Clint’s war-time trophy was all kinds of wrong. Having grown up in a world where all Nazi symbols were vilified, used in TV shows and films as a lazy short-hand for evil, Kat knew she was supposed to feel repulsed. She took the brass lighter in her hand and concentrated on it, exploring how it felt, the engraving and the embossed skull, the rough wheel. She tried sparking it up a few times. The flint was good, but there was no fuel. It was possible there was something more there, like a string on a kite, sometimes it felt loose and others it seemed almost like the lighter would be pulled out of her hand.
Kat thought about Clint, tried to picture him in her mind’s eye, wearing the jeans and the cowboy shirt, a kerchief tied round his neck. She imagined sending him a message down the string
