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family. A brother out in China or Thailand, I think. His parents died in a car crash seven years ago.” I held the mug of coffee out to her.
    “Thanks. What about your mother? His ex-wife, I mean?”
    “What about her?”
    “Have you told her? Has she … have you been in touch? You have contact details for her, don’t you?”
    “No, actually, I don’t.”
    “I see.” She frowned as she sipped at the coffee, though it was still way too hot to drink. We moved back into the living room.
    “My mother left years ago. We haven’t heard from her since. She didn’t care then and she’s not going to care now. Dad and I always looked after each other and we managed fine.” This wasn’t quite true: the last few years, I’d mostly looked after him.
    “Right, I see.” She slipped abruptly from caring-sympathetic mode to brisk and business-like, plonking the mug of coffee down on a work surface and turning to the briefcase she had left on one of the armchairs by the TV.
    “I have some information and leaflets you might find useful. Trauma counsellors, victim support. Also we have a special unit for carers. Not that you’re caring for anyone, I mean”—she stumbled over that, and blushed, but blundered on—“but it has details of benefits you can claim, and contact numbers for Social Security.”
    The pamphlets she offered me seemed second-hand and a little dog-eared. It was a big briefcase to be luggingaround, considering how little she had in it. I glanced through them, and the letters of the words danced that tired old tango. I’d decipher them later.
    “What about if I need to get in touch with you? Are you my caseworker now, I mean?”
    “Oh no, I’m only here to make an informal assessment—to see if further intervention was necessary. And you seem to be coping fine, just like you said. Thanks for the coffee.” She grabbed her coat and bag, as if eager to get away. “I have other clients to visit. Any questions or anything you need, just call Social Services.”
    “And ask for you? Elsa Kendrick?”
    “I’m usually out and about, but you can leave a message.” I followed her to the front door. She fumbled with the latch, and flashed me a bright, tight smile as she finally managed to open the door.
    “All the best. And sorry again about your dad. He was a good man, I heard.”
    She slipped out, shutting the door quietly behind her. Her footsteps clacked away rapidly. I went back to the kitchen, dug out two pieces of bread, checked them for mould, bunged them in the toaster and set it going.
    That had been short and sweet. I’d had social workers before; I’d given up trying to remember their names because it was never the same person twice in a row, it seemed to me. All of them were overworked andbarely organized, constantly referring to case folders, getting my name mixed up with some other delinquent two streets away. Kendrick hadn’t taken any notes, but she’d known about what had happened—all about me, about my dad, about our circumstances—without even looking at a file. She turned up the day after my dad was murdered—the other social workers I had met were always about six months behind with their cases. Maybe she was that mythical beast, a social worker who actually managed to be good at their job and stay on top of their casework. I’d never believed they’d existed. But that ID was kosher—I was dyslexic, not blind.
    Except … she hadn’t actually been that helpful. She’d asked more questions than she’d answered, and left in a rush. The leaflets she’d given me—would they tell me what to do about the household bills? Those were still in my dad’s name, but maybe that wouldn’t matter, as long as I made sure they got paid. But what about the benefits Dad had been getting? Weren’t they what paid the mortgage? The mortgage … who did the house belong to now? Me, or the bank? I wasn’t even sure which bank Dad had used.
    The toast had popped up while I wasn’t