Dirty knees

On Saturday, Maya went to the photocopy shop with a question ready. She would ask for the way to the train station, just to see Ken's face.

Ken was behind the counter. He was polite, calm and meticulous: the paper on his shelves was sorted by colour. But Maya was not looking at the shelves. She was looking at his trousers. Both knees were worn thin and grey with dirt, as if he had spent hours kneeling on hard ground. On a man so clean, the dirty knees were conspicuous. They stood out like a red car in a car park full of white ones.

"The station? Turn left, then straight on," Ken said, with a small, smug smile, the smile of a man who thinks he is cleverer than everyone else. Then he gave the basement door a quick, furtive look.

Maya thanked him and went outside. She scrutinised the building next door. It was the Merdeka Bank.

Then she knelt and put her ear to the pavement. Far below, she heard a muffled sound, soft and unclear, like music through a wall. Knock... knock.

Arif found her there. "What are you doing?"

"Thinking. Ken is cunning: clever in a dishonest way. Mr Lim's advert was never about red hair. It was about you."

"Me?"

"You help in the shop on Saturday mornings, and you go down to the basement for paper. They needed you upstairs, busy and happy, every Saturday. The whole plan was ingenious: new, clever and simple."

"But why?"

Maya looked at the bank. "Because the answer is next door."

She stayed wary all the way home, checking behind her, careful in case someone was watching. The full answer still felt elusive, always one step away.