The Strange Death of Fiona Griffiths by Harry Bingham

longer, trying to read this silence. Trying, vainly, to read the shadows in his face.
    Then, ‘Do you, or do people close to you, have anything to do with a man called Sajid “Saj” Kureishi? Or the death of a woman called Hayley Morgan? Or with a fraud that has affected a number of local companies?’ I name them all, the companies which have lost money.
    Dad assembles his features in the shadowlands, then brings his face forward into the light.
    ‘That’s three questions. At least.’
    ‘And that’s not an answer to any of them.’
    Again that throat rumble. Frock coats and chimney pipes.
    ‘No, love. I’ve nothing to do with any of that. Like I told you, I’m straighter than straight these days.’
    That wasn’t, in fact, what Dad said. He told me that he was no longer involved in his old games – primarily the purchase and resale of stolen cars – but avoided any statement about his current operations.
    But still. I asked my question, got my answer.
    I say, ‘I’m not going to Sarajevo. I’m going to be working undercover. It’ll be a longish assignment. I don’t really know how long.’
    ‘It’ll be hard for your mother.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And dangerous, I suppose. How did Hayley Morgan die?’
    ‘She was starving. Ended up eating rat poison. Saj Kureishi was taped to a chair and had his hands hacked off. He bled to death.’
    ‘Bloody hell, love! You don’t give yourself an easy life, do you?’
    I half smile at that. You could say the same of my pa. Lads from the old Tiger Bay, where Dad came from, were meant to work on the docks, indulge in petty crime or, if they were smart and ambitious, get a place at a grammar school and work their way into a white-collar job in the port authority or local government. He chose none of those options.
    ‘I might need help along the way. If I do, Mam mustn’t know. Buzz mustn’t know. It would be just me and you.’
    Dad nods, relaxes. This is an easy one for him. If I ask for help, he’ll give it. He always has done, always will.
    ‘Of course, love. Whatever you need.’
    It’s the first answer he’s given me which I believe completely.

15.
    Four thirty p.m. on Christmas Eve.
    I have a black bag with my stuff in it. Eighteen pounds in cash. I avoided sleeping much last night, so I look pretty rough. I haven’t washed my hair for four days and I usually need to wash it daily.
    I have the name of a homeless hostel that’s not too far away. Make my way there. The streets heave with the last thrashing of a city center Christmas. Men getting tanked up in the pub before going home to face their families. Everything green and red and gold. Everything that can be made to twinkle twinkling like fury.
    The hostel is full.
    I don’t know what to do. It’s the one Brattenbury told me to go to. I think maybe he knew it would be full. The man at the reception desk tells me to sit down and gives me a cup of tea. I drink it slowly as he phones around. Finds a place that has space. He gives me a map and explains carefully, twice, how to get there. I say thanks. He asks me if I’ve eaten. I shrug and say, ‘sort of’. He asks if I’ve got any money, and I say, ‘I’m fine.’
    Finish my tea. Walk over to the other hostel. A big white building. Those boxy modern windows that look efficient, but somehow inhuman, as if belonging to a posh sort of jail. There’s a little patch of lawn in front, pitted with black because of the season. The back and side of the hostel are protected by fiercely spiked steel-grey railings.
    I find the entrance. Two men outside. Raggedy-bearded. Sharing a roll-up cigarette.
    ‘All right?’ one of the men says.
    I duck the question and go inside. The man who asked the question holds the door for me, as I find it hard to manage with my bag.
    There’s another reception desk here. Also rows of leaflets, noticeboards, chirpily phrased ads for therapy groups and back-to-work initiatives.
    I say, ‘I’m Fiona. I think someone called