Movement and noise – plates, pans, barked instructions, roaring fans. As she approached, she could feel the heat of the spotlights over a service counter where two men were working with complete concentration. The older one swabbed the rim of a dish with a tea towel, double-checked his four plates. As he straightened to hit the bell, he saw her.

‘Can I help?’ He looked at her street clothes. ‘You can’t come in here, I’m afraid – we’re in the middle of service.’

‘I’m looking for Becca Woodson,’ she said, and at a counter against the far wall, she saw a figure in a white jacket and baggy checked trousers flinch.

‘Is it an emergency?’

‘No.’

‘Then she won’t be able to talk for another half an hour or so.’

‘That’s okay,’ Robin said. ‘I’ll wait.’

At the bar, she paid for a small celebratory glass of wine with her credit card. She’d have to fill the car up, too, before she got back on the motorway but her anxiety at spending any money was slightly leavened this time by the idea that in a few days’ time it’d be the end of the month and she’d be paid, albeit pro rata and on a much lower salary. She took an armchair in the corner with a view of the room and rang Lennie to say goodnight.

At half past nine, a figure appeared in the doorway and there she was, Becca Woodson, her dark hair tied back, any make-up she’d had on before her shift long sweated off, but still clearly recognizable as both the girl on her mother’s fridge at sixteen and the one about to spray lemonade all over a London picnic table.

She glanced around the room, nervous. For a moment Robin thought she was looking for police but then realized she just didn’t want to be seen in her kitchen gear by guests at other tables. She stood up and went over.

‘Becca?’

‘Are you Robin? I’ve just got Tarryn’s messages.’

Robin took a card from her pocket with the usual pang for her badge. She remembered the first time she’d felt it, when she’d met Lucy outside the John Lewis café. It seemed like a decade ago. ‘Can we talk for a couple of minutes?’

‘Not here – staff aren’t allowed.’ She gestured at her whites. ‘There’s a yard at the back.’

Robin followed her down the hall and out through the kitchen, where the focus of activity had shifted to a counter at which two figures were spinning clouds of sugar over dishes of pale mousse. Two or three people glanced up as they passed.