The Light of Amsterdam by David Park

have a seat,’ she said, pointing to where she wanted her to sit. As she did so the phone rang but after answering it she asked for all calls to be held. ‘This is Mr Jennings who’s sitting in with us.’ He smiled and raised his pen very slightly but didn’t speak. There was a slight whorled sheen on one of the lapels of his dark suit as if someone had pressed a wet thumbprint into it. She felt increasingly nervous and, when asked how she was, mumbled ‘ OK ’ and tried not to show how anxious she was to discover why she had been summoned to an office that she’d only been in once in ten years when she had to ask for time off so that she could look after Shannon when she broke her arm in a playground accident.
    â€˜There’s nothing to be worried about, Karen,’ Mrs Weldon said, putting on her glasses as if she needed to be able to see her more clearly. She heard the words but knew they weren’t true. It felt for a second as if she was in a police station and about to be interviewed about a murder. Her imagination printed out lurid newspaper headlines where she was accused of giving overdoses or smothering elderly patients who wanted her to help them die. She fiddled with her name tag as if to say that this was who she was and there must be some mistake.
    â€˜You’ve been here a long time, Karen, haven’t you?’ Mrs Weldon asked.
    â€˜Ten years.’
    â€˜That’s right,’ Mrs Weldon said, ‘I’ve looked it up. Started just before me.’
    She watched Jennings write in his notebook. There was a smear on one of the lenses of his rimless glasses that made her want to reach across the desk and polish it. After he’d finished writing he snuffled his slipped glasses back into place by crinkling his face. When he did this his eyes closed for a fraction of a second.
    â€˜You’ve always been a good worker and I don’t want you to think that anyone is accusing you of anything. That’s very important. No one is accusing you of anything but sometimes things happen and we are obliged to follow certain procedures. And I don’t want you to think that you have been singled out because we’ll be speaking to a range of staff in just the same way that we’re speaking to you. Do you understand?’
    Despite nodding she understood nothing and the longer she didn’t understand why she was there the more frightened she felt. Mrs Weldon held a pencil at both ends parallel to her chest. She was overweight and as she leaned forward her dress strained a little across her heavy bust and under her arms, the material creasing like a series of cracks in plaster. She felt a growing sense of the unpredictability and danger that hovered over the room and which tempted her to confess to whatever was to be her crime so she could bring the experience to an end.
    â€˜Things happen in homes from time to time – it’s inevitable, I suppose. But it’s important that residents and their families have total confidence in us because that’s essential to the success of what we do. You understand, Karen?’ She nodded again then stared at his pen poised above the notepad seemingly impatient to write. ‘So when something happens it’s important we’re seen to respond right away, sort things out.’ She noticed the two framed photographs on the desk and wondered whose job it was to clean this room and what world the photos spoke of beyond the business of running the home. There was a pause and Mrs Weldon set the pencil precisely on the desk.
    â€˜Something’s gone missing. A piece of jewellery. Quite a valuable item apparently. Have you heard anyone talking about this?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜It’s a gold bracelet belonging to Mrs Hemmings. A present from her late husband. So obviously it’s of sentimental as well as financial value. And we’d naturally be keen to find it.’
    â€˜And you