The waitress returned, bearing the sliders. ‘Gorgeous,’ said Maggie, eyes following them down to the table.

‘They’re very good – my favourite,’ the girl said.

‘What brings you to Birmingham?’ asked Robin.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Why are you in Birmingham? I’d rather be in Milan, given the choice.’

‘Oh, no – Birmingham’s good. I like it here. I’m studying – I’m doing an exchange programme, to improve my English.’

‘It sounds very good already.’

She smiled. ‘Thank you.’

Maggie shoved the second half of the little burger into her mouth.

‘How long have you been working here?’ Robin asked. ‘The Spot, I mean.’

‘Since the summer.’

‘You like it?’

‘Yes. It’s a good place, nice people.’

Over the girl’s shoulder, Robin saw that the silver-haired girl had paused by the serving station and was watching them. She had a sudden sense that their time might be limited. ‘Do you know Becca Woodson?’ she said.

Instantly the girl’s face turned serious. ‘Becca? Yes. You know her?’

‘You know she’s missing?’

‘Yes, of course. We’re all very … stressed. Worried. How do you know her?’

‘We’re helping her mother, trying to work out where she might be. We want to find out if anything was worrying her – if she had any problems. Did she ever mention anything like that to you?’

The girl shook her head.

‘She had a boyfriend, right? You met him?’

‘Boyfriend? No. She had a friend, Harry, but I don’t think …’

‘Did she ever have any trouble here, with other men? She wasn’t frightened of anyone, that you know about? Scared? Customers or maybe someone more directly involved here …’ The silver-haired woman had put her plates down and was heading their way.

‘God’s sake,’ said Maggie under her breath. ‘Give me indigestion, why don’t you?’

‘Hi there, is everything all right?’

She was twenty-six or -seven, Robin guessed, slim in her tight-fitting black gear, hands armoured with silver rings, nose pierced with a glinting pink stud clearly chosen to match the pink strands that framed her hair, the silver-grey bulk of which made her look strange and other-worldly, as if she came from a future where people had worked out how to get old without getting wrinkles. Local or local-ish, by the accent. ‘Cecilia?’

‘They’re friends of Becca,’ said their waitress, ‘trying to help her mother.’

‘That’s right,’ Maggie said. ‘You know her, obviously – she worked here?’

‘Of course, yeah. How can we help?’

Less a genuine question than a veiled Get lost but Maggie feigned blithe unawareness and explained.

‘You were in yesterday, weren’t you?’ The woman shifted her weight to the other foot. ‘David said. You’re investigators.’