We flash our police IDs at him and he studies them before enquiring if he can help. We explain the reason behind our visit and he waves us through, informing us that the lifts are currently out of order. I grimace as I re-read the address the professor has given us for Ben’s ninth floor residence. Reluctantly, we resign ourselves to the stairs.

The interior of the stairwell reminds me of one belonging to a city centre car park. The stench of stale urine infiltrates my nose, and we have to kick our way through burger boxes and fast food wrappers. Small amounts of graffiti decorate the walls, mobile numbers displayed with flirtatious messages alongside the ubiquitous ejaculating penis.

Considering this block is currently housing future doctors and teachers amongst other professions, I can’t help but snigger at the immaturity of it all. With burning calves and protesting lungs, we finally make it to floor nine and let ourselves into the narrow hallway.

The ninth floor contains multiple doors with peeling paint and metal numbers screwed into them. We make our way along the stained laminate flooring until we reach the door marked 909 at the far end of the hallway. I rap my knuckles on the door twice and wait, but there is no answer.

I knock again and place my ear on the door, straining to hear any movement but there is not a sound to be heard.

We knock on a few more doors as we make our way back down the hallway to no avail. Perhaps the students have already left for the Christmas holidays or they are simply holed up in a pub, living the stereotypical student life. Either way, it’s been a wasted trip. With a resigned sigh, we make our way back down the stairs, bid farewell to the man at reception and stride out into the driving rain towards the patrol vehicle.

As we climb into the car, a group of five students appear around the corner at the end of the street, laughing and pushing each other playfully. They are appropriately dressed for the weather, raincoats with hoods pulled up against the unrelenting downpour.

One of the group – a boy dressed in a khaki raincoat and dark jeans – notices the police car and freezes on the spot, the grin slipping off his face. Long, curly hair escapes his hood and blows in the wind. It’s Ben.

As I begin to remove myself from the car, he glances around the street and casts a guilty look at his friends before plucking the cigarette from between his lips and launching it onto the ground and disappearing around the corner of the building at pace.

Without thinking, I immediately sprint in the same direction, much to the bewilderment of the group he has just left. I catch sight of him at the end of the street, his hood has fallen and his distinctive curly hair is bouncing in time with each step.