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noticed his free hand playing with the end of the colourful scarf around his neck.
    â€˜That’s a nice scarf.’ Although she meant it, she immediately felt embarrassingly girly. He grinned as if he’d read her mind.
    â€˜Thanks. I’m settling into it. Got it at a craft fair in Bath last year. The old one was like a rag; high time it went. I always wear one, you know, like some guys identify who they are with a tie. You know where in the world the convention of wearing a tie originated?’ She shook her head. ‘Go on, have a guess.’
    â€˜Well, from the way you ask, it’s obviously not from the fashions of the English court.’
    â€˜True enough. Though I’m sure English high society helped to establish it. But back in the 17th century, when I guess they were all still wearing lace collars, the army of the French king, Louis – the 14th, I think – called on a regiment of mercenaries. Those guys identified themselves with distinctive red scarves. They must have done all right because people eventually came to adopt scarf-wearing as a Good Thing. Hrvati , the foreigners called themselves.’ The h was a strong sound, deep in his throat. ‘The French couldn’t get to grips with that so it came out as cravat , and it came to be used for the scarves rather than the people. We can’t really handle that h either, so we call them Croats.’
    â€˜I never knew that.’ She smiled. ‘Cravats from Croatia.’
    â€˜ Hrvatska. ’
    They laughed as he got her to try and pronounce it.
    â€˜Have you got connections?’ she asked.
    â€˜With Croatia?’ He paused. ‘I…I used to know someone. I’ve travelled. Got all sorts of connections.’
    The way he spoke backed him up. Marilyn realised she hadn’t been able to place his accent. His rich voice had the trace of northern that a childhood in Keighley would have given him, but no more; he clearly enjoyed pronouncing foreign words, but wasn’t a foreigner himself. He sounded like a man who’d travelled, hints of vowel sounds and expressions picked up like mementoes of places he’d known.
    Before she could ask any more, Jay brushed the crumbs from his fingers and went to put his mug and plate neatly by the sink, something Matt would never have thought to do.
    â€˜Best crack on with that digging,’ he said with a smile. ‘No rest for the wicked.’

Chapter 3
    Vinko awoke, damp, shivering and stiff, in the scant shelter of the bridge under which he’d taken shelter in the small hours. The creeping dawn light was as grey as he imagined his face to be, but at least the rain had stopped. Wishing he’d had the guts to go to his grandparents’ house the previous evening, he decided the moment had passed. Another time. He’d come back another time. Cursing the whole situation, he wandered back to the bus station, hoping the thin wind would take some of the damp from his clothes, and used the stainless steel handwashing facilities in the gents’ to freshen up. One of those automatic things where you didn’t get enough water and had only lukewarm blown air to dry with. No soap, of course. He triggered the contraption a few times in an unsuccessful attempt to warm and dry himself through, and peered to comb his hair and brush down his tatty leather jacket in the blurred reflection of the stainless steel. Better than nothing.
    Slightly revived, he told himself he’d been crazy to even consider coming here, and roamed the stands until he found the stop for the bus back to Bradford. He studied the timetable and looked around the deserted aisles, the occasional voice and the revving of a solitary bus echoing round to emphasise the emptiness. He looked again at the timetable and realised it was Sunday. Just missed one – ages to go. He trudged over to the newspaper stand, open for trade despite the lack of traffic. He bought a chocolate bar,