In the school parking lot I forwarded copies of the footage and the medical files to Thandeka and to a secure backup account.

Around four in the afternoon my phone buzzed: a motion alert from the kitchen camera.

A man in his mid-fifties, dark cap, weathered face, was standing in my kitchen — and Ottoline had let him in herself, without hesitation, and led him straight to the counter.

He examined the white jar.

He handed her a small foil-wrapped package.

And on his way out he stopped, turned, and pointed one finger directly at the outlet where I had hidden the camera.