By Light Alone by Adam Roberts

trench were several miniature coffee-bean-sized figures, and little puffs of dirt being thrown out: diggers. ‘A trench,’ he said.
    ‘The ones digging it are women.’
    ‘How can you tell at this altitude?’
    ‘Trust me.’
    She righted the car, gunning the motor and sped past the village. For several minutes George was silent. There was a slumberous sense of the world’s wrongness stirring in his soul. But what could he do about it, anyway? An existential indigestion, uncomfortable and pointless and best dispensed with. What could one person, or any one person, or any person who was him, do? ‘I was going to ask,’ he said, shortly, ‘why are those women digging that trench?’
    ‘You were going to ask ?’ prompted Dot.
    ‘But I suppose I know the answer already.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘Those people lying alongside weren’t recharging their Hair.’
    ‘I’d wager you a dollar to a Degas they didn’t have hair. Not any more,’ said Dot.
    ‘Corpses.’
    ‘They were.’
    ‘Those women were burying them.’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Why did they die?’
    ‘Pissed off the bosses,’ said Dot. ‘Probably. It hardly matters. Cut off their hair and leave them to starve. But it’s the women who dig the grave.’
    The lower slopes of the mountain were underneath them now. Over the ridge, like a great page turning beneath them, and the piste came into view – the same coffee-bean-sized individuals, all scurrying and sliding and hurrying. Dot brought the flitter down in the visitors parkyard, and George stepped out, still dressed in the shirt and trousers he’d put on that morning, when he’d expected to spend the day in New York. The chilly fresh air woke him a little. ‘The head of hotel security,’ Dot was saying, ‘has gone on maternity leave. I’ve arranged to meet with Colonel Jamshidiyeh.’
    ‘OK,’ said George, giving his naked hands alternately a rub and a squeeze.
    ‘Let me explain the purpose of this meeting,’ said Dot, briskly, as they walked. ‘You will be there in person to explain to the colonel that you are deputizing me. He must be in no doubt that your trust resides in me, and that you will back any tactic I employ.’
    ‘OK,’ said George.
    ‘By back I mean, mostly, money. Yeah?’
    ‘OK.’
    They came in at the main entrance, and were taken straight up to Afkhani’s old office. George recognized the colonel as soon as laying eyes on him.
    A functionary brought in coffee, and for a long period everybody sat in silence, toying with the thimblish cups. Dot introduced herself, and explained that she had been retained by Mr Denoone and Mrs Lewinski. Colonel Jamshidiyeh nodded briskly and said ‘I see.’ ‘I have no relationship with the legal side of things,’ Dot said. ‘I am not gathering evidence for any lawsuit. Do you understand?’
    ‘I comprehend you very well,’ said the colonel.
    Then Dot said something lengthy in what sounded to George like very fluent local lingo. The expression on the colonel’s face did not change. ‘ Faghat negah mikonam ,’ she concluded. ‘ Faghat negah mikonam . My only interest is to locate the girl.’
    Jamshidiyeh looked at her. Then he looked at George, and back at Dot. ‘I wish you very good luck,’ he said. Then he said something in Arab-speak, talking very rapidly in a low voice. Then he stood up. ‘I of course offer you any and all assistance.’
    Dot said: ‘Thank you.’ The interview was over. On the way back to the flitter, George asked: ‘What did you say to him, when you spoke Arab?’
    ‘It was Farsi. I explained that of course he knew a lawsuit was likely, but that I had no interest in that, one way or another. I told him I genuinely wanted to find the girl. I explained that I had complete powers of proxy. He said their attempt to locate the girl had been strenuous, and far-reaching, but if I wanted to press my own enquiries then good luck. He was glad, I think.’
    ‘Glad?’
    ‘No, not glad. That suggests he cares