You there?

Not now. He might know me.

Thanks.

He took off fast. Fats had probably gone but it was worth taking the chance. He had grabbed the old parka as he left and now he pulled the hood up. It was cold but dry and bright and Simon felt an upsurge of the old thrill of the chase, which he rarely got these days. He felt twenty years younger, and mocked himself.

He was still there, still on his own, and unmistakable, skinny, thinning ginger hair, weaselly face.

Serrailler got a mug of tea, keeping an eye out for him to leave, but he was staring into his own mug, a cleared plate at his elbow.

Simon pulled out the chair opposite, set his tea on the table and sat down, not asking permission.

‘Do I know you?’

Serrailler shook his head.

‘Then there’s other tables.’

‘Waiting for someone?’

‘Are you deaf or what?’

‘You want another of those?’

‘What?’

‘Tea? Bovril?’

Fats made retching noise.

‘Tea then. Sugar?’

‘Why would you be buying? No thanks.’ He made to get up but Serrailler put his leg out, ready to trip him up.

Fats’s eyes narrowed. ‘I get you.’ His voice was lowered. ‘Manchester,’ he said.

‘What about it?’

‘Are you or aren’t you? They said I’d be waiting a week, and it’s two days. Why the change of plan?’

‘What are you doing in here?’

‘Having me lunch, what else?’

‘Waiting for someone.’

‘I dunno. Who’d know I’d be here?’

‘That’s easy. You come here.’ This was where you played a game and took a punt, and if you were right, everything followed, or at least something did. If you were wrong, nothing. You bluffed. He’d always enjoyed the bluffing.

‘You got eyes in the back of your head, you lot. You are Manchester, I can tell, see?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’ll have that tea off you then.’

‘You fetch it.’

Fats hesitated before getting up.

A couple of men from the new housing development came in, hard hats still on, followed by an elderly woman with half a dozen plastic carrier bags, not full of shopping, full of her life possessions. Serrailler recognised her. She came into the cathedral undercroft and sat in the warmth, went up to the refectory and talked to anybody, was bought food and drink, and eventually gathered up the bags and left. She caused no trouble, she had never been found sleeping on the street. She gave a different name any time she was asked. Simon would have bought her tea and a sandwich but he daren’t risk Fats darting for the door, he’d have to do it later.

‘Never been to Manchester.’

He slopped the tea as he set it down. Drank some, chuckling. Serrailler said nothing.