The case

The message had arrived on Tuesday evening, between a request for money and a shoe sale. Wednesday, half past ten. Something for you to collect. Can you bring a car? Her mother used question marks as though she had to pay for them.

Mara moved a meeting and booked a car from the sharing service. On the way, she worked out what to say if this was about the accounts again. Last time, Ada had sorted the envelopes by colour. The blue tax envelopes were under the workbench, unopened, where she couldn't see them.

Her mother was up a kitchen stepladder outside the shop, unscrewing the opening-hours sign. The front was supposed to be cobalt blue. Ada had mixed the paint herself; sunlight brought out the green in it. A paler rectangle beneath the window marked the place where a card-payment sticker had spent several years.

‘Don't touch the ladder,’ Ada said without turning.

Mara lowered her hands. ‘Good morning.’

‘The left leg's crooked. Holding it makes it worse.’

She came down with the sign under her arm. Inside, the coffee had been on the hotplate too long. Beneath the amber work lamp lay a pair of tweezers, two broken springs and a sandwich on a receipt. A tall wooden clock case occupied the customer's chair.

Mara recognised the dent beside its door. She had caught it against a doorframe during the move.

‘Mine.’

‘That's what I called about.’

Ada hadn't called, but Mara let it go. She put down her bag. ‘Is it finished?’

‘There's no movement in it.’

Through the glass, Mara could see the screw holes where the dial had been, a line of dust across the wood. She had brought the clock here six years ago, soon after she and Daan separated. Just for now. No suitable wall in the new flat, she'd said. Since then, she had moved to a bigger flat.

‘The movement's in that box,’ Ada said. ‘It's all there.’

Mara put her car key on the counter. ‘I thought something was wrong.’

‘I need the chair.’

‘I didn't need to move a meeting for this.’

Ada glanced at her sandwich and pushed the tweezers away from it. ‘I didn't ask you to.’

Which was the trouble. Her mother never quite asked. She let a tap drip until Mara noticed, or mentioned the price of new spectacle lenses between unrelated remarks. Mara had learnt to listen around what her mother said. Sometimes she could barely hear the words themselves.

‘Coffee?’ Ada asked.

‘If you make a fresh pot.’

Her mother emptied the jug into the little sink. No argument about that. Mara took off her coat.