“My mother was a cleaner,” he said. “She used to clean people’s houses. She had a dozen regulars, but she also worked at St. Oswald’s. When she retired, I did the same.” He paused, and I could hear his smile. “It’s funny, what old people choose to keep. Notebooks, diaries, bus tickets, letters, photographs. Things you can’t bear to throw away, but which pile up over the years, waiting for the inevitable. Most people never think about what’s going to happen when they die. Who’s going to read those letters of theirs, those notebooks, those diaries. Most people never think to destroy the things that might incriminate them. The dead are beyond embarrassment. But sometimes, something gets left behind that can affect the living.”

I tried to keep my voice level, but all the same, it wavered. I said: “What have you got?”

“A letter,” he said. “A letter written by you, Dave.”

I bit my lip. That letter. I think I’d always somehow known it would come back to haunt me, Mousey.

“What do you want?” I said at last.

Briefly, he outlined his plan. A final onetime payment, he said. Then he’d be out of my life for good. I’d never hear from him again.

“You must think I’m stupid,” I said. “This could go on forever.”

“No, it won’t,” said your brother. “You think I want to stay here? I’ve wanted to leave this armpit of a town ever since I learned to walk. But I need more money for that. I don’t want to have to come crawling back. Not here. Not ever.”

I thought about that for a moment. A part of me was angry and scared, but another part was grinning. Hadn’t I wanted this, after all? A chance to meet your brother alone?

“All right,” I said. “Where shall we meet?”

“Meet me by the canal bridge, tomorrow night at nine o’clock. I’ll be driving. I’ll park on the road. You’ll be waiting on the bridge. I’ll give you the package. You’ll give me the cash. Then you wave bye-bye, and leave.”

I’d expected him to suggest a place like the café; somewhere safe. But he was getting arrogant. That was a mistake, I thought. Now he’d played into my hands. And the thought of meeting him on the bridge, in the place where Poodle had died, was too much for me to resist. At that time, there would be little risk of anyone disturbing us. He’d be alone, and vulnerable. I could take him easily. I knew from our games by the clay pits how sensitive he was to pain—or any form of violence. Pathologically sensitive, to the point of freezing up, of actually being unable to breathe at the sight of the mousetraps.