Curtain Call at the Lantern

The chips came in paper, hot enough to hurt. Kez took his slowly, the way people do when they're calculating what a gift costs. The phone came back, though it took a minute.

"You're not police," he said finally.

"I used to teach."

"Worse," said Kez, and something almost like a grin crossed his face and left again. "Right. What d'you want?"

You asked him about the Lantern. He told you: Halloran's photographer had paid the lads to stand under the canopy from eight, and they'd done it, fifty quid and all. "Like a zoo." After nine he'd wandered round into the alley behind the stage door for a smoke, out of the cameras.

"At ten past nine the door opens," he said. "Fast. A lady comes out. Older. Green wool coat, silk scarf, straight as a ruler. Umbrella like a headmistress's cane. She looks up at the camera over the door, and she steps out of its line like she knew exactly where it stopped seeing. Then she's gone."

Jonah looked at you. Kez looked at his chips.

"Rook already thinks it's me," he said. "Doesn't matter what I say. Everyone knows what I am."