said. “I don’t know how you know all these dead people. Or why you are looking for Ros. What is the real true reason you want to find her, eh?”

“Oh, great,” I said.

“I think I will call the police,” she said.

“Yes, good! I agree,” I told her.

“Let me speak to Kazek,” she demanded.

“To tell him not to trust me? Why should I?” But I handed the phone over anyway, because she could just as easy call back after I’d gone. I gave him the hard stare with my arms folded all the time he was talking. Policja was the only thing I understood out of the whole endless stream of it. He talked her round too. “Nie dzwon po policja. No police. Okay,” was the last thing he said before Czesc and hanging up. He raised his hands, surrendering. Hung his head too.

“Sorry, Jessie-Pleasie,” he said.

“Okay,” I said. “I will find something, either in the cottage or at Gizzy’s, in Ros’s old gaff or in the office or something somehow, or something she said to Gizzy or Gus or Ruby or something for God’s sake that’ll help us work out where she’s gone-and then we can find her.”

He nodded. He walked over to the kettle and held it up, questioning, for all the world like we were just two pals hanging out in my flat, like you do.

“Only what’s that going to change?” I said, sort of to him but more to myself, really. “She might be able to tell me why Becky killed herself, but how can she get Gary the Gangster off your back?”

“Jaroslawa jest prawnikiem,” said Kazek. “Prawnikiem, Jessie-

Pleasie.”

“Write it down,” I said. I gave him a scrap of paper from beside my phone and once he had scribbled on it, I put it in my pocket and sat back. I was exhausted. Then I hauled myself to my feet, opened the fridge, and showed him the shopping.

“Stay here,” I told him. “Don’t answer the door.”