‘You’ve got no idea what this is all about,’ I say from behind the curtain.

‘Never underestimate –’

‘So what’s it all about, then?’

He paces back and forth in front of the fireplace again. He wishes he had a bigger audience, you can tell, but we haven’t got any guests right now. This is a rubbish final scene. And there’s no murder.

‘Let’s go over the facts: crushed ice on the grass. A skiing race. A mother who disappears. A father who disappears, partially. A child who disappears into a secret room…’

‘Even you can’t solve this,’ I say.

He looks at me for a moment, pinching his moustache.

‘There will be a sequel,’ he suggests. ‘You cannot always cram a mystery into one instalment. The guests don’t always fit into one library. Then you need a sequel.’

‘No.’

He looks at me. ‘Pourquoi pas?’

‘You’re useless in this case.’

‘D’accord,’ he says, offended. Then he picks up the coat from the chair, puts it on and again pats his forehead dry with the handkerchief.

‘I understand when I am not wanted.’ The detective raises his hat a little and walks out.

I hear his footsteps fading in the stairwell.

24

24

And then, one morning, we find Auntie Annu at the kitchen table. She’s been sitting there all night, a piece of paper in her hand, glasses on her forehead. Even the kitchen is tired from staying awake all night, what with the burning of lamps and the human breathing. The freezer keeps sighing. It looks as if Auntie’s slept part of the night resting on her arm because her cheek’s imprinted with the pattern of her jumper.

Dad glances at Auntie but keeps quiet until he’s poured out a coffee for himself and some Rice Krispies into a bowl for me. Then he sits down and says, ‘Well?’

Auntie Annu glances at Dad, moves the piece of paper she’s holding and blinks. When a person is really tired, even her blinking slows down. Then you can really see the blinking happening: the eyes closing and opening again.

Annu passes the piece of paper to Dad and says, ‘I won the lottery.’

‘That’s right.’

‘I mean, I won again.’

Auntie scratches her head, finds the glasses on her forehead and pushes them up into her hair.

‘2.8 million, cash.’

Dad puts his mug down.

My Rice Krispies crackle in the bowl.

‘Why are you still doing the lottery?’

‘I’ve been doing the lottery since I was a student.’

‘But you’ve already won!’

‘I can still take part if I want to!’ Auntie protests.

‘What on earth are you trying to prove?!’ Dad shouts, and it’s only now I realize this is an argument, though I’m not sure what it’s about.