Let's go back to that morning in 1917 when we left Belle de jour's body beside the frozen canal, along with Judge Mierck and his devoted retinue. This must all seem a terrible muddle, hopping shambolically from one thing to the other, but that's how my life has been, little snippets chopped up and impossible to stitch back together again. To understand someone you have to dig right down to the roots, right down into the cracks, drag it up and let the poison seep out. Get your hands dirty. Nothing disgusts me - I'm just doing my job. Outside, there is darkness, and what can I do in the dark but get the same old sheets out again and darn them a little more?