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In short, Amelia didn’t think she looked like a particularly nice person, and she wondered why Mr Vishwanath, who seemed to be so picky about his yoga students, wanted to teach her.
    Assuming she really was a yoga student, of course.
    Amelia knew that all the rumours about Mr Vishwanath being a spy or a crime boss were nonsense, so she knew the rumours about the lady being his accomplice were nonsense as well. But Amelia found it hard to believe the lady came to learn yoga. Once she had asked Mr Vishwanath what the lady really did when she came to his studio, but he hadn’t said anything, or even acknowledged her question. Yet the lady looked too old for yoga, and she always came in a fur coat, which was the last thing she would have needed. And her expression was always so harsh, with none of the peace, none of the contentment, that showed so strongly in Mr Vishwanath’s face. Maybe she was an old friend of Mr Vishwanath, or a relative, and went there to visit him. If so, Amelia didn’t think much of her. She didn’t think much of the way the old lady left the small man sitting in the car when she went inside. She was probably having tea and cake with Mr Vishwanath, enjoying herself, while the man in the car had nothing. And she never brought anything out to him. That was another thing that made Amelia dislike her.
    ‘What do you think she’s doing in there?’ murmured Amelia, still gazing at the street, although a couple of minutes must have passed since the old lady had disappeared into Mr Vishwanath’s studio and the driver had gone back to the car. She gazed for a moment longer, then glanced at the sculpted lady outside her window, who stared down with her sightless eyes.
    Amelia went back to reading. It was a horror story she had just started about a killer hamster that gets caught in an X-ray machine in a laboratory and grows to the size of a wolf, but because Amelia had read so many horror stories she could quickly tell which ones were any good. This one wasn’t particularly promising, which was why she had been looking out the window and saw the cream-coloured car coming down Marburg Street in the first place.
    The sound of banging and chiselling came from the sculpture room. Painting and weaving were much quieter arts, and Amelia often wished her mother would spend more of her time on them. Lately, she had spent all her time in the sculpture room, and wouldn’t let anyone in to see what she was doing. Amelia’s father said that probably indicated the start of a new phase. What made Amelia’s mother go from one phase to the next was a mystery to Amelia. Still, it was probably a good thing if it meant there weren’t going to be any more of the narrow so-called faces in the garden. On the other hand, it might not be such a good thing if something even worse appeared.
    The intercom on Amelia’s wall buzzed. It was a system her father had invented, with a number of improvements which supposedly made it superior to every other intercom system in the world. Or would, when he had perfected them. The fact that it wasn’t quite finished hadn’t stopped him installing it.
    ‘Amelia, can you . . . I need . . . come . . . and bring . . . quickly because . . .’
    Amelia sighed. That was better than usual. Even hearing the buzz of the intercom was better than usual.
    She waited, still listening. A few more words came out, then there was a kind of scrunchy crackling. Then silence.
    Her father would be in his invention shed in the garden. Amelia put the book aside and left her room. On the second floor, the banging behind the door to the sculpture room was loud. Amelia went all the way down. Mrs Ellis was beating eggs in the kitchen as she went past.
    The door to Mr Vishwanath’s studio was open. Amelia stopped. She knew that at that very moment the old lady was inside.
    Amelia hesitated. Mr Vishwanath’s door wasn’t normally open. He must have forgotten to close it properly when the old lady arrived. Amelia