My father returned to his car while Alex went to the loo and I finished up my drink. The stallholder with the folded hair was ranting now. ‘You can’t trust those middle-class prats,’ he informed his milder companion ferociously, wiping a beer-foam moustache away, ‘they always buy one poxy mackerel after you’ve just priced up lobster.’

Some middle-class prats soaking up the local atmosphere over half-pints of cider looked around rather nervously. The other man conceded.

‘I suppose so, though they spend more than the bloody Japs, thank God, and they don’t bleeding photograph you all the time. Got fifty pence for the machine, Fred?’ He slotted the money in, followed swiftly by the clank of winning coins.

I finished my own drink and picked up my bag. The handle was tangled round Alex’s portfolio; I shook the bag to release it until the case fell open on the faded velvet seat. Some glossy photos of an apartment complex in Chicago slid out, a batch of mathematical-type drawings that looked like lots of black lines to me with Alex’s little squiggles everywhere. A sketch, upside-down, that I peered at; that I thought for a funny moment might actually be me. And then, as I heard a rattle, another clank, Alex was behind me, pulling the portfolio roughly out of my hand, snatching up that sketch.

‘Ow! That hurt.’

It was too late, though, the set of keys tumbled out onto the table.

Keys that Alex had just told DI Fox he didn’t have in his possession any more; keys to my violated flat. Alex swiped them up as I stared at him, and then I grabbed Digby’s lead and ran.

‘You shouldn’t interfere with what’s not yours,’ Alex snarled behind me, and Digby barked in confusion, but I tugged him on.

My father’s car was waiting outside the shut-up fishmonger’s. I jumped in the passenger seat, and Digby, highly excited by all the running, flung himself onto my knee. ‘Can you just drive, Dad?’

He frowned, adjusting his mirror; he could see Alex standing in the doorway.

‘Dad, go – please!’ I implored. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Maggie, really, the poor boy is –’

‘Dad!’ I shouted, and my bewildered father, shaking his head, pulled off.

‘I can’t keep up with you, Maggie. You’re starting to seriously worry me, you know.’ He indicated to turn left onto the main road. ‘We don’t want to head down this path again, do we?’

I watched, utterly miserable, as Alex’s tall frame dwindled, as we picked up pace; and then we turned the corner towards London Bridge – and he was gone.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I muttered. ‘I don’t mean to worry you, honestly. I’m fine.’

And it was only later I realised I’d left the shopping and my overnight bag under the pub table.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine