Monday 4th SeptemberBack to another trip to Zia’s. It is one of those great English days when the weather hasn’t made up its mind what it wants to do. Zia is on her own when I arrive.
“Cuppa tea?”
“Yes, please. What delights have you baked up today?”
“Cup cakes,” she says, “white icing on top.”
She brings them into the living room. “They look tasty. Only good ingredients in them, eh, Zia? No nasty e-numbers?”
“These only for friends,” she says.
“Zia, I was thinking of going back to see Alberto tomorrow. See if he’s told his wife. What do you think?”
“Ah, good idea you go see what big bastardo decide.”
She takes a key out of her blouse pocket then opens the padlock on the pantry door. That key is on her all the time, in some place or other. She goes into the pantry, pulling the door
