“Shame,” he says. “It’s not too late to change your mind. I bet he’s not moving too quickly with that ribbon constricting his blood flow.”

I stare at him incredulously. “Have we met?”

“Just now,” he says. Then he over-loudly enunciates, “Five minutes ago, but don’t worry if your memory isn’t what it was. You’ve had a very long life.”

My lip twitches, and I eye him. “Are you breaking into that flat?”

He studies me. “What would you do if I was?”

I consider it and then shrug. “Probably nothing. I’ve got a hectic morning ahead of me.”

He bursts out laughing and rifles through his pockets once more before finally exclaiming in triumph and withdrawing a set of keys. He inserts one into the lock, and the door swings open. “Well, it was nice to meet you. Or at least memorable.”

I cock my head to one side. “Wait. What is your name?”

“Heffalump. It’s Danish for beloved.”

I shake my head, and his laughter fades as the door shuts behind him, leaving me standing in the sun-filled corridor.

“Hmm,” I say contemplatively, and then, dismissing him from my mind, I walk back into my flat to finish my breakfast.

* * *

The sun streams through the high window in court ten of the Old Bailey. I lean casually against the table next to the jury box, ready to present my closing argument. The jurors’ faces are turned to me. Some look eager, some look resigned, and the odd one just looks bored.

“We all have duties in life, whatever our age and whatever our occupation,” I say slowly. “They weigh on our shoulders, and sometimes we stumble. You are jurors. The task may have irritated you when the jury summons fell through your letterbox. You may have tried to think of excuses because serving would interfere with your life and the job that puts food on your table. However, that is easier said than done, as getting out of juror service isn’t intended to be easy, because it’s an important job.”