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?”
    Janusz broke off a piece with his fork, but only took another sip of coffee.
    “Did she have a boyfriend?”
    Pani Tosik’s gripped Janusz’s forearm with surprisingly strong fingers: “No! I promised her Mama, no boyfriends – she is too young – only nineteen. She always sleeps here, upstairs, where I can keep her under my eyes. And I make sure she goes to konfesia every single week.
    “Let me find a photograph for you.” As Pani Tosik jingled off to the rear of the salon, Janusz took the chance to offload his toxic cake on Tinka. The dog took the Napoleonka in one messy gulp, then bit the hand that fed her. He stifled a cry - Pani Tosik was returning.
    “Here she is, my beautiful Weronika. She was making a portfolio – her dream was to be a model.”
    Janusz examined the professional-looking black and white photograph, which pictured a striking girl with ice-blonde hair wearing a long fur coat, against a white backdrop. She struck a self-consciously modellish pose: legs planted apart, hands on hips, shoulder-length hair blown backwards by a wind machine. Her face was all sharply angled planes – cheekbones that could cut coal – but there was uncertainty in the eyes, and her lips were rounded, almost childlike... like Iza’s – the thought surfaced before he could stop it.
    “Nice coat,” he said, to cover his expression, waving at the pricey-looking fur. Pani Tosik laughed. “Oh, darling! It’s not real ! The girls buy these ‘ fun furs ’ from TK Maxx for pocket money!”
    “Speaking of money, Pani...”
    “I cannot afford much, Panie Kiszko ,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “I am not a wealthy woman. Maybe you want to help this poor girl as a Christian duty?” She gave him a hopeful smile.
    He had to admire the old girl: everyone knew her restaurant was coining it in. London’s Poles were desperate for a taste of home and these days Eastern European food was even getting a following among the English.
    “We all have cash flow problems, Pani,” he said opening his hands in apology.
    The old lady’s smile waned as her sharp little eyes sized him up.
    “OK. I give you £500 now, you report back in one week. If you have some information, maybe I pay more.”
    “1000 now.”
    She puckered her mouth. “800. This is a good price.”
    He cocked his head in agreement, dropping his gaze to hide his surprise at how quickly she had caved in.
    A key turned in the front door, admitting a girl with long dark hair, twenty-five or twenty-six, at a guess. Not as hot as Weronika, maybe, but still pretty, in an olive-skinned way. His mother – God rest her Soul – would have said she had a touch of the Tartar. She wore a tan leather jacket and the ultra-tight jeans Polish girls liked, and carried Lidl bags stuffed with groceries. On her way past their table, she greeted Pani Tosik, nodded to Janusz, and took in the photograph of Weronika lying on the table, all in a couple of seconds.
    Clever eyes, he thought. He would bet a truckful of Wyborowa that she knew the real story with Weronika – who she’d been sleeping with, whether she’d got herself knocked up, maybe even where she’d disappeared to.
    When he asked to see Weronika’s room, Pani Tosik agreed readily enough and led the way up the narrow staircase. The small room with its single bed struck him as almost spookily spotless. The dressing table was empty, and the bed made up and topped with a pink satin pierzyna: a traditional eiderdown he hadn’t seen since his childhood. Standing on the bedside cabinet was the sole trace of its previous occupant: an empty photo frame.
    When he asked about it, Pani Tosik shrugged. “I don’t remember, maybe a family photo?”
    He could tell from the way the old dear hovered at his shoulder that there was no way she’d let him check inside the chest of drawers: a man rooting around in a girl’s underwear was probably an occasion of sin.
    Before leaving, he asked to use the toilet, and on