Steffi went through the identifiers. ‘An overweight guy, sort of wavy dark hair, a bit … sometimes a bit – a bit sweaty,’ she added, guiltily, knowing she had to say anything that might help. The security man nodded gamely but with a show of regret; his face suggested he was used to hearing people out and then disappointing them. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t seen anyone like that on the concourse tonight. And I do check all over the concourse. And that does include the toilets, I’ve had to knock on doors before now, I’ve had to wake people who’ve fallen asleep on the job, as it were, so it’s not just the concourse I check.’ Emil had never encountered the word ‘concourse’ before, but the station man seemed to be getting paid per use of it, and Steffi was becoming visibly impatient at the repetition. ‘I think you should probably call the police,’ he said.

Steffi had already done this, she said. She gave the man her number and asked him to call her if he happened to see anyone who could be James. She supplied her name.

‘Like Steffi Graf! German?’ said the security officer, and Steffi agreed, even though she was actually Dutch with German parents, and even though she only knew who Steffi Graf was because of the number of people who had said the same thing since she moved here.

*

‘I’ve already called the police, obviously I have done that, I don’t have shit in my brain.’ Steffi’s eyes were bright with annoyance; her cheeks were a little pink in the sickly streetlight. ‘But what can they do? Search the whole of London? We have to reach out to whoever knows him. Knows where he is.’ Steffi glanced at her battery. It was down to 16 per cent, the red-bar zone, the road to Hell. Even looking at the screen seemed to cost another percentage point each time. The sheep game had drained the battery like a thief. ‘His … friends or his ex, something.’

‘Can we do it indoor, in a place?’ asked Emil.

She looked guardedly at him. It was getting chilly, she had to admit that. There was still a stealth drizzle, only just visible as an orangey swirl in the lights, brushing like a fellow traveller against their skin. But she wasn’t taking him back to hers, if that was what he meant. He hadn’t been particularly good value so far; he wasn’t shaping up as much of a Watson to her Holmes, unless in the original books Watson was always shivering and thinking about getting into Holmes’s pants, which she doubted.

‘You know anywhere?’