.’
‘Yes,’ Oliver smiles, ‘gezi.’
‘Did she come? Did she take photographs?’ I say.
Oliver shakes his head, serious again.
‘On the Monday she texted Shona,’ Tom says, ‘saying she’d started the project. We think she photographed someone either on the Sunday evening after work or on the Monday.’
I’m not sure Oliver understands so I ask Anthony to translate again. He does and Oliver gives a nod.
‘Did she talk to you about the other people? Shona and her jewellery.’ I mime bracelets on my arm. ‘Bradley and his motorbike.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Oliver says.
‘Anyone else?’
‘A neighbour with model animal and a student like money.’
I don’t know what he means about liking money. He talks to Anthony for a minute.
‘Someone who collects banknotes,’ Anthony says. ‘It is a very popular hobby, like collecting stamps. There are antiques fairs and people trade them.’
‘Do you know who this student was, or the neighbour?’ I say to Oliver.
‘No.’ He shakes his head.
‘Dawn might,’ Tom says.
A man walks along with a radio strapped to his arm, playing music. He’s followed by an old couple, tiny in stature, who stop at our table. She wears a traditional cotton top with a mandarin collar, he wears dark clothes and a black Mao cap. Their faces are open, friendly; their smiles show brown teeth, gaps where some are missing.
Anthony explains what we’re doing and the couple look shocked. They refuse a leaflet.
‘Chinese people,’ Anthony says, ‘they do not like to get involved.’
‘Too risky?’ Tom says.
Anthony laughs but he flushes slightly and I sense he is embarrassed.
I think of all the superstitions I’ve read about – perhaps there is a fear, too, that bad luck is contagious. We come trailing misery, reeking of jeopardy.
I want to ring Dawn so I go to the flat where I can hear without straining. I know she’s at work but not when she’s actually teaching. She must get breaks, and admin time. I leave a message on her voice-mail, then sit for a moment on Lori’s couch, letting my eyes roam over the lucky Chinese knot, the photo from home, the bare wires in the ceiling, the plastic basket of bits and bobs, her work folders.
I pick up the files, thumb through them again. I don’t know why, except that there’s comfort in seeing her writing, even though it’s scrappy and hard to read, comfort in imagining her preparing for her students.
I step out onto the balcony. Construction cradles sway up the side of the new buildings. The arrangement of the developments seems to create an echo chamber. I can hear the hammer and whine of drills, and from the occupied towers, the cries and shrieks of children, and the clatter of dishes that sounds different here, as though they’re all made of metal, not pottery. Through it all the drone and rumble of the ring road.
