Trafficked. Lee Weeks

make yourself comfortable. I need to check the food.’

      She excused herself for two minutes whilst Mann looked around the lounge. It was small but nicely decorated with a mix of modern and antique. On the walls were two very different paintings. One was an Andy Warhol poster. The other was a black and white photo of a couple saying goodbye at a train station. She liked her knick-knacks, thought Mann. There were two alcoves filled with a mix of souvenirs from around the globe: a carved black rhino, an African Maasai warrior, a collection of Russian Matryoshka dolls and a family of wooden wild boars in varying sizes, lined up along the shelf.

      There were other photos, landscape shots of deserts and rainforest all in ornate silver frames. There was one of a younger fresh-faced Becky with flowers tucked into her shoulder-length hair, smiling out of a wedding photo. The man beside her was blond, good-looking. They made a handsome couple.

      ‘You’ve travelled a lot then?’ Mann said as Becky returned. He held the black rhino in his hand.

      ‘I did before I was married. Then Alex and I went around India, safari in Kenya, that kind of thing. We haven’t been anywhere much for a few years. Alex takes off on business trips. That seems to be enough for him. I keep meaning to plan a trip, but I’ve got a bit bogged down with work. You know what it’s like? It’s hard to book something in advance when you don’t know what case is about to come up. I think about it a lot. That rhino you’re holding is from Zimbabwe. We had our honeymoon there.’ She looked sad, thought Mann, as he watched her move the smallest of the wild boars next to the largest. She looked around the shelves of souvenirs. ‘I watch all those travel programmes—have a real wanderlust, just never seem to get anywhere any more. I have to go and finish the food. You can pick some music for us if you like, then come in and chat with me.’

      Mann took his time choosing the Eagles’ greatest hits before following her into the kitchen. She was busy peeling onions on a smart granite worktop. It was a well-designed kitchen, all wood, stone and chrome. It had a breakfast bar to the left of the entrance and a huge American fridge. Becky was stood in front of a window that looked out towards a distant block of flats and down to a row of walled gardens below. Mann sat on a stool and watched her.

      ‘Can I help?’

      ‘I don’t know. What are you good at?’

      ‘Grinding, chopping, opening bottles, multi-talented really.’

      ‘Are you going to get your famous knife belt out?’

      He laughed. ‘So you have done your homework on me, after all?’

      ‘I found out a few things.’ She gave him a small smile.

      ‘I usually save the knife belt for when I’ve exhausted all my other pick-up moves.’