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talked about, you know, how some girls do. I think she put up with a lot from him but they seemed to be working it out.'
      'Working what out?' Peterson asked.
      'His commitment phobia. The usual.' She shrugged. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she blinked. The reality of her colleague's death had hit her. Christina leaned her elbows on the table and shielded her face with one hand. The fleeting intimacy had slipped away.
      'You said she put up with a lot from him. What did you mean?' Geraldine asked. Christina shook her head. 'Did she ever mention an argument? Did she complain that he drank? That he'd lashed out at her in a rage?'
      'Look, I never met the guy. All I know is she said she thought he was the one, you know. He was always giving her flowers, which was sweet, but she was scared he wasn't the marrying type. The good ones generally aren't.' Mark darted into Geraldine's thoughts but she drove him from her mind and focused resolutely on what Christina was saying. 'She never said anything about any fights.'
      'You said she put up with a lot from him?'
      'Only that he wouldn't make a commitment. They never do.'
      Geraldine carefully kept her voice even. 'Do you think one of them might have been seeing someone else?'
      'You mean two-timing? Not her. She was crazy about him. And, anyway, she's not like that. I told you, she's … she was nice.'
      'And her boyfriend?' Peterson pressed her, but the questioning had lost its force.
      'Look, I want to help the police and all that, but I don't know anything about her boyfriend. I never met the guy. As for Ange, she was really nice, but I only ever saw her here. I don't even know where she lives.' Christina looked close to tears again.
      'Thank you, Christina. You've been very helpful.' Geraldine pulled out a card and handed it to the girl. 'I'd like you to contact us if you think of anything else that might help us to find out more about Angela.' Geraldine looked up and caught the proprietor's eye, he was listening intently. He looked away quickly, and resumed fiddling with the food on the counter. 'Mr Umberto,' Geraldine called, 'we'd like to speak to you now, please.' He kept his eyes fixed sullenly on the floor as he walked to the corner table.
      'Go clean the kitchen,' Umberto growled as he sat down. Christina jumped up and disappeared through the staff door.
      Umberto looked apprehensively from Peterson to Geraldine. 'I been busy,' he said. 'My kitchen always sparkles like a pin. Only one of my staff, she's gone. Just like that. Not a word.' He threw his hands in the air, making a whistling sound through pursed lips. 'This is how it is with young girls today.' He shrugged. 'They come, they work a little, they go. Who knows where they go, one day she's here, next day she's gone. Not even a phone call. Not a word. Is not like Italy, the young women. Here no one cares, no one got family to teach them what is right and what is wrong.' He sighed. 'Now what am I going to do?'
      Geraldine interrupted him. 'Angela Waters is dead, Mr Umberto.'
      He looked shocked. 'Angela dead?' he repeated, his nervous chatter silenced. He stared at Geraldine. 'She is dead, you telling me?' He crossed himself, and shut his eyes briefly.
      Geraldine asked for Angela Waters' details and Umberto hurried through the staff door to fetch them. He ran on his toes, surprisingly light on his feet, returning a moment later with a slip of paper. Angela's name, address and mobile telephone number had been written in a childish scrawl in smudgy blue biro. After seven months' employment, that was all she'd left behind. Umberto had no other records. He'd paid her in cash. He assured them he kept scrupulous records, which were available for inspection at any time, but they weren't at the café just then. They were with his most honest accountant, a good man, more like a priest, who helped him.
      Geraldine interrupted his earnest defence. 'We don't want to