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didn’t want to look old.
    ‘Sit down,’ she said. She nodded towards a low stool, the only seat in the room. Gypsy Rose sat down. The young woman gathered the tarot cards together carefully, edging them off the tarpaulin floor with long nails. She was wearing a long black skirt, tasselled at the hem, and a white open-necked blouse beneath a black waistcoat. She knew she looked mysterious. That was why she was playing with the tarot. She had rolled her sleeping bag into the shape of a log against the far wall. Having gathered up the cards and slipped them back into their box, she tossed the box over towards the sleeping bag and took the envelope from the older woman, slitting it open with one of her fingernails.
    ‘Work,’ she said, spilling the contents out onto the ground. There were sheets of typed paper, black and white five-by-eight photographs with notes written in pencil on their backs, and the money. The banknotes were held together with two paper rings. She slit them open and fanned the money in front of her. ‘I’ve got to go away again,’ she said.
    Gypsy Rose Pellengro, who had seemed mesmerised by the money, now began to protest.
    ‘But I won’t be gone for long this time. A day or two. Will you still be here?’
    ‘We pack up Sunday afternoon.’
    ‘Headed where?’
    ‘Brighton.’ A pause. ‘You’ll take care, won’t you?’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ said the young woman. ‘I’ll take care. I always take care.’ She turned one of the photographs towards the woman. ‘What do you think?’
    ‘He’s nice-looking,’ said Gypsy Rose. ‘An Asian gentleman.’
    ‘Asian, yes.’
    ‘The man who made the delivery was Asian, too.’
    Witch nodded then read through the notes, taking her time. Gypsy Rose sat quite still, not wanting to disturb her, happy just to be here. She looked at the money again. Eventually, the young woman placed everything back in the envelope. She got up and lifted the tarot from where it lay, tossing it into Gypsy Rose Pellengro’s lap.
    ‘Here,’ she said, ‘take the cards.’ There was a scream from outside. A girl’s scream. Maybe a fight was starting. It might be the first tonight; it wouldn’t be the last. ‘Now, Rosa, tell me. Tell me what you see. Tell me about my mother.’
    Gypsy Rose stared at the tarot pack, unwilling to lift it. The young woman slipped her thumb into her mouth again and began to hum, rocking backwards and forwards with the teddy bear on her lap. Outside, someone was still screaming. Gypsy Rose touched the box, pushed its flap open with her thumb. Slowly, she eased out the cards.

Friday 5 June
    Greenleaf was in the office early. He’d spent the previous late-afternoon and evening in Folkestone, getting in the way, bothering people, not making any friends, but finally gathering all the information he needed, information he just couldn’t get by telephone alone. He’d spoken to George Crane’s widow, Brian Perch’s parents, Crane’s accountants, to people who knew the men, to other boatmen. He’d asked questions of the coastguard, the local police, forensics, and the pathologist. He’d been busy - so busy that he hadn’t left Folkestone until ten o’clock, arriving home in Edmonton at close on midnight, thanks to a jam on the M20 and the Blackwall Tunnel being closed. Shirley was pretending to be asleep with the bedside lamp off but still hot to the touch, and her book pushed under her pillow.
    ‘What time is it?’ she’d muttered.
    ‘Ten past ten.’
    ‘Bloody liar.’
    ‘Then stop trying to make me feel guilty.’
    The hour was too late for an argument, really. The neighbours had complained in the past. So they kept it jokey and low-key. Just.
    He’d taken her toast and tea in bed this morning as penance, despite feeling dead on his feet. And the drive into work hadn’t helped. A car smash at Finsbury Park and a defunct bus holding everybody up between Oxford Street and Warren Street. There was nothing he could do about it except