Problems, Problems

Darek Kowal, twenty-seven, worked nights for the security contractor, and spent his days in a portacabin on the Customs House site where he'd been questioned by uniformed officers for six hours, with a cup of tea nobody had finished.

"They keep asking if I quarrelled with her," he said. "I met her four times. She asked me what I used to do in Gdansk."

"What did you do in Gdansk?"

"I designed quay walls." He said it dryly, looking at the dock through the window. "In Saltmarsh I walk beside one with a torch." He had found her at two minutes past six. He had logged the missing railing three times in four weeks. Somebody had stamped each report noted.

A constable had called him the foreign lad with the keys, in his hearing, in a tone Rook had visibly disliked.