‘You think as the CIA went and put a rabbit in your vests, Mr Huff?’ Mrs Barrow is naturally sceptical at the prospect.

‘Not literally, Mrs Barrow, no.’ I shake my head. ‘All I’m saying is that I’m highly practised at reading signals – understanding gestures – I’m au fait with the subtle language of revenge – of tit-for-tat – at a very basic, very primitive level. In Mexican gang culture the concept of retribucion is at the very heart of how—’

‘Now you look here, Mr Huff,’ Mrs Barrow interrupts, plainly startled, ‘I has a great deal of sympathy with your predicament, don’t nobody ever dare tell me otherwise …’

I humbly nod, gratified.

‘I got two eyes in my head, Mr Huff, and I can plainly see as how upset you is, like as if you saw a ghost, almost, Mr Huff …’ – she inspects my grief-strewn visage with some attention – ‘but all’s I need you to understand is that poor Miss Hahn – Carla – don’t need the burden of your problems with the CIA weighing down on her shoulders right now. That girl is burdened enough already: what with the rental problems because of all the cranks what comes here and takes the right royal mickey out of her decent nature, her crazy dad with his bad feet and his fat dog, not to mention the awful landslip which swallowed up her shed – full of all her tools and such – not two days since up there in Fairlight …’

I start.

‘Sorry? A—’

‘I don’t know as if you realize, Mr Huff,’ she continues, ‘how precious this little cottage is to poor Carla. Mulberry might not look much to folks such as you and I, Mr Huff, but to poor Carla …’ She frowns. ‘It’d be no exaggeration to say as it was her life, her … her world, her … her very soul, Mr Huff.’

‘Well we can’t have rotten fish and … and broken windows and stolen bins and deeply distressed residents impinging on our poor, dear Miss Hahn’s fastidious soul, Mrs Barrow, can we?’ I blithely respond (yes, yes, there is an element of facetiousness). ‘Perish the thought!’

‘Rabbits, Mr Huff!’ Mrs Barrow maintains. ‘Don’t you forget them rabbits, neither!’

‘Just so, Mrs Barrow.’(I am finally now beginning to understand Miss Hahn’s former contention that Mrs Barrow is generally wont to find the least important detail in any course of events to be the most significant. In this instance the actual offence of these recent developments to myself – my dignity – as opposed to Miss Hahn’s perceived offence at second-hand.) ‘Which is exactly why I am determined to alert the relevant—’

‘Although now I comes to think about it, Mr Huff,’ Mrs Barrow reasons, ‘this is as likely to be an attack on poor Miss Hahn as it is on you! All the crackpots what comes to this place, you know, such as yourself. All those difficult cases, the religious maniacs and the Irish and the gypsies and the swindlers. And as if that’s not bad enough, there was always the problems with her mother when poor Carla was growing up; her being a German and what-not, a foreigner, very bossy, always sticking her oar in, working for the council and taking pleasure – active pleasure it seemed like – in tearing down people’s beach huts and little homes on the marshes over yonder, though she paid for it in the end, I suppose. Went totally doolally with dementia, poor soul. Not to mention her father being such a difficult, work-shy Jew. I mean piano-tuning isn’t a way to make a proper living, Mr Huff. It’s dreadful! Even carneys got more self-respect! Who cares if the piano is a little bit off key, anyways? You can still bang out a good old tune on it … Yes’ – she nods – ‘I do think as it’s our duty as to protect her from these curious developments, Mr Huff. In fact …’