A Traitor to Memory

He took the reins while he had the chance, saying, “You're Katja Wolff?”


She didn't reply. Instead, she walked over to the bathroom and said hello to Yasmin Edwards' son, who appeared to be up to his elbows in bubbles. The boy looked over his shoulder at her, then into the sitting room, where he managed to lock eyes with Nkata for a moment. But he said nothing. Katja closed the bathroom door on him and strode to the old three-piece suite that constituted the sitting room furniture. She sat on the sofa, opened a packet of Dunhills that lay on the table next to it, and took out a cigarette, which she lit. She picked up the television remote and was about to punch the set on, when Yasmin said her name: not in supplication but in warning, it sounded to Nkata.

At that, Winston found that he wanted to study Yasmin Edwards because he wanted to understand: her, the situation here in Kennington, her son, the relationship between the two women. He'd got beyond the fact that she was beautiful. He was still sorting through her anger, though, as well as through the fears she was doing her best to hide. He wanted to say, “You're all right here, girl,” but he recognised the foolishness of doing so.

He said to Katja Wolff, “Laundry up on Kennington High Street says you didn't show to work today.”

She said, “I was ill this morning, all day in fact. I've just been to the chemist. There is no law broken in that, I believe,” and she drew in on the cigarette and examined him.

Nkata saw Yasmin glance between them. She clasped her hands in front of her, just at the level of her sex, as if she wished to hide it. He said to Katja Wolff, “Go to the chemist by motor, then?”

“Yes. What about it?”

“Got your own motor, have you?”

Katja said, “Why? Have you come to request that I drive you somewhere?” Her English was perfect, remarkable really, as impressive as the woman herself.

“Got a car, Miss Wolff?” he repeated patiently.

“No. They don't generally provide parolees with transport when they release them. It's a pity, I think. Especially for those who serve time for armed robbery. How bleak their future must look to them, knowing they'll have to escape from the scenes of their future crimes on foot. While for someone like me …?” She tapped her cigarette against a ceramic ashtray that was shaped, seasonally, like a pumpkin. “A car is quite inessential for working in a laundry. One only needs a high tolerance for both endless boredom and insufferable heat.”

“So it's not your car, then?”

Yasmin crossed the room as Nkata completed the question. She joined Katja on the sofa and neatly rearranged a few magazines and tabloids on the iron-legged coffee table in front of it. Having done this, she placed a hand on Katja's knee. She looked at Nkata across the line she'd drawn as clearly as if she'd wielded chalk on the carpet squares.

She said, “What'd you want with us, man? Time to spit it out or time to leave.”

“Got a car yourself?” Nkata asked her.

“'F I do?”

“Like to see it, I would.”

Katja said, “Why? Who is it you've come to speak to, Constable?”

“We'll get to that soon enough, I expect,” Nkata said. “Where's the car?”

The two women were motionless for a moment, during which a resuming of water roaring into the bathtub told everyone that Daniel was taking his mother's wigs through a manual rinse cycle. Katja was the one to break the silence, and she did it with the confidence of a woman who'd spent two decades educating herself as to her rights with regard to the police. “Have you a warrant? For anything, by the way?”

“Didn't think I'd need one, conversation being what's on my mind.”

“Conversation about Yasmin's car?”

“Missus Edwards' car. Ah. Right. Where is it?” Nkata tried not to look smug. The German woman flushed anyway, perhaps realising that her own dislike and distrust of Nkata had caused her to trip.

“What's this about, man?” Yasmin snapped, but her voice was higher now and anxiety was tightening her hold on Katja's knee. “You're wanting a warrant if you mean to go through my car, hear me?”

Nkata said, “I don't need to go through it, do I, Missus Edwards. But I'll have a look at it all the same.”