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was the mouth, which looked like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to pout or sneer. But where had she seen him bef—
    ‘Of course,’ she said with a click of her fingers. ‘Quentin Tarantino.’
    ‘What?’ said the waiter, losing the ever-so-slightly-French accent in that one solitary word.
    ‘You know. Reservoir Dogs and all that. Kill Bill ? Inglourious Basterds ?’ Sandra beamed at him, delighted she had cracked the mystery.
    “Quentin” now stood erect and bristling. ‘No coffee or toast then,’ he said in a seriously Birmingham accent as he began to turn away.
    ‘No, no. Both. Bring it on.’ She sat back, flamboyantly folding her arms and staring at the lonely piece of toast, a beatific grin still spread across her face.
    Quentin leaned forward and poured coffee into her cup. ‘As madam wishes.’ The words came through teeth that appeared to be intent on grinding each other to dust.
    Sandra watched the flow of dark liquid and inhaled the bittersweet aroma. When the waiter had gone, she added a dash of cream and a teaspoon of sugar, hesitating for the briefest of moments before adding a second. She raised the cup level with her eyes. ‘Here’s to me,’ she said. ‘Sandra Gray. Private detective.’
    Taking a sip, she thought how good life could be sometimes, and her tongue tingled with the anticipation of the crisp, fresh toast that would belong to her, and her alone, in a few short minutes. A touch on the underdone side of overdone and cut triangularly. It always tasted so much better like that, so why was it she always cut it straight across on a right-angle when she made it at home? It wasn’t as if it involved any more effort.
    Hang on though. Yes it did. She vaguely remembered her geometry from school and something about Pythagoras’s hypotenuse – or was it isosceles? Or even Isosceles’s pythagoras. Whatever. Anyway, it was definitely true that the slopey bit was much longer than the straight bit, and to confirm it she traced a right-angled triangle with a fork on the tablecloth.
    To hell with it. I’m having extra butter and marmalade when it comes, and bugger the consequences. I should be celebrating, not fiddle-fannying around about a few calories here and there.
    She took a generous slug of coffee and leaned back in her chair. Two grand and all expenses paid. Not bad for a couple of days’ work, and she’d only been in business less than six months. Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. All she had to do now was—
    ‘Your toast, madam.’
    Sandra looked up into the face of a scrawny, raven-haired girl with multiple piercings and skin the colour of anaemic alabaster. She had never fully understood the allure of the Goth look.
    ‘What happened to Quentin?’
    ‘Quentin, madam?’ said the Goth in a monotone and without any attempt at eye contact as she placed the silver rack of toast within easy reach.
    ‘The guy with the pointy chin and the eyebrows who was here before.’
    The girl finally met Sandra’s gaze. ‘Don’t know, madam. I expect he’s doing other guests.’
    ‘What makes you think he isn’t on a plane halfway to Costa Rica?’
    The Goth clearly didn’t recognise Mr Pink’s line from Reservoir Dogs , and she gawped for a moment before reciting, ‘Would madam like more coffee?’
    ‘Yes please. Oh, and could you bring a little more butter while you’re at it?’

 
     
     
    CHAPTER NINE
     
    Taped to the underside of the cistern lid was a transparent plastic wallet, and inside this Trevor could see a brown paper envelope. Perhaps all it contained were the instructions for… For what? How to flush the toilet? Okay, so maybe it was the guarantee or—
    Curiosity got the better of him, and he peeled the wallet from the porcelain. He took out the envelope and, turning it over in his hand, saw that it was unmarked and seemed to have been opened and then resealed again. He prised open the flap and removed the contents. A ticket and two white index cards, one of which had