The Light of Amsterdam by David Park Page A

think I took it?’
    â€˜No, Karen, that’s not what I’m saying or even suggesting. I don’t know what happened to it but I do have a responsibility to make enquiries and ascertain its whereabouts. But I’m not accusing you of anything and it’s important you understand that.’
    â€˜It feels like it,’ she said. ‘And are you sure it’s missing? You know how often old people claim to have lost something and then it turns up – you know that happens all the time. And sometimes they say they’ve lost things they never had in the first place.’ She looked at them both, appealing to their sense of fair play, but their faces were closed, impassive, their eyes withholding either belief or suspicion.
    â€˜That’s true and it does happen. Except, when Mrs Hemmings arrived here last year we itemised her valuables, even took photographs, and I’ve personally helped her look and can’t find it.’ She pushed a photograph across the desk. ‘That’s it. Have you seen it before?’
    She held the photograph in both her hands and nodded. It was a plaited gold bracelet with blue stones at intervals.
    â€˜When did you see it last, Karen?’
    â€˜I can’t remember, she wears it from time to time. She’s shown me it. I know she likes it.’
    â€˜And when you clean Mrs Hemmings’ room have you ever come across it?’
    She watched the pen move across the page and saw the way he dotted his i’s as if he was pressing home the confirmation of her guilt.
    â€˜I don’t know exactly where she keeps it, perhaps in the drawers of her dresser. Does Mrs Hemmings say I took it?’
    â€˜No she doesn’t. And no one’s saying you took it. We both know that Mrs Hemmings is – how shall we say it? – a demanding lady. But she’s fond of you and you probably get on better with her than anyone else on the staff. However, she does want her bracelet back and she’s also the type who will make a very loud fuss if she doesn’t get it. So is there anything you can tell us that might help us locate it?’
    â€˜I don’t know anything about it. I haven’t seen it and I don’t know anything about it,’ she said and looked at Mrs Weldon directly.
    â€˜So you’re sure that there’s nothing you can tell us that might help?’ It was Jennings speaking for the first time. His voice was low-pitched and slow and in her ears sounded like an adult asking a question of a child but she wasn’t a child and after the questions petered into silence she decided that she’d had enough so she stood up and told them that she was sorry but she couldn’t help them. She took a step towards the door then turned to face them again.
    â€˜Do you want me to work today or not?’ she asked.
    â€˜We want you to work as normal,’ Mrs Weldon said. ‘Just carry out your schedule and I would be grateful if you wouldn’t talk about this to anyone else. Better just to keep everything that’s been said private. Just between us, for the present at least.’
    She closed the door behind her and for the second time that day shivered a little as she stepped into the corridor. She felt cold again and for a moment she thought of handing in her name badge at the desk, going home and climbing back into bed. Only the thought of Shannon’s wedding and its spiralling cost prevented her. Loading her trolley with fresh towels and bed linen she wheeled it to the lift, irritated as always by the squeaking wheel which was bent a little and prevented it running smoothly so she had to steer it forcefully to stop it veering to the left. Clive the caretaker/handyman had promised to take a look at it for her but never seemed to get round to it. She experienced a growing sense of anger that he could make her a promise but not keep it. As she wheeled it past reception Muriel was pretending to be busy with