Zero History

“That’s for you to work out. A seamless tube. I’ve seen her wear it as a stole, an
evening dress of any length, several different ways as skirts. Fabric’s amazing. Some
ancient factory in France, this latest batch.”
“Thank her, please. And thank you. Both of you.”
“I’m sorted,” said Clammy, turning into Oxford Street, “just don’t crush my gear.”
>>>
When the lift descended, answering her call, she found it occupied by a short, older,
oddly broad man of indeterminately Asian aspect, his thinning gray hair brushed neatly
back. He stood very upright in the middle of the cage, a bobble-topped tartan tam in his
hands, and thanked her, accent crisply British, when she hauled open the cage’s gate.
“Good evening,” he said with a nod, stepping past her, turning on his heel, and marching
for Cabinet’s door as he settled his tam.
Robert opened and held the door for him.
The ferret was in its vitrine.
When she reached Number Four’s door, she remembered she hadn’t taken her key. She
rapped with her knuckles, softly. “It’s me.”
“Moment,” she heard him say.
She heard the chain rattle. Then he opened the door, leaning on his four-legged cane,
something she took to be a glossy black LP sleeve tucked under his arm.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The ugliest T-shirt in the world,” he said, and kissed her cheek.
“The Bollards will be disappointed,” she said, coming in and closing the door. “I
thought they’d had me sleeping in that.”
“So ugly that digital cameras forget they’ve seen it.”
“Shall we have a look at it, then?”
“Not yet.” He showed her the black square, which she now saw was a sort of plastic
envelope, its edges welded shut. “We might contaminate it with our DNA.”
“No, thank you. We might not.”
“A single stray hair would be enough. Material like this has to be handled very
carefully, given what forensics are, these days. It’s nothing you want to be associated with
at all, ever. In fact, there really isn’t much material like this. Something of a one-off, in
the field.”
“Pep’s going to wear it?”
“And contaminate it, no doubt, with Catalan DNA.” He grinned. “But then we’ll put it in
a bag, seal it, and incinerate the bag. No photographs of the ugliness, though. We don’t
want that.”
“If cameras can’t see it, how could we photograph it?”
“Cameras can see it. The surveillance cameras can all see it, but then they forget they’ve