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Anonymous Reporting on Camilla

We always meet in a laundrette just opposite his apartment. He sometimes thinks his flat or his phone might be bugged, and, otherwise, says the machines are loud enough to cover it. Plus, he says he gets loads of laundry done. He’s organized like that, my brother. House as neat as a pin.

It’s a small space. Five tumble dryers. Five washing machines. He sits on a wooden bench affixed to the wall. He has closed the door, the one with a little bell above it, and, as I arrive, looks up at me.

‘Nothing especially unusual,’ I tell him. ‘The house move is still on the horizon, but not underway yet.’

He leans his head back against the plate-glass window. He doesn’t say anything. ‘Nothing to report at all?’ he says over the thrum of a spin cycle.

‘Really nothing.’

‘No strange visitors, nothing?’

‘Nothing. No one coming or going. I’ve been at the house three times now, watching.’